Category: 2021

You were born at the stroke of midnight!!! We love you already, so please don’t be shy. There’s no way we will accept the possibility that you’ll be as bad as that other year gone. Just by being you, are are already the star of the hour. We closed the books on 2020, the disgusting train-wreck it was. You hold our tomorrows for the next 365 days.

I greet you with open arms. This year is going to hold so many firsts for me. It will hold a healing for the world. I just feel it. For this, we are all breathlessly waiting. I’m excited for my yard to come to life for the second time since I met Winterpast. With a hot tub being delivered in only weeks, the yard will hold new life and fun! Oliver and I plan to have many adventures together this new year as we forge our own new path.

Every day, I choose happiness, health, and hope. There’s always something on the horizon that can become a focal point for positively. I reach for those things and smile, sprinkling fun to my life any way possible. From silly, mindless giggles to well thought out activities, my life will include much more fun this year.

2021 will be the year that I complete my first year as a widow. With everything that was, April 8th will arrive, and time will run right over it, while I remember, as twelve beautiful balloons soar on that day. Before then, I will celebrate my first anniversary without VST on January 23rd. Hard to know how the day will unfold, so I’ll plan a good one. By choice, we will smile in unison, me from here, VST from there. So much goodness to remember and celebrate on this the 33rd year of our marriage. I hope he saves a dance for me.

This year the Vernal Equinox, Summer Solstice, Autumnal Equinox and Winter Solstice will come and go. Each one will hold magical properties, as we again find our holiday traditions and celebrate. We’ll still find things to grumble about, as we force our way out of isolation. The sun will never feel so grand on our skin as when we all join hands to rejoice together. It’s happening in 2021. Find your play clothes and come on out!!!!

2021, you make me giddy as I greet you. I write your name over and over. Such a beautiful number, not like 2020. 2021. Counting on from a nightmare into beauty. So, WELCOME! We want you. We love you already. We celebrate you. Don’t let us down!!!!

Already 1/2/2021, I realize in the action packed frenzy that was my New Year Day, I forgot something important and essential. Resolutions. In this complicated world, we can’t plan for everything, but goals for life have served me well. VST would remind me often of the old saying, “The unaimed arrow never misses.” With that thought, these are the ten top goals I embrace starting off the new year.

1. Healthy Eating. For me, this includes what I eat, as well as when. Being single, meals can be whenever I choose. Breakfast is simple, being built into my routine. It’s the other two that need more structure. With a sugar and flour free diet, my body is the happiest. Carbs are limited to 20 grams a day, which leaves plenty of room for veggies and occasional fruits. Christmas was a diet free zone, but Christmas is over now. Back to reality.
2. Exercise. Living in a neighborhood with beautiful paved streets and limited traffic, I have no excuse to avoid walking. With a high concentration of retired Seniors, the neighborhood is quiet and inviting. The blue skies and white puffy clouds are the perfect place to prewrite upcoming blogs in my brain as I walk along. Oliver loves this resolution and plans to join me. Couldn’t ask for a better walking partner than him.
3. Budget More Effectively. The disaster of 2020 with all the life changes for me was a very expensive one. On the best day, moving into a new home is expensive. My move was no exception. Winterpast expenses are at a minimum now. This year, I need to plan more carefully for the uncertain days ahead.
4. Learn Something New. Publishing! My new interest. How different from the 1900’s. It is possible to publish all on my own, with tools readily available on the internet. With time available and a brain in my head, there is no reason I can’t do this. Five free webinars with the most popular online DYI publishing site are scheduled. I will choose a seat up front and take lots of notes. 2021. Book published. As an aside, I plan to take up watercolor painting this year, too. Don’t forget your creative side.
5. Read More. Return to reading! I can’t wait. Without reading, I never would have run across the beautiful story about WINTERPAST and thus, named my home. Reading transports me to places and times I want to visit. A favorite past time of mine, I plan to do more.
6. Develop New Friendships. I plan to explore my new neighborhood starting on my street. I want to know the names of each family that lives here, and be the kind of neighbor they can call on. Springtime is a great time to meet new people as I complete my front yard project. I’m lucky to live in a neighborhood full of friends I haven’t met yet.
7. See Old Friends. I plan to be a house-guest this year. From northern Washington to the Central Coast of California, I plan to visit people I haven’t seen in way too long. Time is fleeting. I need to gas up and get going.
8. Get Rid of Excess Baggage. Take that however you like. Physical suitcases? Emotional baggage? Junk in the cupboards? This year is the year of the purge. You never know when it will be time to downsize again. I’ll be ready. My service group holds a big yard sale every year and I’ll be donating in a big way. Blogging will help me rid my brain of unnecessary clutter as I share my life with my faithful readers.
9. Be a Tourist. I live in a tourist area. People come from all over the world to see the mustangs, the Icthyosaur, a marine animal whose bones rest in the mountains of Nevada. Ghost towns. Rock fields. Top Gun. The grand Sierras. I plan to be a tourist this year, getting to know all the wonderful places that are within a short drive of me.
10. Live Every Moment. No matter the success of keeping 1-9, I will keep #10. Last year taught me that we all have an unknown expiration date. Age matters not, each one of us has limited time. I refuse to wait for things to happen. Days will be of my own creation and liking. I intend to explode out of bed at dark thirty every morning to write. Because, WRITING IS LIFE! So, let’s LIVE.

Resolve to make your own resolutions!!!!! Make your target Success. With arrows in our quiver and goals in our heads, we can’t miss.

Over the holiday, I shared delightful hours speaking with Webster Girl. She entered my life for a second important time, emailing me the day after VST died. Without any idea tragedy unfolding, she invited me to a Zoom meeting with teaching sisters I hadn’t seen for years. None of them had any idea what we’d been doing, or that VST was even sick. After first meeting in the Spring of 1998, we became teaching friends of the best kind. She is funny, kind, and wickedly funny. I love her.

WG entered Widow’s Wilderness about 8 months before I did. Sadly, we share this alone, none of our teaching friends joining this club yet. Both alone on New Year’s Eve, there was time to talk about the two men we love so much.

One thing agreed upon was this. While surely experiencing devastating losses, unless it’s a spouse, others haven’t experienced a few key situations. Wanting to understand, they remember back to the loss of a grandparent, mother, father, or sibling. A child. A best friend. All totally devastating and life changing in ways that leave the soul crying for one last, “Before you go…..”

The loss of a spouse takes this to another level, entirely. With this loss, one grieves without the person who’d best know how to provide comfort. Know what to say in the right way. Know how to bring out a smile during the darkest of times. Know what food to prepare or what to say during tearful nights. The very person that would just know. Plain and simple. That’s the person that’s gone. A widow’s everything.

VST and I were fortunate we didn’t have dreams of “We’ll do that when…”s. So often we would see couples on their last big adventures, unable to fully enjoy the experience because they waited too long. We promised each other that would never be us, and it wasn’t. VST and I made adventures a priority. For that, I’m so thankful, while accepting there would’ve never been enough tomorrows. Luckily, no regrets.

For many widows, their best years were just starting. Beginning retirements. Settling into a new home. Getting everything set to start enjoying the good life. Just when good things were beginning, they were robbed by death. How cruel when the person, whose company you enjoy the most, vanishes. When your other half dissolves into a poof of memories. Cheated out of “What we could have done’s.” Not fair, but certainly LIFE at its most real and raw.

WG and I discussed how all the physical parts of our homes immediately returned to normal after death. Hospice equipment. Gone. Nurses calling 3-4 x a day. Gone. Furniture. All moved back into place. The space that cradled our guys. Empty air. All happening on the very day they died, underscoring the unbelievable fact that they’d gone. With the house back to normal, we looked on as the heart insisted it never happened, while the mind absorbed the facts, and the eyes became a storm of tears. Even after a long illness, the shock of absence is overwhelming. With a fast and untimely death, it’s almost incomprehensible for new widow.

By second annual holidays, people forget that it is ONLY the 2nd holiday without. There are continuing patches of wilderness with the darkness cold and trees thick. WG just went through this 2nd year, with unexpected experiences. People forget this loss, not meaning to. Another year has past. They wonder why the blues have come to visit again, not quite understanding, they’ll never entirely go away.

Time, family, and friends have helped WG and I. We were able to discuss and laugh about many things, un-laugh-able months before. We shared memories of things to painful to discuss just months prior. Dreams we are making for ourselves and how they will be realized. We’re two women that have become stronger in our journeys through Widows Wilderness together.

Whatever the loss that’s devastated you, I wish for you a friend like WG who knows the darkness of losing a mate, while finding her way remembering things cherished and wonderful. Make sure your friend likes to laugh. It’s healthy. Off you go. One foot in front of the other, while taking another widow’s hand. It’ll make the journey much easier.

Some days are made for remembering. Yesterday was one of those days. Through emails and planning, I was expecting visitors at 10:00 am. I was not prepared to meet the cutest couple I have met in a very long time. I shall call them The Lovelies. The best descriptive name of two people sweet and dearly in love.

I remember being the couple people would gaze at and smile. VST and I had that. Mrs. Lovely was the daughter of the previous owner of WINTERPAST. The two had been married a little longer than VST and I, and made a striking couple. Handsome and beautiful, they complimented one other. A stunning couple.

When they entered WINTERPAST, I was relieved that they approved of how I am caring for the place. It was obvious that this was a place of the happiest of memories and events. I could almost hear the children wrestling on the lawn outside as they told of family gatherings and how much their parents had loved the home. They shared their emotional ties, like bows placed here and there, with stories about times when they were the ones who’s hearts WINTERPAST held.

What they couldn’t know is that those memories opened a window into what I want to experience here. Parties, visiting neighbors, and life long friendships. WINTERPAST holds the promise of those for me.

As I watched this couple I was reminded that time is fleeting. Just last year, VST with his tool belt of wizardry, was reinventing a laundry room for me and building a closet. Thinking back, it would have been time well spent if we would have gone for a walk, or spent a few more minutes holding each other. We were always so busy, forgetting to take an extra few minutes to cuddle in front of a movie, or talk about our secrets late into the night. What I would give for one more evening with him.

The Lovelies are daily readers, and for them, the blog came to life. Oliver was his 2.5 year old puppy self. Crazy and wild with excitement, he had new victims to pull in with his green eyes. This dog has a personality that consumes anyone that meets him. They fell victim to his overwhelming cuteness and wiggles.

Showing the house to them gave me a chance to see it through new eyes, again. I marvel at how all my things magically appeared in the right spaces and spots. Of course, I was the one that decorated, but, it still amazes me at how my things fit perfectly here in this new nest of mine.

Sharing almond poppy seed bread (Krusteaz–bake it 5 minutes less than the box says–so darn delicious), and coffee, a new friendship was formed as I watched them experience the house again. Like taking in fresh air, I’m sure memories of everyone they loved filled their heads as they sat in a new, very old and familiar space.

Beautiful doesn’t even begin to explain our visit or them. I hope that the memory of being back at WINTERPAST comforts them as they think loved ones that sit with VST now, watching over us. I know this beautiful couple already has the secret. Time slips away far too fast. Embrace dreams, but more importantly, embrace each other. Take time. Talk. Snuggle. Enjoy the essence of something so brilliantly beautiful. Make memories as fast as you can. You will never regret doing that.

Yes. The Lovelies came knocking yesterday. What a treat to meet them. I hope they come back soon.

I love the morning in a ridiculous way. At 4:45 AM, my eyes spring open, and I am first thankful that a new dawn is about to break. A daily miracle, it comes so quietly that at first it isn’t even noticed. Slowly, our eyes can see more and more of the outside world. Finally the day is born at sunrise, bright and shiny new. Strength is found in knowing many things positive and life affirming will occur and wait to be acknowledged.

Being a true morning person has had an affect on relationships from time to time. There are those in which the day can’t possibly start before 10 AM. There might be a stirring, or temporary wakefulness, but dreams again take over and sleep resumes. When I was a working teacher, I would love Saturdays in which I might have the luxury of sleeping in a little bit later. But, with farm chores those days didn’t come often. As a retired couple in the RV, the day was half over by 10 AM, with hundreds miles in the rear view mirror. Those arriving early at the next destination got the best spots. There would always be time to rest in the late afternoon before dinner. Through the years, morning routines were reinforced over and over.

Wondering what happens late in the night, I may try staying up past 8PM sometime. I wonder if the magic of the stars can persuade me to flip my internal clock. What different people would I meet and find common interests? Would they understand my views on life? Would they understand me at all? What activities does one undertake at 10 PM? What stores are open if you happen to need a bolt or washer for a DYI project at 9:45PM? Lighting is terrible at night. Things lurk in the shadows ready to pop out and grab you. The toads come out to eat my lawn at night, while the owls ask “Who”? All these things are so much easier when slept through.

I find that my nights are perfect for winding down the jitters of the day. Breathing in and out, anxious fears quiet as I find comfort in dreams. Darkness is a time for privacy, while listening to Oliver make soft puppy sounds in dreamland as he sleeps. I find comfort in hearing the distant train rumble through my little town, whistling at the crossroads to warn night travelers. The wind sings a lullaby, as I listen carefully to the weather the night brings. Even snow has the ability to muffle sounds of the night, making its presence known. Far away, other morning people prepare to end their days, as well. Ending our early shift, and letting others carry on through the dark hours.

Whatever type of person you are, try flipping for a day or two. See what programming catches your interest on television. Go for a walk and see the changed rhythm of the neighborhood. Venture out in the car, seeing what you might have missed. For me, morning will forever be my true love. Beautiful, egg and bacon, orange juice mornings. Sprinklers hissing, garbage trucks rattling, and the day rolling on towards noon. I love mornings. Have a great one.

Reflecting back on the holidays, I’ve taken notes of what worked and what was an utter failure. Being alone failed. Not going to happen again, with a cruise for the 2021 holiday season booked and waiting. Yahoo!! Monthly words and gifts representing VST and I were a huge success. About this, I share.

Each month, a focus word was chosen that we personified. Anyone that knew us would have agreed words like Adventure, Friendship, Ever Lasting Love, or Aloha were great descriptors. During the holidays, choosing Rejoice was perfect, as I rejoiced in the beauty of having VST as my mate for 32 years. For the first 6 months, I purchased a Christmas present reflecting each word. Something tangible that I could open and hug Christmas Eve. This was ultimately a great idea, as these were the six presents I had to open this year. Although he had been gone 8 months Christmas Eve, the need to buy a present the last two months wasn’t there. I stopped buying gifts at Month 6.

Ordering things each month, two were personalized. A blanket with special words organized in jigsawed fashion, and a personalized book. Both came gift wrapped, so there was no peaking for months until Christmas came. Both made me cry in a good way.

The blanket, although not the quality I would have liked, is a beautiful thing in which to cocoon myself on chilly evenings. Navy blue and white with fleece backing, it had words and phrases about us. January 23, 1988. VST loves EJ. Oliver. Things about our lives. My favorite. “Home is where you are, Darlin”. I chose the words carefully, turning them into something beautiful.

The book was an entirely different surprise altogether. I’d looked on a site that promised a personalized hard bound book for someone you love. I entered very little information, including our names, gender, and color of hair for each of us. Just a few little details. Never did I expect to get the book that was delivered. As I read this little story, it was about us, as if VST had written it for me. I’ve only been able to read it once, so far, on Christmas Eve. How it managed to reflect our lives together is a mystery to me. Maybe artificial intelligence located in my new fridge???? Spies listening? At any rate, it was perfect for me. With each gift, I enclosed a little card to myself reflecting on important things I should remember. What he WOULD have told me if only he COULD. Those were the right things to read on my very sweet first Christmas Eve all alone.

Happiness was represented by another cute gift. I bought a Giant Sunflower tire cover for my Jeep Wrangler. VST always called the Jeep “Barbie’s Jeep”. Although he did the driving, we bought the Jeep for me, never dreaming I would be the sole driver just one year later. The sunflower will represent me as I drive along new roads, having fun doing it. I haven’t seen one on the road yet, so, my ride will be individualized. Just one great big sunflower, my favorite.

Deep in Widow’s Fog I was during Month 1 – Food, Shelter, Clothing. Always finding myself cold, I was in need of was a new sweater, my old ones becoming threadbare. The sweater came from Amish country. Four ply cashmere, black, thick, and beautiful. When wearing it, I’ll get a special “First Month Gone” hug from VST. He loved supplying cashmere to warm his forever-cold wife. Thoughtful in the sweetest ways was he.

For Adventure, a framed selfie of my first solo Lake Tahoe Cruise in August now sits on the book shelf. When looking at that picture in Lake Tahoe frame, it takes me back to the drive up the mountain that day. I felt so free and adventurous. It’s a mini vacation every time I look at it.

Faith, is spelled a metal sign. Simply, Faith. It hangs with two beautiful pictures K had framed for me. One of VST by a pristine Sierra Lake, and the other of the sunrise on the morning he left us, while we had him still. The sky was cloud-filled, colored the deepest oranges and purples, at the time of day I love the most. K caught that, keeping it for us as a memory and reminder that Faith is all we have in life.

So, it’s January. If you’re a person that doesn’t start things unless you can do it for the entire year, start now. Choose a January word. You have time. Write about it. Put up signs around your house to remind you. Write it with erasable pen on your bathroom mirror. But, most importantly, wrap your heart with it, like a warm blanket. When things get tough, it’ll help you stand tall and remember the person you lost in the best way ever. A hug from them. A hug to yourself. A beautiful way to remember we must celebrate ourselves!

In this brave new world, one of the saddest things lost is the telephone conversation. Remembering the days of corded phones, life needed to stop while we chatted with a new love or best friend. Drama or gossip, it was delicious and shared over the phone. The cord kept us grounded. Tethered. Conversations had a beginning, a middle, and an end. How many times we would wait for the phone to ring. How many times would we cry when it didn’t. So much drama existed around the phone, life and death included.

When our children were home, life on the farm was hopping. On weekends when I cooked for seven, the kitchen was a busy place around meal times. I would always have Best-ies checking in to see what weekend activities were planned. It was for those multi-tasking moments that I purchased a 20′ phone cord. It was great for allowing me a working range from stove to sink. From cooking to washing dishes. There I was tethered to the wall, yet able to move around the room. Those were days and conversations I wish I could have all over again.

Now, phones are an obnoxious necessity. Every phone should contain I.C.E. contacts, in case an emergency strikes. Phones capture our every activity in selfies. They know our locations in case of danger. They hold our daily calendars. Entertain us or our kids. All hold the all important TEXT messages. And we can still receive an occasional phone call.

When texting was new, VST thought I’d made up the word “texted”. Each time, he’d correct me, saying one should say, “I sent a text message,” or “I typed a message.” After years, he finally accepted that texting and texted were words.

The last text received from him was on March 30th, days before he died. We had spent the morning in Reno with T and K, getting a liver biopsy and paracentesis. Not a fun morning at all. He was sore, tired, and needed a rest when we got back home. I needed to take K to see WINTERPAST one more time as I continued with the purchase. So, K and I left him in the care of T, his son.

His last message to me read, “Where are you?” Looking at that message now, I wish I’d have just taken a nap with him. Held him a little longer. Not let him wake to find me missing. At that point, he depended on me for everything, and my absence was upsetting to his state of mind. His question was honest and heart felt, as we were always together. 24/7. That’s the way we rolled. Two-for-one. His message remains a haunting reminder of the question I ask often of him now. “Where are you?”

Texts should never be used for anything significant. Not for long dissertations about troubling things. About sadness or anger. They should never be a substitute for being there, or at least talking by phone. Sharing important feelings is one thing that sets relationships apart from random interactions. That’s the part that artificial intelligence just can’t get right. Words on a screen are not the correct way to handle the most important parts of life.

When I’m in “Barbie’s Jeep” driving, there are 10 choices of predetermined answers. From “Okay” to “I’m running late” with eight choices in between. That’s really what texts should be for. A little message that you are on your way, or may be late. Not a way to be “present” while you are really busy doing other things.

If you are lucky enough to have family and friends close, please call them the old fashioned way. Let them know you love hearing their voices. Listen for laughter as they delight in your call. Let them share audible tears with you if you need to cry. Be human, and talk. Distracted driving is something we should avoid. Distracted interactions is another. Pick up the phone and call. You won’t regret it.

Boredom is the true sign of a weak and a lazy mind. Auntie God Mom always reminds me of that. We agree on so many topics. There is always something one can do to fill an empty day. On my summers breaks from teaching, I could easily stay at home for a week at a time. Never move the car. Never even take a walk off our property, while just making a home while being a homemaker. I love having a neat and organized space in which to cocoon.

In the 90’s, I knew an elderly woman who taught me tips about cleanliness and organization I hold dear today. She was the Queen of Clean. At any rate, she once explained to me that she never saved cards. Beautiful cards from family who lived far away. Read and tossed. Sentimental cards from her husband of 60+ years. Read. Smile. Toss. An old habit it was of hers. I’d never seen anyone so adamant about this. One day, I asked her reason, needing to know why she was this way. In her very sage and wise way, she answered.

“Joy, someday Bill will be gone. The last thing I want to find is a lovely card from him reminding me of the very moment he gave it to me and the hugs we shared on that occasion. I love Bill’s cards and he knows that. But, to keep them is like keeping a drawer of grenades. There may come a day they’ll leave me in an explosion of tears.”

Over time, I reflected on her words while deciding my own position on cards. About ten years ago, I finally decided there was some truth to what she said, and started disposing of them. She was right. As long as everyone was above ground, it was easy to smile at their beauty and then give them the Heave Ho. I was pretty thorough, or so I thought.

Yesterday, while finding things to do to pass the day, I noticed the drawers in my nightstand needed de-cluttering and so I began. Spare change. Old eye glasses. Things in that needed to go out. Pens and pencils that had migrated from my desk. All the usual suspects. Quietly, under a flashlight, a measuring tape, and three books, the grenades waited. Ready to make me explode into a flood of tears were two cards.

The first one read as follows.

“Happy Birthday to my Wife, Who has sensational charm, A dazzling wit, A fun-loving nature, A smile that won’t quit, Incredible passion, A gleam in her eye…And a husband who knows he is one lucky guy.” Love you, VST. Thank you for such a good 32 years. (Hallmark Cares) Two little bears were on the card in a variety of cute poses, just as little bears on cards often are. It’d been more than a year since I’d seen this, being given on my 2020 birthday.

Well, that one was hard. But, the next one was even more so, written on our Anniversary last year.

“What do I mean when I say I love you? I mean I’d do anything for you. I mean I’m in this for keeps. I mean your funny and smart and beautiful to me. I mean I love you. That’s what I mean. Happy Anniversary.” (Hallmark)

Sweet enough in luscious, heavy cream stock with roses on the front. But what he wrote himself blindsided me.

“Thanks for the best 32 years of my life. Love, VST”

In his shakiest, sweetest, left-handed writing, his words and sentiment alone were precious. Just like that, he could have been in the kitchen bringing me a bottle of water. I find myself wondering how nine months could have passed since he died. He just wrote this for me. He just held me as we shared a kiss and I told him “Thank you”. He was just here. But, JUST is nine months ago today.

Having time to think about this experience, I have no advice for or against saving cards. I know these two are the most precious things I could have found while cleaning out a nightstand drawer. Cards that have rested there waiting for me to find them. A message to remind me how lucky I was to have a man that knew how lucky he was to have me. Yes, VST. Absolutely the best 32 years of my life, too. Thanks, VST. Happy 9th Month in heaven. Tell everyone Hello for me. I miss you.

Covid times. Boring times. Sad times. Isolated times. All true. But, also times when our brains can finally slow to a pace in which we find new outlets for creativity. 2021 is the year of publishing for me. This is not a “Maybe”. Not a “We’ll see.” This is a scheduled event now, in which my calendar holds dates and goals to be reached. As VST said always, “The unaimed arrow never misses.” Target goals are set.

For this year, I plan to finish my trilogy. Lofty goal, but, I have hours in a day to complete this. Much more valuable using time in this manner, rather than losing minutes to mindless television, or worse, wretched news. VST always had a television on. Some kind of noise was needed, even to sleep. I find the sound of silence so refreshing. There’s never a perfectly silent time. Always little noises around coming from life as it happens. I love days when the television remains off.

At this point in life, I have so many blessings. I am relatively young. Attractive, some say. Intelligent. Smart. Inquisitive. Energetic. Creative. Compile a list about the things you are. Every choice must be positive. You will find, you are things all your own! Just ripe for finding a new interest.

I hadn’t given webinars any thought at all, until I received a random email. Each webinar is about an hour long with a professional speaking about a topic specific to publishing. I signed up for all they have to offer. I’ve watched three so far. Amazingly, they aren’t advertisements, as one would expect, but instead, valuable information on self publishing books. One of the authors had a great point. If you are smart enough to write a book, you are also smart enough to publish it online. That is now my affirming statement.

So, think of something to investigate! Something out of the box! New! Courageously bold! Begin by researching it for 15 minutes on the computer. It could be anything from attending free Harvard seminars, to becoming a TED speaker. Learning how to cook French Cuisine. Learning more about the Bible. Training you dog. Just choose one thing and start to investigate.

I knew nothing about blogging when I started. I just did. Found a free site, with a free template, and in very short order, I was up and writing. Healing and happiness have flowed out of my fingers into cyberspace. For that and for you, my readers, I am eternally grateful. I won’t keep you any longer. You need to find that new interest. It will give you a new look on life. So, go. Have fun today!

January 10th!!! Month 10 is still new! Bundled in my fleece jammies with wool slippers on my feet, I remember fall and the lovely weather. The leaves rustling in brilliant color. Mustangs, standing on every hill, looking for water and food. Walks at any time of day, pleasantly breezy and warm. I also remember how much I feared this first winter alone. As it turns out, this winter is where I find my first book. It’s where I find myself cocooning and liking the quiet solitude. It’s where I find I am my own best company. Another surprise of widowhood firsts.

This month I find out what I’m made of, as it’s our anniversary month. January 23rd will memorialize, 33 years ago the day that VST and I exchanged vows in front of family and friends. Auntie God Mom, Uncle Cool Guy, and CC were there, “with bells on”. Not sure where that phrase actually originated. Getting dressed up as a girl, if we were attending a fancy event, everyone would go “with bells on”, yet I never saw one bell. Quite sure CC is shaking her head, because she definitely never wore a bell in her life. Now, Auntie God Mom is another story.

That morning, there was no way that I, as a beautiful young woman of 31, could have known how that day would drive my life through our forever. VST was devastatingly handsome. That was a given. His intelligence and forethought in every aspect of life took us on the best adventures, while I added Sagittarian optimism, spunk, and fun. We were a power couple that didn’t know we were while being too busy planning goals and living out each day.

Respect was a cornerstone for our relationship. I respected his core values and the essence of who he was. I received that respect in return. We argued, pouted, plotted, and did all the normal couple things while in disagreement, but, we never crossed the line into disrespect. Those issues we battled remained sacred, shared only between us. Neither of us were the type that included friends and family into our issues. Those were privately handled with respect. Some of our finest hours as two.

When I look at the world today, the lack of simple respect is astounding. Everyone insistent that their way is the only way, and that way will be how things will go. Somewhere respect and discussions about differences have been lost. Something that costs nothing but the time needed to count to 10, breathe deeply, and listen to one another. How simple. A prayer for respect in the world would be helpful.

January 8, I released 9 balloons, beautiful in their brilliant colors. As I released them, four got caught in one of my bare trees. I thought of many things at it happened. I know VST didn’t want to leave me, the kids, or any of his friends. He wasn’t ready to be whisked away by cancer. The tree at that moment represented cancer, holding VST’s brilliance in its clutches. But, the four fragile balloons struggled to get free and rise heavenward. They did one by one. It was so beautiful to see them finally disappear into the beautiful blue desert sky, one by one. He is free. He made it on that cold spring morning right before Easter. Respectfully, and with such great love, I let him go.

I respect all the things VST taught me. So many things, it would be impossible to list them all. From things about the workings of a toilet to tax information. From the hundreds of uses for duct tape when farming to unique and crazy dance steps only VST could pull off as his dimples charmed me. But most of all, I’ve learned that respect is a corner stone for any new relationship formed in my life. With that foundation, anything is possible and worth keeping a lifetime.

I miss you VST. Enjoy your 10th month in heaven.

Delicious visions during dreamy memories of VST visited me this morning, long before normal people recall anything. Working on a book to be released later this year, I’ve been playing with the pages in my head. Moving words. Choosing phrases. Grouping thoughts. Selecting the best parts of VST and me to include. Those that I want Great-Great-Great Granddaughters to read and grow to understand how VST loved EJ. Slowly the sweetest mental image to formed.

An unusual man lived in the heart of VST. A guy that would make movie goers swoon. VST had the heart of a cowboy, although he had no use for horses. A private detective, always looking out for the bad guy. A Rambo, in the swamps of life, ready to defend his heart, family, and life, itself. A “Charlie” (2 1/2 Men), always charming the gals. A Tom Selleck, being irresistible and down to earth with his deep voice and southern drawl. A MacGyver, always knowing how to fix anything. And VST, best of all, because he was a man not written about yet.

In my memories, VST isn’t one age, because, he never grew old or stale. Whether captain-ing our house boat, or redesigning our little cabin in the woods. Whether laughing on the porch with his mom and dad, or that boy standing at the end of the aisle I walked down so long ago. One after the other, the memories flash through, and I smile at how lucky I am to have shared them with him.

During life, VST was a husband, a father, a diesel mechanic, a manager, an executive, a business owner, a farmer, a designer, a builder, a landscaper, a mason, a roofer, a tax man, a government executive, a doctor of psychology, an investor, a house flipper, a retiree, an RV-er, and more things not remembered at this moment. He changed hats many times during his day, but wore no hat when he was just my VST. I could set the clock by his arrival home, with his voice calling my name to find out my location and activity. Through 33 years, there was never a doubt I was his girl. The one. His true person. And he mine.

Those were all things he did, but his essence was that which was rich, endearing, and unique. That which captured and captivated my heart. Beneath all the things that made him a manly man, (which I prefer), there was this unique individual with whom I shared life. If I used my senses to describe him, it would be as follows.

Visually, VST was stunningly handsome from birth to death. 6’1. Brown Hair. Hazel eyes. The biggest head ever, yet in balance with his body. Muscular arms and legs, with a long torso in between. A cowboy boot fan throughout his life, he later turned to Sketchers with jeans and tee-shirts, unless, he needed to put on the tuxedo that still hangs in my closet. He was a clothes horse, always dressing correctly for any situation. He turned heads, this not lost on me. He turned mine, too, and I never tired of admiring him.

VST sounded like bass drums and tubas. The kind of sound that rumbles in your gut. His presence was known, as he was not light on his feet. When he entered a room, heads turned to find him by sound. Dry humor and wit always followed his laughter, as he delighted in catching me in my blonde moments. Sometimes he was thoughtful when reminiscing, like Willie Nelson, and other times, playful like Bob Wills. When VST was silent, his thoughts marched on, reflected in a variety of expressions. VST was always heard. He made sure of that.

VST’s hands felt like strength, warmth, and hard work. Paralysis had rendered one almost useless, but it could still hold mine. Those hands never lost the calluses caused by hammers, pry bars, wrenches, and lumber. Psoriasis chiseled away at his vanity, covering every part of him except his face. His arms were strong enough to hold huge timbers at the cabin, but also, tender enough to hold the newest grand babes, just hours old. VST hugged just tight enough and long enough. I felt safety as we went through life. I felt improved in our union of two very smart people possessing double the ammunition to take on the world. I miss feeling his presence next to me as I fall off to sleep.

VST smelled like home to my heart. When we met, he exuded young, handsome guy scent wearing Polo cologne. But as the years past, there were times he smelled like drying raisins, other times like powdery cement. He smelled like Irish Spring and M&M’s. He smelled like Run and Coke and Coal Tar Ointment. Like fine Chardonnay. Like hard work before a long shower. Like dress up night at a ball. Like hot stage lights in rickety old theater.

Thinking back to the morning he left, there are so many things I wish I’d have planned better. The truth is, the unthinkable was happening before me eyes. As he lay, withered to skin and bones, I knew heaven was his reality. Widowhood mine. Stunned, as I watched, he slipped away so easily. But then, he would have, quickly figuring out a path and exiting. There was no time to plan a romantic Good Bye that would have played well at the end of a beautiful movie. He went and I was left.

Quietly, in the minutes before I rise to blog, I’m blessed to have memories of such a man. His loss has not gone quietly into the night. It wakes me at odd hours. It makes me cry on occasion, for the silliest things. It brings out the irrational side of me at times. It scares me and always will. All these memories also make me strong as nails. I had someone that was a brilliant and perfect match to me. My person. The one I am lucky to have known the best. And that is a dreamy memory.

Sweet Lady Dye and I shared some time together yesterday. She’s been a source of information about my new town, and someone I enjoy visiting with once every five weeks. Lady Dye is a beautiful gal, inside and out. Whenever she speaks of important matters, it is evident that she is kind and gracious, surrounding herself with thoughts of goodness and light. She has a true smile, while exuding optimism in her outlook on life.

During our visit yesterday, she shared the experience of a sudden and devastating holiday loss. While listening to the events leading to a tragic ending, I was transported back to my experience with VST. I thought nine weeks of an illness was very quick. Lady Dye’s person lost her husband in just days. I was reminded of how fortunate we were to have VST with us until he took his last breath. Lovingly comforted by those he trusted, he slept, surrounded by the familiarity of Dunmovin.

During Covid, families are separated from their loved ones who are hospitalized alone. Medical staff have become adopted family members, giving company and a gentle touch to those dying from this wicked illness. Our medical heroes have yet another role to play. Not a task they volunteered for, but one they are brave enough to assume. Caregivers to our loved ones dying.

Covid stripped this new widow of the comfort of children and friends, just as it had for me. Grieving in the age of pandemic isn’t something for the faint of heart. At a time when you need hugs from every angle, there are few. When you need friendly faces smiling at you and telling you everything is going to be okay, they are covered in masks, with only the gentleness of eyes looking on. Separation when you most need togetherness. It’s a cruelty that we, as Covid Widows, are experiencing in real time.

Covid has robbed us of the healing aspects of funerals, memorials, or celebrations of life. Reduced in size and intimacy, it has erased the ability to grieve together and feel for one last time a sense of community while saying Good Bye. Many special family members and friends couldn’t attend VST’s service. Dangers of infection to health compromised individuals increased making the risk too great. Although technology helped us bring family together, it wasn’t the same as being together one last time.

So now, another widow sits alone wondering what happened. How did it happen so quickly? Why was her spouse the one chosen? When will things return to normal? Answers found in unique ways as the journey of widowhood begins, those questions still run through my head on occasion. Slowly, an acceptance has come that some answers are not for us to know.

Blogging from this the 10th Month of widowhood, I turn back and offer a hand and a prayer to this newest grieving gardener. She will uncover unique and personal answers on her journey. I offer a listening ear and a hand in friendship. She’s invited to join me in the garden. We can exchange thoughts and ponder ideas from a new point of view, while remembering the hardest of days traveling alone. Thinking back, new and interesting commonalities may be found outside of widowhood. Just like that, a new friendship formed.

If I’ve learned one thing, it’s a very lonely place to be, even when surrounded by the people you love the most. Leading lady, center stage in a very sad play, you’re all lone, not being sure of the lines that come next. New widows, look for the hand that is reaching for yours. Enjoy the warm touch of someone willing to sit with you for a little while. Each day will be better. Not the same, but not quite as sad, as we make our way together towards spring.

Every great love story has a “How We Met”. The romantic little story that describes the very moment you just knew you’d finally met your person. The beginning of forever, for however long forever lasts on Earth. Ours is a love story for the ages, although it didn’t start that way. Long, long ago, we were just a boy and a girl. Some would say adults with children of their own. But as hearts go, young, we were wounded, and fragile . Surrounded by thick boundaries of emotional barbed wire and “Do Not Enter” signs, loneliness lived at the core. Longing to be heard and loved, neither of us would admit that at the time.

In 1987, VST was 33, and I was 30. I’ll start with his story first, because it flows out of my fingertips to the page a little easier than my own.

VST was a lot of things in 1987. He was a shop foreman at his job, teaching other diesel mechanics analytical thinking skills to perform their best on the job. Complicated doesn’t even begin to describe a master mechanic’s job. The kind of guy you want working on YOUR tractor is the one that can hear sounds missed by others, while diagnosing trouble by the tension on a bolt. The guy that sits back and thinks about the workings of a particular system in a tractor while finding the cause before ever removing a bolt. This was VST. He was the guy farmers asked for. Begged for. Because along with that, he was a manly man great guy. No longer spending days working under tractors, he did troubleshooting on intricate repairs while soothing the most cantankerous farmers. Being a farm boy from the area, there was a good chance he’d played football with them or their sons. VST could easily turn an angry farmer into someone laughing about a big win at a championship game years before. He solved problems, seeing them as opportunities.

Divorce had come knocking leaving him alone in a brand new house. He’d chosen the lot and model, and watched the build. During this process, there were frequent visits to the site, the construction under his watchful eye. Cracked studs were replaced before drywall went up. Every potential code violation, identified before the next step could take place. Eventually, with a 30-Something house-warming party, he moved in. VST had NO intentions of marrying again. He had his very own life and children with whom he cherished weekends filled with laughter. His parents watched as he slowly put his life back together, the handsome bachelor he was.

Fate has it ways. Across the street, in this very quiet little neighborhood, another handsome bachelor was making his home. A sexy, handsome bachelor with ties to VST’s past. High school friend, PA. Racey, nasty, sweet talking, scotch guzzling cattle baron PA, who’d stop shoveling real poop long ago. Now, a professional bachelor, he knew all the tricks of the trade. A Porsche driving, tanning-bed bronzed, flirtatious, real life, neon cowboy, riding the bars until close. PA dealt in women and lines. Club lines. Pick up lines. Sleek lines of very long legs in very high heels. Lines forming at his front door, leading right to his bed. Lines drawn when hearts got too close. Lines not to be crossed. Women’s “Do Not Cross” lines, which he always did. That was PA. Being short at 5’9″, he was easily lost in the crowd. VST, standing at 6’1 had the dimples and charm going, but in no way had the cunning and calculating personality of PA.

Across the street lived VST. Barely 33. 6’1. 194 lbs. Tanned. Salt and peppered hair under tints of dye, due to some vanity issues. Perfect smile, adorned with a dimple on the right. Manly eyebrows that could be raised independently adding to his quirky and quick sense of humor. Soft, hazel eyes were adorned with long soft lashes. His gaze was quickly averted from anyone wanting to linger a bit too long. Inside this man, sadness, loneliness, and anger were strewn about like discarded clothes after a night not remembered. No woman would be allowed past the windows of his soul ever again.

VST was physically fit. Daily, he would jog 5-6 miles, work a full day, and then ride his bicycle another 8 miles to see his parents finishing his routine with ride back home. He was health conscious, watching his BMI. Wide, broad feet supported the athlete he was. Strong and muscular, he worked hard, and played harder. He had goals and plans for his life, with no woman ever devastating him again. He’d no desire to have more children, because he had three of his own. You get the picture. His life was set. High octane schedule, brilliant visions for the future. Alone. 33 years and a few months. The world was at his feet.

VST and PA had attended the same high school. PA wasn’t a jock, but actually a short kid that hadn’t found bachelorhood as a handsome guy, yet. VST was a football playing guy who was sweet and quiet. Still sporting a baby face, he wasn’t like some football players, who played the girls, too. He was a genuinely nice guy. I know this because we were friends, too. He was mature, taking responsibilities for his own car and jobs after school. PA and VST didn’t really run in the same circle, but knew all the same people. They both loved school, and kept many friendships after leaving their Alma Mater in 1972. I stayed another year.

So, when VST and PA, on the same day, while both getting their mail at the same moment, both received an invitation to their 15 year HIGH SCHOOL REUNION, they met in the street. September 5th. D & D Ranch. $25.00 pp. 1972-1973 High School Reunion. Dinner and Barn Dance. Country Western Theme. YeeHaa!!

Guy speak followed.

“Hmm. You going?”

“Hmm. Yeah. You?”

“Hmm. Yeah. “

Fate and luck had made these two guys neighbors. On that particular afternoon, as lawn sprinklers hissed around them, they shared a cold one, laughing about life. Two handsome men, enjoying a summer’s day, while every woman on the street had an urge to water the front yard, immediately. Little did VST know, his life was about to change.

To be continued…..

On the other side of the same town, life was overflowing with activities all my own. As the single mother of two little boys, my days were busy from morning until night. 30 years of age, I’d decided that after one marriage failed, I’d choose single for the rest of my life. After all, I had a complete set of dishes, my own house, kids, and car.

At my parents insistence, a college degree was completed, for which I am eternally grateful. I’d never seen myself as a professional working woman, but rather a stay at home mom. For some years, that had worked. But, with the devastation of my own divorce, it was necessary to bring in money to run my household.

With that need, I started a little business all my own. I was a Domestic Diva of the best kind, with no job being too small or too big. I had two clients that provided my bread and butter. One was a lovely, childless elderly couple. They needed someone to help with many daily tasks which they were too old or wealthy to do themselves. For them, I worked three mornings a week. The other was a well established professional who needed a wife’s organizational skills. His left him due to infidelity, so I was hired to show up daily and arrange the details of his crazy life.

The rest of my days were back-filled with weekly clients needing this or that. From wedding centerpieces to weekly cleaning, I found jobs that needed doing and I did them for hire. Referring to my paychecks as DUSTY MONEY, I bought a new car and a tumble down house. Those days were not only packed with insane schedules, but, with love and laughter. The boys and I created our own little world.

A very busy beauty, I never realized I was attractive. I hadn’t time to even glance at a mirror during those long days. With all the activity, I was in great shape, being spunky and trim at 5’5″. Sometimes cleaning three houses a day, the activity of my life kept me in tip top shape. My heart was a lonely place, but I didn’t have time to sit and ponder this. By the my head hit the pillow at night, I was fast asleep.

Divorce had left me devastated emotionally and financially. Trust escaped me, as the people who should have been trustworthy weren’t. As a farm girl of the 70’s, professions were limited. Women were just entering the work force, with nursing and teaching two good options. These choices requiring additional schooling, current skills were put to good use, while I made a pretty decent living.

Weekends were saved for rest and time with my boys. When the boys went for visitations with their father, I had a little time for myself. Being particular in how it was spent, I often went out to dinner with CC or just enjoyed the quiet. Life was busy and good. Was I using my brain in the way my parents had hoped? No. But, when life throws lemons your way, make a margarita. I found employment that gave me mom time, working well for my little family.

Of all the friends in my life, one I’ve known the longest. We met as toddlers in her driveway. I remember our mothers, just young women themselves, introducing us. Her blonde curls, high in pony tails, fascinated me. My hair was the exact opposite, stubbornly straight and strong willed. I loved her curls immediately, and she soon became my bestie, attending school together from K – 12.

One August day, Bestie Friend, phoned with news she found to be the most exciting.

“September 5th. D & D Ranch. $25.00 pp. 1972-1973 High School Reuinion. Dinner and Barn Dance. Country Western Theme. YeeHaa!”

Imagine the flutter in my heart. NOT. My mind raced through the reasons why this would not be happening. Central Valley Heat. Outside. Bugs. Mosquitos. Boring. Too expensive. Country Western Music. Too tired. Not my thing. Just a no.

Girl speak followed. I agreed that I would go with Bestie Friend. I wouldn’t go happily. I would need to spend my limited Dusty Money funds on a new outfit, shoes included. I didn’t want to go. I was sure it would be lost hours of my life I could never get back. I grumbled. I mumbled. I shopped. I bought angry red high heels to wear on my feet. A sign to anyone looking that I was an explosive hot mess. I would go for Bestie Friend. Enough said.

Now, the very weirdness of this entire situation must be explained. If you read yesterday’s blog, you remember PA. PA had gone to school with Bestie Friend and I, K-12. He was annoying. A boy. An annoying boy. A neighbor boy. So, all four of us knew each other, but had not maintained a close friendship through the years after school ended. We were all planning to attend the reunion, two of us not knowing how our lives would change within just a few weeks.

And so, the days went by, until September 5th arrived. And with that I leave you to ponder just what might happen next.

To be continued………..

September 5th finally arrived, as it does every year. The one difference was that there was a big party planned for the D & D Ranch in which graduates from two high school classes would be celebrating their 14th and 15th class reunions. D&D Ranch was a romantic little party venue nestled in the heart of a 100 acre parcel. Country Western in theme, there were little buildings spread about, reflecting western heritage. A wide area of lush green lawn grew under the shade of 8 very large fruitless mulberry trees. The trees were adorned with lights, adding to the festivities.

Early in the day, I’d accepted work assignments to cover a few added expenses involved with the reunion. A new outfit wasn’t cheap. I’d worked until 1 PM, before running across town to Macy’s to purchase a denim pencil skirt, cream colored blouse, colorful western scarf, and the reddest high heels I could find. All things considered, it was a miracle that those pieces were found in one short hour. After rushing home to get ready, I raced to Bestie Friend’s house. We’d be going to the party in her husband’s fancy schmansy Porsche. White and expensive. It wasn’t my style, but, I was just along for the ride and would go gracefully. BF take a picture of me in my new outfit, memorializing the moment. Maybe I would use it for my new business cards.

Simultaneously, on the other side of town, a pre-party bash was taking place at PA’s house. VST asked PA to photograph him. VST had gone through the unpleasant task of telling his new girl that she wasn’t invited to the reunion. This hadn’t gone well, with many angry words tossed about. PA and VST would go to the party without dates. What would be the point, otherwise? In that, they were in full agreement. PA’s white Porsche was washed and ready for the night. The parking lot would hold only two Porshe’s that night.

Reunion committee members created a beautiful and inviting atmosphere. There were lights in the trees, and cloth-cloaked tables set for dinner under them. Every detail was well thought out. As BF and I arrived, all I wanted to do was pick a table and sit down. Hot, bright red, new heels were causing flaming red blisters on my little toes. The futility of the evening played on in my head. By this time, I’d given up and smiled blankly as people I used to know walked by. BF chatted on about this person or that one.

It was then I saw him. VST. From across the yard, he stood, his image forever branded on my brain. He wore the palest blue Polo dress shirt, and very tight blue jeans. His belt, a favorite, had his name imprinted on the back, as cowboy belts often did in those days. He wore brown cowboy boots, and RayBan glasses. As he spoke to those around him, he worked the dimple from time to time. He could have graced the cover of GQ.

“Who’s the tall one?” I remember asking BF. She replied, and a memory of the boy in choir came rushing back. Gone was the chubby boy. Here was a very attractive man standing in the glow of the valley’s setting sun. Slowly, VST and PA started towards our table.

Fighting began immediately, as I was in some kind of mood. He sensed that and was in some kind of mood to mess with me. He insisted I was married to my ex-brother-in-law. I corrected him. He rattled on stating facts about all I’d been doing with my life. Uniformed and incorrect, I set him straight. Barbed arrows flew back and forth between us, leaving me focused on my blisters and longing for my dingy little house on the bad part of town. I could be reading or scrubbing the floor. It was going to be a very, very long night.

Chicken and rice was the standard for catered dinners. People at the table visited politely. VST and PA had joined us, and I could tell VST was enjoying any little dig he could send my way. I ignored him, smiling at anyone else but him. As the dishes were being cleared away, guests were encouraged to move into the open sided barn for dancing. Hearing this, and hoping to be one step closer to the BF’s Porshe and our get-away, I was first to snag a bale of hay.

This next point is still in contention, even in my own brain. Sadly, I have no one left to argue the point. I got to the bale first. If VST was here, he would interrupt and say that it was his bale. It was mine. I sat down watching everyone else enter. It was then that VST sat down right next to me, closer than close. He tried to make small talk, receiving the worst replies, of YES, NO, MAYBE, or I DON’T KNOW. My skirt, pincil-ey skinny and tight, was pinching in the worst way. My shoes. Dont’ even get me started. The long sleeved blouse was hot, stiff, and constricting. The scarf was choking me. I just wanted to go home.

With a bevy of beautiful and very hopeful cleavaged women surrounding our bale, VST did the most outrageous thing. He asked if I would like to dance with him. I found myself on my feet and following him to the center of the dance floor. I found myself in his arms, as a very sweet and slow dance played. Prior hostilities vanished and it felt like home should feel. Like I had been dancing with him my entire life, it was a moment that will last throughout my eternity.

He whispered that I had the bluest eyes. My mind snapped back to reality. I couldn’t just let it go. I’d get in one last word telling him he was full of bovine scat, not in terms quite that polite. He laughed deeply with sheer delight at my response and hugged me just a little tighter.

By song’s end, my world was rocked. Stunned, I didn’t know what to do or say. BF was signaling by the door that it was time to leave. VST asked if he might have my phone number. Having a business card in my skirt pocket, I shoved it his way, as I said Good Night, and rushed towards BF. We made our princess escape in one of two white Porsche’s in the parking lot that night. I was relieved. It was over and I had survived. Thank Goodness.

To Be Continued….

Closing the front door behind me while kicking off the wicked red shoes, I winced. What had possessed me to wear heels, anyway? Bleeding toes bandaged, I burrowed into my softest robe to think a minute. Tired as I’d been, I wasn’t the least bit sleepy while recounting the evening down to the tiniest detail. Not the sauce smothering the chicken and rice, but thinking about him. VST. The tall one.

My elderly client had nearly driven me to anger only a few days before. On a normal work day, she started outlining the positive points of attending the reunion. After all, I was a beautiful, single woman. She droned on and on about the possibilities of meeting Mr. Right. I had assured her that there would be no Oklahoma Cowboy showing up in surrey with the fringe on top to whisk me away. It wasn’t lost on me that after 61 years of marriage, these elders, Emilie and Bill, sat at the breakfast table gazing into each other’s eyes every morning while holding hands their coffee cups. Although not high school sweethearts, they were certainly octogenarian lovers. They could feel my loneliness, hoping I would find what they had someday.

“Well, you MUST attend. I’ll help you pick out something to wear. You’ve been working so hard. The boys are such a handful. Please. Just go and have yourself a little fun. Just for a night! And maybe…” My body language screamed STOP, while she smiled so sweetly and then did the most infuriating thing. She winked. WHAT. WERE. THEY. THINKING? These two old farts that I loved dearly always shared their opinions freely. Remembering life together, from depression poor to old age rich, they shared their stories. I usually listened. This was different.

Men. I could do without them. I had my DUSTY MONEY, shining wealthy client possessions. I had two little men in my life. They were my soul. Their smiles ignited my will to do my best for them. I had my own house, such as it was. A full set of dishes and towels. A set of my own tools. A new car. My own feet to take me dancing whenever I wanted.

Dancing??? My mind waltzed back to VST. Funny how he dwarfed PA, his new neighbor. PA had all the lines and moves down, avoiding marriage so far. Years of flashing a smile showing perfectly whitened teeth against skin glowing tanned always got the girl. VST might be tall, but PA could reel in the most unwilling woman with his charm. Anyone who’s attended a class reunion understands the difficulty in placing people. Most times those that were hot are not while those that weren’t hot often are. Then, there are those that command looks no matter how many years have passed. VST and PA filled that category.

Remembering VST’s hazel eyes, I wondered whether the kindness known in high school was still there. The blue shirt had showcased youthful skin and soulful eyes. A tenderness could be hidden there. It was when they had shared sheet music during choir.

WAIT. WARNING. WARNING. DANGER. Something was definitely amiss. VST was with PA, who was known to everyone as the cattle baron playboy. STOP. HOLD THE PHONE. VST was now a grown man. A player. Suddenly sleepy, I decided it was time to turn in. There would be time enough to consider this situation in the morning. Staring at the ceiling through the dark, I hoped sleep would find me soon.

Drifting off, I recalled school days choir. Songs sung. Laughter. VST coming to class freshly showered, just finishing PE. Letterman’s jacket boasting athletic awards on school letters. His smile. His dimples. The way his hair curled ever so slightly as it dried. His booming bass voice. His shy friendship with me.

VST, still back at the Ranch, rocked a night dancing with many partners, promising to contact them all. His pocket overflowed with a variety of phone numbers from old friends. Women were so easy. In his telling of our story, that night was tinted with blue after our dance. The bluest eyes he’d seen left him wanting to see them again. I remained on his mind long after the music stopped.

To Be Continued……..

Sunday, September 6th was a quiet day of reflection. Laundry and house work busied me while preparing for the boys to come home at day’s end. Owning a very small business, I couldn’t afford an office or staff, but did hire a little answering service. A physically challenged entrepreneur ran her business with professional efficiency from her home. I depended on her to screen my business contacts. Although I’d never met her in person, we spoke often throughout the day. She was an excellent first contact for potential clients.

Evening calls from her were infrequent, but not unheard of either. So when the phone rang late in the afternoon, I quickly answered, hoping to pick up another job for the slow week ahead. Her call was not what I had expected.

“Joy, a man called just a few minutes ago. His name was VST. He asked that you return his phone call at your convience. “

I must say, I was disappointed it wasn’t another job, money being a little tight. However, the thought that VST had phoned me also made my heart flutter just the tiniest.

“Thanks. I met him at the class reunion last night. I’ll call him back.”

Truth being what it was, I probably wouldn’t, and certainly not that night. The boys would return home at any second, and the time was theirs. Dinner would be followed by baths and bedtime stories. After that, I would need some quiet time. No. He wouldn’t receive an evening call from me. Besides, he was a man and that spelled trouble.

Monday’s were always hectic. The boys needed breakfast and lunch money before I scooted them off to school. Still hoping for extra work, I had a busy morning with my octogenarians who waited, with hearts a-fluttering, to hear about the reunion. To their disappointment, I gave them very little information, barely mentioning VST. They’d been sure I’d return Monday with grand news of a new love affair, but that wasn’t the case.

Lunchtime came, and again, I received a call from my answering service angel.

“Joy, you just received a 2nd call from VST asking that you please return his call. He sounds extremely nice. I’m pretty sure he isn’t calling to find out about housekeeping rates. You need to call this one back.”

How dare she! The nerve!!!!! What did she know about my life? About struggles I faced every day as a single mother. Complications of a new boyfriend I didn’t need no matter how nice he was on the phone.

“Thanks so much. I have his number and will be sure to get back to him as soon as I have a spare moment.”

I lied.

That night, the slow dance had nearly faded out of mind. Homework, dinner, dishes, baths, tv, and 7:30 bedtime were all packed into a few short hours.. By time the boys were fast asleep, I was right behind them. Thinking of the return phone call that had been delayed two times now, my guilt surfaced. I’d make it right tomorrow and call him. Besides, maybe he did need a housekeeper.

Tuesday morning flew by, with a lunchtime call from my answering angel.

“Joy. You didn’t call him back did you??? He just called. He sounds like such a great guy. If you don’t call him, I will. Please! Don’t be stupid about this. Call him and find out what he wants. Seriously, you’re playing the fool here. I don’t know much, but I know you need to call him back.”

Seeing red, I replied, “Okay.”

At about the same time this conversation occurred, on the other side of town, VST was traveling in his blue and white Jeep Wrangler. He was also seeing red. What the heck??? Had he missed something??? Was their dance misread on his part??? Was she a player??? Had she changed that much from the girl he liked in choir??? With that, he found her embossed business card in his breast pocket. The one that had he’d kept above all the other numbers he’d collected on the 5th. His fingers clinched it. At the next stop light, he ripped it into tiny angry little pieces Rolling down his window, he tossed them out and watched as they fluttered to the road. He was wrong on that one. He’d been played by Miss Blue Eyes. He was glad it was over as the light turned green.

“You win some, you lose some,” he thought, as he drove his Jeep towards fun with PA. No need to wait for her anymore. Ignoring the disappointment that clouded his drive, he was done thinking about the bluest eyes. Absolutely, once and for all, D-O-N-E.

To be continued…..

Many days had expired since the 5th, and no longer were VST and I under the spell of a magical September night of dancing. Busy with life, we weren’t thinking about what might have been, being too entrenched in what was. Make no mistake about this. We were both starving for love, with deep emotional wounds, and empty places in our hearts. We just hid that underneath very attractive exteriors, buried deep within. Bachelor and Bachelorette, we were.

Receiving my lunchtime update, I took down numbers of new clients from my Answering Service Angel (ASA). Business was picking up, that being a very good thing. In just a few months, Christmas would arrive, along with taxes and the ongoing expenses of owning a very old house. When done giving me contact information, ASA schooled me in the most devilish terms.

“Now. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I know you didn’t ever return VST’s calls. Why is a puzzlement to me. We’ve never met, but, I know your situation. You sound smart. You seem like a good business woman. Intelligent. Savvy. But, you’re as dumb as a box of rocks in the ways of the heart. Joy. This guy’s a nice guy. You need to call him today. I know your schedule and you aren’t too busy. This is rude. It’s insane. Are you listening to me?? I’ve been around the block a few times. Do it TODAY.”

I did listen, after finally hearing her, and she was absolutely right. He hadn’t called back in 24 hours. What was I thinking? I knew him a very long time ago and we were good friends. I needed to find out what was behind that dance. All at once, there was nothing else I needed to do more than call him. So, I did.

Awkward. Chilly. Not very interactive. That was the reception I received for about the first 15 seconds, until the icy conversation melted into something more. With only a little time in our work day, he would telephone later that evening. I would definitely answer the phone.

The conversation went late into the night, with laughter and quiet pauses while digesting stories exchanged. Magic traced the lines between his home and mine. Back and forth like electrical currents. Minutes conversing were stolen at different times of the day, until on Thursday we decided it was time to share a dinner date at my house. It was a weekend the boys would be home and he could meet them. 7:00PM at my old house on the very wrong side of town. I would cook.

Friday morning, with an important dinner date on my mind, I received a call from a desperate CC. She needed a favor. She had a date and her babysitter wasn’t available. Could I please watch her daughter?????? Friday night? 7:00 pm?

My thoughts immediately went into Bestie mode and mom mode. If VST couldn’t handle three little kids all under 5 feet tall, he wasn’t the guy for me.

Yes.

With that, I planned dinner and looked forward to my first date in awhile with a guy that I found not so annoying. The solid friendship we’d formed in high school unfolded as we told stories and laughed like we had years ago. Shared friends and acquaintance were discovered. He worked with my cousin. His workmates knew my family. An intricate web of connections was already in place, as people we knew cheered when they found out who we might be dating.

It’s difficult to plan a romantic evening with two 8 year olds and a 6 year old runnning around. Really, it’s just controlled chaos in a 900 square foot home on a sweltering September night in the central valley of California. Trying to cook in a kitchen with only a swamp cooler for relief made for a sweaty environment. Barbecued Tri-Tip was the main dish with sides of salad and potatoes, with ice cream for desert. Although very old, my BBQ was efficient, and I knew this was one meal I couldn’t ruin.

The boys were excited to be having a party with CC’s daughter. They played together often and always had the best time. They would tolerate an unknown gentleman, but the real fun would be with their friend. We were all excited about our play dates and with the ring of the doorbell, the party began. CC was thankful as she rushed off, looking like a million bucks. As the three kids spun around fast enough to turn to butter, the doorbell rang again.

VST filled the space, as I opened the door. He stood there with one red rose and two John Deere Teddy bears. A girl and a boy. He wore pale blue and a nervous smile. His eyes said everything you would’ve expected. Crossing through the threshold into my world, things would never return to the normal we’d both known just hours before.

Dinner burned. Sadly, the BBQ let me down, while our conversation proved too distracting. But, no one really noticed. It was the nicest dinner I’d shared with anyone in a very long time, while the conversation continued until he left at a respectable 10:00. CC returned to take a very sleepy little girl home, while two little boys snuggled into their beds and fell fast asleep.

I was left to reflect on the wonderful evening we’d shared, minus the burned dinner. Burned food and fires became my trademark over the years, earning me the nickname Torch. Prophetic, he should have noted my lack of abilities in the kitchen, but here were so many other things to observe. Both of us felt the comfortable way you feel with a most trusted friend. Someone who’s significant in your life. A person you hope will be your ally for a long time to come.

So many precious memories from those first little moments come back to me, even now. Eleven days after that first date, he proposed. That question, asked in such a private and sweet way, will remain a moment secret to us until I die. My answer was YES, as crazy as it seemed. Three months later, I walked down the aisle into his arms and we never looked back with anything but grateful hearts that it was us.

Our story is one of millions shared about the beginnings of true love. It’s the sweetest one I’ve been lucky to know or tell, because it was ours. Take some times to memorialize yours on paper. The sights and smells. The sighs and laughter. The glances exchanged. If you can’t write it, think it. If you can’t think it, dream about it. Don’t put it away in a dusty, forgotten place in your heart. Those we lost live on because we loved them so and can tell about it. So, tell. Remember. And smile.

Thanks for reading about a few precious days in my life. I promise, I’ll return to real time escapades and experiences tomorrow! I love you, Readers! Be sure to tell a friend about Grievinggardener.com.

Moving to a new town as a total stranger has left me with little human contact, leaving me a little sad. Because of this, it became apparent early on, that I would need to find some friends. I decided join a community club. Covid has rendered many groups inactive, due to stringent requirements regarding meeting places. Many seniors aren’t comfortable in large groups and internet meetings are often technologically stressful. My new group is struggling with these very problems, leaving everyone remembering and wishing for the olden days. With turmoil in the world, many after suffering from anger, sadness and fear.

Political service groups in this day and age are a hotbed of emotions. Without going into the politics, my group’s no different. Members are taking names and sides. Feelings are easily hurt, and frustrations are running high. This, coupled with the fact that I hardly know any of the members, led me to an interesting situation last week.

Publicity Committee Chair sounded like a fun little assignment when offered to me. A simple release of meeting times and speaker topics once a month to the media. Nothing too heavy there. It sounded like something I’d sandwich between my days of writing and be quite happy with my contribution to the group. I should’ve asked a few more questions.

On my first assignment, I made a few errors, leaving the women that were watching over me scrambling to fix things. Emotions were running a little high, and quite frankly, it overwhelmed me. In fact, I emailed the two ladies that I’d be resigning. Thankfully they are more experienced, wiser, and not in the new widow category. Concerned and supportive, they both came to see me and we worked things out.

During this meeting, the obvious cause of my unhappiness became apparent to me. My actual frustration and decision to leave the group had nothing to do with the group itself. It had to do with Anger, Fear, and Sadness. Carefully examining my own feelings, I found, for me, they are divided equally. When anger flared, flames were fanned by underlying situations in the daily news. When my sadness oozed out, it was complicated by anger and fear. When my fear surfaced, it was compounded by anger and sadness. The three amigos of unhappiness, were feeding an emotional bonfire.

As I talked to these sweet new friends, it became clear that I hadn’t considered the real reasons behind my ultimate frustrations. When I did, it was like deflating balloons. While chairing the publicity committee, I need to be mindful as I make press releases and club notices. That’s all there is too it. Thank goodness these women were wise and really anxious for me to stay in their group.

After they left, I reflected on these three emotions and how they’ve haunted me through widowhood. Intertwined like a ball of snakes, one could easily be misidentified for another. They’ve stolen from the quality of my life, at times, blocking out happiness. Now, when feeling one, I look for the other two hiding in the background. When examining the three together, appropriate life adjustments have come a bit easier.

My ultimate goal is to choose happiness, but not if the other three feelings are hiding behind the door, unresolved. That wouldn’t work anyway. They are very sneaky little emotions, clouding everything and ruining a lot.

Publicity Chairperson is going to be a rewarding position that I’ll complete, as agreed. When meeting other members that are either angry, fearful, or sad, we can join hands and talk about our feelings together. This world needs everyone stop and to count to ten. Just breathe. Things will be better each day, as we find our way. The sadness comes with the realization that normal is different now. In the meanwhile, put on a pot of coffee and have your Besties over for a visit. Try not to spend to much time with Anger, Fear, and Sadness. Hear them. Thank them. Show them the door. Happiness and laughter are waiting right around the corner for an invite.

Feeling a little blue this AM, I reflect on my word of the month and think on it awhile. Respect is a word that can be used in a many situations, all conjuring up a different mental image. In the writing world, this is delicious. If I’m writing about the respect a child shows for a parent, the image is different than that of a homeowner showing respect for their home. Right now, we might all show respect for the country that has served us well, and the changing of the political scene.

I respect our flag and everything it stands for. My two sons gave 40 years of their lives serving our country, often in harms way in the desert. Having traveled to ten countries myself, I didn’t run across one in which I’d have liked to live out the remainder of my years. Even Switzerland, in its parklike beauty, wasn’t home. Not in the least bit.

Traveling through the country over three years and 50,000 miles, I learned so much. Beauty surrounded us at every turn, I learned that my American roots run deep. There are indeed prairies where the deer and antelope play. I’ve watched sunrises there, hand in hand, with VST. Until you have seen Big Sky, you have no idea what that phrase means. The feeling in your heart when you stand in the middle of Big Sky in the darkness and see the stars is overwhelming. A spiritual experience found nowhere else.

Breathtaking, the beauty of the Grand Canyon leaves me speechless every time. There really is a main street Winslow, Arizona, full of pretty girls in flat bed Fords. Wild bison still roam in South Dakota. But the best thing of all is our people. Fellow Americans. We are different, and yet not. We all have a love of country. Our core beliefs are different, but we all love our home passionately. That’s an important trait we all hold in our hearts. Somehow, we have embraced wildly different ways of expressing our ideas on the emotional way we feel about America. Respecting our home and country, it’s a prayer from my soul that we can find commonalities in which to start meaningful conversations again. The shouting needs to stop as we find respect in the art of listening more than talking.

VST, being one of the most respectful people I have known in my life, always listened more than talked. At work, farmers would come in like boiling tea pots, frothing while whistling in a whiny kind of way. VST would just turn off the fire, listening the entire time, until they cooled off. Then, he’d have thought up a way to turn their gaze towards a solution to their problem. He was masterful at this and did it in all aspects of his life. Never losing his cool, he knew how to really listen, searching for solutions, and never breaking a frown or sweat. I miss that.

Today, I’m going to start by respecting my peace and quiet in this age of Covid. The television will remain off, as I plan my spring garden and the new flowers that are going to grow there. I may step into the sunshine and prune some roses. Oliver and I will play frisbee a bit, while looking for birds that are doing their best to find a little warmth in the trees these days.

Respecting my body, I plan to take a walk in the sunshine. Respecting my neighbors, I’m going to smile and wave with an open hand to everyone I pass. I’m going to plan a diet friendly meal and get back on track, because, bathing suits are unforgiving, and my spa days are right around the corner. Respecting my own feelings, I may just need a nap later today, because stress negates energy. Listening to my own bio-rhythms, I’ll know what I need to do.

In respect for VST’s memory, I may work on my scrap booking a little later today, placing pictures in the order in which they were taken, year after year. Remembering that we were respectful to each other makes me feel even luckier than ever before. Respect was a cornerstone of the success of 32 beautiful years. Our differences of opinion, ways of completing a task, or ways of showing our love to each other were always a source of respect and awe. It kept things new and exciting. Valued and cherished.

Today, please, find things respected in your life. Things respect worthy. Spend some time with a person you respect, and tell them you do. Drive respectfully. Try to think of just one thought about our country with respect. Wave at a neighbor. Perform a random act of kindness. Today is the perfect day for it. Time’s a wasting.

Busily, I’ve been working on computer analytics. As a new blogger focused on writing, I’m now working on growing my audience. Each day, I spend more time learning about analytical programs that show trends with my readers. NOT being a computer geek, the going is rather slow. Each time I conquer another step, I’m victoriously thrilled.

Back in September, inspired by a podcasting friend, I really thought all I’d need to do was write. There were a few steps in between. Looking online for recommendations, Blue Host and Word Press were recommended for ease of use and cost effectiveness. I found this to be true on both counts. Then, I was off and running. When boredom would rear its ugly head, I’d write or work on my site. Suddenly, writing until lunch each day, I’ve found my best and last career. As of this morning, I have 1300 readers who have read 4450 blog posts, being from 38 countries. Even from Nepal!!! Hi, Nepal!! I love you Serbia!!! Hey, Moldova!!! Wait, sorry, I’ll continue here. If you’ve a desire to blog, don’t wait. Stories need to be told. Hearts need to be heard. Every writer makes an impact on the world, even in the most remote villages of Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, or Moracco.

Months ago, I messaged an online gentleman from Sacramento. Immediately, I was offline and back at my work after his two words of communication.

“I’m bored.”

How unattractive! How unimaginative! How unstimulating! How….well….for lack of a better term……BORING. Definitely not my type. VST and I never had time to be bored, jetting through life devouring every second. People marveled at our accomplishments. Full throttle was our normal.

Traveling through month after month of widowhood, boredom has reared its ugly head at times. Taking charge of the problem, an ongoing list of tasks was created. Whether I want to or not, I choose one when boredom strikes. Being busily bored I can accept, but idle whining is not in my wheelhouse. Forward movement cannot occur when distracted by boredom and self pity.

Boredom causes struggles at the helm of one’s personal ship. Kick it overboard. Think of it! As Senior widows, we can decided what to do, when and where. We can have lunch at 9AM or 5 PM. We can paint our bathroom in hot pink, if we choose. We can decorate our garage. Make our entire house a SHE-SHED. Sad? Yes! Of course! But, bored??? There’s always a choice better than boredom.

I love the challenge of learning something new and productive on the computer. While not easy, often eating up hours without success, it’s proving I can do something new and enjoy it. I’ve amassed many activities on my list of TRY’s. Publishing my first book. Painting in water colors. Landscaping with new varieties of plants. Vegetable gardening in the high desert. Photography. Planning my wardrobe. Revisiting Makeup. Driving across the United States myself, just once. There are so many new things I want to do, my dreams go on and on, while BOREDOM has no place.

Daily schedules keep me mindful of time and accomplishments. If lunch is at 11:30, my morning is used more efficiently. On days when boredom is lurking, I stay busy, marking things off when done. Before I know it, it’s dinner time and the finished projects cause a smile.

There are also so many ways to improve a boring day. Take a walk in the fresh, crisp winter air. Watch a movie that transports you to another place and time. Listen to your favorite music and dance a little. Call a friend and see if they want to meet for coffee. The list is endless. Just don’t revert to the “I’m Bored” statement. Once it’s uttered, it like an infection, spreading through body and mind.

What happened to Bored Guy??? I assume he’s still idling in PARK while whining that life isn’t as stimulating as activities during his childhood summer camp. Avoid that mistake! Pick yourself up, dust off the cobwebs, and find something new to occupy your thoughts and time. Life is gone in the snap of a finger, one minute at a time. Don’t waste it.

Oliver and I are in eager anticipation of our day, packed and ready to roll. Ollie will be visiting his friends at Doggie Day Camp, while I will be visiting two of my Besties to shop! It was brought to my attention that if asked to accompany someone to dinner, I have but three dresses. Three. Worse than that, they’re all summer dresses. Currently, the weather is anything but spring-like, with morning temps starting at 25 degrees.

Last week, my VC neighbor, Glass Wizard, phoned to see if I might want to go with another VC friend, Della Rio, on a shopping adventure. In my past life, I wasn’t a patient or thoughtful shopper. It seemed whatever I needed in the way of clothing could be found, purchased, and worn right off the stacks at Costco or Sam’s Club. Face it, VST and I were glampers. We lived in hoodies and jeans, or tees and shorts as we traversed the country. Seldom did we dress up when we were traveling.

VST, on the other hand, did involve us in a service organization in which it was necessary to own a tuxedo. He always looked so handsome as he left to attend meetings. I looked nice, too, when I dressed up to accompany him. We were a snazzy couple when we chose to be. Otherwise, we were just a cute couple of travelers that preferred casual fun.

I find myself looking in my closet and taking notes of everything that I need to replace. From dresses to shoes to everything in between. I haven’t even started with new makeup trends. I need an entire make-over, and tomorrow will be the day this begins.

Shopping for a new look is something every widow can enjoy. It’s been easy for me to spend too many days in my comfy fleece PJ’s, while staying in because it might snow. Note, I said it MIGHT snow. It hasn’t. It has been beautiful weather. There are so many reasons I can convince myself to stay inside and avoid venturing out. Today, my schedule will be infused with spring fashions and lunch at a tasty and tony Mexican restaurant in a lovely shopping center south of the city center. The three of us gal pals have lots to chat about.

After a day of shopping, I’ve decided to spend the night in town, rather than heading back to my little desert villa. One of the perks of living near a resort town is that there are resorts. Oh Happy Day. Reserved just for me, I’ll have a suite with a hot tub. I’m looking forward to room service and soaking. If I close my eyes long enough, I might be able to believe it’s the olden days, when VST and I would do something like this often. I plan to soak up resort life during my waking hours. I might even visit the spa for a wrap, just because.

Attending a virtual service group meeting last night, an interesting proposal was made by a housebound member. She requested that the group meet in person, with those having Covid concerns having the option of remaining virtual. The group agreed that being housebound is not necessary for everyone. I, for one, cannot remain housebound anymore. Tomorrow will be the first of many days I need to venture out and find normal for me. Solitary confinement is worse than any disease I can think of while killing my spirit.

Remember, as you head out, follow new protocol. Have a mask at the ready, with an extra along, just in case. Be sure to use lots of hand sanitizer and don’t touch your face. Keep six feet away from everyone else at all times. All that being said, find something outside the house to do today. Enjoy yourself and choose happiness. It’s a universal size and looks great on us all.

Thirty-three years ago today, January 23, 1988, VST and I exchanged vows before family and friends. It was a small and sweet ceremony, made meaningful by our own little touches. We were in our early thirties, grabbing at golden rings and hanging on for dear life. As we become one, our family grew into a whirling blend of two eleven year olds (VST’s Twins), two eight-year-olds, (one from each of us), and a six year old, (mine). Five wonderful kids that made our life exciting and full throughout our years together.

That morning, I remember being the classic jittery bride. With the important women in my life giving me strength, the morning was full of all the normal preparations. I remember lots of laughter and fun putting the last minute finishes on everything. Auntie TJ added sparkle to the morning, along with Bestie Friend and CC. They were all there to celebrate the day. As I waited for our moment to arrive, the beautiful reflection in the mirror was someone I had yet to meet. So beautiful and young. Hopeful, I was scared out of my mind.

All the hassles of months before melted away that morning. Remembering the day we went to tell our parents made me smile. VST’s parents were gracious and welcoming. His mother told me many times over the years she knew the very moment VST fell in love with me. He changed. She could see it in his eyes. Who’s to argue with your mother-in-law, right? She soon changed her title to Mother-In-Love. Through the years, she became my mom, too.

On the day we told my parents, my dad wanted to know if this was one of those “Spur of the Moment” things. I really don’t know what he meant, as communication with dad was never very clear. Everyone quietly counted on fingers, sure the speed in which we married had to do with a sixth child. We fooled them all. The stork had no deliveries at our house. Our family was complete at five.

My mother was aghast that I wore a traditional wedding gown, but wear it I did. No, I rocked it. VST wore an amazing grey suit that was tailored to fit him perfectly. There we were, two kids at the alter, vowing to love and cherish each other until death. Taking on life, we’d both give our marriage undivided attention and focus. We weren’t going to allow anything to derail this new union, honoring and respecting each from that day on. That’s exactly what we managed to do for over 32 years. Not always in the most graceful manner, but, that’s life, right?

Our parents and friends quickly came to admire all the things we loved about each other. Blessed with their support and love, they watched us find our way through life. For that, we were so very grateful.

Last week, I found the anniversary card VST gave me 365 days ago. Through the years, we had abandoned reciprocal gifts, but, always found just the right cards to exchange. He always took me, his Darlin’, for a celebratory meal. We held hands, just a year ago. He still turned my head as he held my heart in his heart. He was the last person I wanted to see before dreams came, and the first person I wanted to greet in the morning. He was the best person with which to share morning coffee while exchanging opinions about the morning news. He remained my groom, and I, his bride, even though we were no longer those kids at the alter.

Today, I’ll embrace peace and quiet as I reflect on our years together. Blessed to have the marriage we did, we shared so many wonderful adventures. I know he’ll be with me today, his angel wings surrounding Oliver and me, in Winterpast, the home he bought for us. God frosted my world in snow today, reminded me of that afternoon at 2 PM, when I was the girl in white.

I love you sweet, VST. Happy Anniversary. Save me a spot next to you in heaven. Until then, fare thee well.

This song is worth a listen. I send it to you, VST.

10,000 Miles

Sung by Mary Chapin Carpenter

Fare thee well,

My own true love.

Farewell for a while

I’m going away.

But I’ll be back

Though I go ten thousand miles.

Ten thousand miles,

My own true love,

Ten thousand miles or more.

The rocks may melt

And the seas may burn

If I should not return.

Oh, don’t you see

That lonesome dove

Sitting on an ivy tree:

She’s weeping for

Her own true love,

As I shall weep for mine.

Oh come ye back,

My own true love,

And stay a while with me.

If I had a friend

All on this earth

You’ve been a friend to me.

My New-Life news have, at times, been overwhelming in the past 9.5 months. New from the foundation up, life changed in one big Cancer diagnosis, declared Cholangiocarcinoma by the oncologist 7 days before VST died. During the eight weeks before, sickness had taken hold, an obvious fact. Cancer and death weren’t expected until they appeared, bringing devastating and miraculous experiences to me.

Breathing was still a necessity, although it became different through tears of grief. Panic’d days brought a rapid rhythm, while deep thought stop my breathing all together. Moving boxes and furniture at 6,200 ft. caused me to struggle for breath quite often. Putting together the memorial book of VST often left me breathless. Revisiting memories staring back through hundreds of pictures, I looked for just the right ones. Months later, as new things challenge me, my breathing remains steady. My heart rarely skips a beat. My body is learning this new normal of living, while repairing a battered heart. Thank goodness it could run on auto pilot these past few months.

“WINTERPAST” was the best “NEW” I could’ve chosen. Moving couldn’t be stopped, and for me, shouldn’t have been stopped. New ways of thinking and doing were embraced, as every bit of advice I received told me to stay put. New walls waited for aged pictures and paintings. Like old friends, many have been with me since I was a babe in arms. Guardians of my past, my new home offered the perfect places for them to rest, watching over me still. New ground, new plants, new spring life, new hope, in my new season of life.

Yesterday, I was thinking about VST’s office and the pack-rat way he had stuffed two closets with his belongings. Not an inch to spare inside, they were full to the ceiling with belongings reflecting a rich and full life. Some things hold their secrets tight, as he is no longer here to add stories we would’ve loved to know. New discoveries hid amidst his treasures in things I didn’t know he had secreted away. His treasure trove of memories dear to him became new to me. Each new office document I discover, less than a year old and inked with his left handed writing, is a new hug in message form that I can handle this stuff.

New town. New friends. New street. New house. New routines. New. New. New. This against every bit of advice I received when VST died. Discarding old, while embracing new, I ran into the forest of widowhood with scissors. Tripping, scraping my knees, falling, face first, but always getting up, I kept going. Pretty soon, the scissors were dropped for safety, and I kept going. After awhile, I didn’t need to run so fast. Today, here I am, having survived my wedding anniversary yesterday, while almost arriving at the milestone of my first year without VST. New. Faith anew.

Yesterday, I continued viewing the Marvel Cinematic Universe movies about fantasy heroes that have outrageous abilities. There are over 20 movies in the series, so, it’ll take me awhile to finish. This genre of movies, new to me, took some time to embrace. After watching six, I find I’m enjoying the story lines of each one. The bedroom television provides a new location to watch them. My own private and comfy movie theater has become part of a new routine, with jammies the required attire. Popcorn optional.

A few days ago, while trying to explain the events of this personal tragedy, I envisioned my former life as my neat and tidy doll house. Everything was dialed in, just so. Things clicked along by design, with two happy people enjoying the fruits of their labor. On a cloud free winter’s day, cancer took that life and turned it upside down with the fury of the universe. I was left to scurry around, grabbing at bits and pieces of broken-everything, with the need to put things right immediately. Today, new experiences are beginning to gel into life, after the old life was swept away forever, now memorialized on the pages of scrap books, keeping sweet memories alive.

Today, embrace your New, examining it for redeeming changes it has presented in your life. While widowhood is certainly not a deliberate choosing of our own, sunshine follows any storm. Find a little ray and bask in it. Grief’s darkest hour will lighten as the days roll on. Don’t forget to look for the true beauty of new life. That’s my news for the day.

Chronicling this journey through widowhood continues to provide relief by sharing some dark days. Up until now, I’ve reflected back on soul-blistering events while writing about them. Events that happened on insignificant dates, randomly remembered on a day I was strong enough to think about them.

Something new is happening now, unexpected and surreal. Just one year ago, VST became sick. On all the unthinkable events remembered before now, there wasn’t the compounded memory of last year’s nightmare and today’s grief. Now it begins in earnest. The last of my widow’s journey through the first year.

One year ago, VST and I were still looking for our dream town and house. There were so many signs of illness. Looking back, the warnings had been stacking up for months, all there, so plain to see. At the time, we didn’t put the puzzle pieces together that spelled the word CANCER. We were too busy navigating trips and our lives. With no RV trip taken in weeks, we decided to give the true desert one last look as a possible home town.

Pahrump is a fascinating little place in a very dreary way. Many people work in Las Vegas and live there, making the daily hour-long commute. It’s a flat desertscape surrounded by beautiful mountains. The sunrise and sunsets are fantastical, the colors changing with the seasons. People there are tough. Desert sand runs through their veins and they take pride in being Pahrump-ites. Many famous people quietly live there hidden in the sage, because it’s the kind of place you go to be. Just be. No one is better than anyone else. Everyone just gets through the sweltering desert heat, to enjoy the remaining seasons that are pretty pleasant. There is one main road through town and a mixture of housing developments, increasing in number every year. POOF dirt has ruined many dreams. Pahrump isn’t a place for everyone.

Pahrump is a favorite winter destination for retirees from all the cold places in the country. Affordable and quiet, the snowbirds take over in the winter. RV parks are filled with rigs from Minnesota, Nebraska, and Idaho. They move in and the town takes on a different feel. Pahrump-ites are content to buy essentials from WalMart. They like Bingo, slots, and visiting. Nightlife begins at 4 with Early Bird Specials. The nights are dark and star filled.

VST and I liked Pahrump. I don’t think anyone can say they LOVE Pahrump. It’s just a place to kick up dust in the desert. Lovely houses at great prices sit in nice neighborhoods. A dollar in Pahrump buys alot in the housing market. But, in the end, you are in Pahrump. You better like your neighbors and the desert, because there isn’t much else.

We’d gone on a fact finding mission. At this point, VST was becoming emotionally brittle. He wasn’t content just being, he wanted to be racing. That we did. The 7 hour trip, left us tired and cranky, with rig set-up to finish before dinner. Fast food burgers and fries were the dinner choice with our salt intake in the unhealthy range.

The next day, we met the sweetest realtor and her partner who’d arranged for us to view 10 homes over the course of six hours. While viewing, it became apparent something had changed. VST was depending on his cane much more than usual and didn’t participate in conversations like usual. He’d view each home, but not participate in the way we always had before. I would look at cabinetry and interior, while he’d be examining roof lines and foundation issues. We were a whirlwind of observations, exchanged at lightning speed, with a rating. “No”. “Maybe”. “Put it on the list”. On to the next. On this day, I knew something was wrong, but chalked it up to a very long day-before. Viewing ten homes in one day bends the mind, but, we were on a mission. We had seen “WINTERPAST” and wanted to be very sure about our decision.

That night, while eating more fast food, I saw his ankles and feet for the first time. The swelling was intense, stretching his skin way past comfortable. The scariest part was that he hadn’t noticed anything different. DIFFERENT and WRONG on steroids.

Here’s the deal. These are my memories of a year ago now. Not of the closet construction. Not of our last Christmas caring for each other through colds. Not of walks with Oliver, or being at the beach. This first memory involving cancer and death happened one year ago today, with more becoming progressively worse until April 8th. For these days, I need to prepare. Storms they are coming.Flashbacks can be intense and scary. My journey of widowhood is far from over, and the next two months may be a bumpy ride.

My 2020 Planner lays closed. Inside, it holds all the activities and appointments we endured. January 24 was still a normal day that found VST a little under the weather. We’d go to the doctor and get him checked out. He’d probably need a diuretic. We’d eliminate the terrible food we’d been eating and get back to our regular diets. Elevating his legs at night, everything would return to normal. Except, it didn’t turn out that way.

Resting is important now for me now. Walking is vital. I’m paying attention meals. Remembering to get out a little, I make my cocooned time positively comforting. Sleep comes when I am tired, and creativity is a vent to help me heal. We all choose our own Food, Shelter, and Clothing, (my Widow Words during Month One). Just by taking control of the most basic things in your life, your foundation will have time to strengthen. One day at a time, we’ll make it through.

Focus has been lost the last few days. Derailed by our 33rd wedding anniversary, I’m just now dusting off and finding direction again. First anniversaries of other kinds have been manageable. This one was brutal. Clinging to memories, I became trapped in the past for a little while. With snow piling up outside, I must regain focus on my direction while choosing happiness and peace. The snow will melt just as my grief will subside.

Calendar in hand, it boggles my mind that January’s end arrives Sunday. How this happened, in the blink of an eye, is astounding. Of all my years, one might think, in 2021, time oozes along like cold molasses. Widowed. Alone. Snowed in. Certainly not the case here. My focus turned away from administrative duties for a second and again, it’s time to pay the bills.

VST managed our financials. For years, I carried no purse or credit cards. Always being together, he paid for everything. When working on remodeling, a purse was an annoying hindrance, and so, I didn’t carry one. It worked for us, with his wallet at the ready. On the computer, hawk-eyed, he tended our bills. Alarms on his phone beeped at credit card purchases, while he checked to make sure they were ours. Turbo Tax and he were one, with 2020 taxes completed four weeks before he died. Automatic deposits would cause his phone to chirp on the 1st of each month. He was our financial wizard. Thank goodness, because that was no superpower of mine, or so I thought.

Widow-fogged, in the middle of packing and unpacking, I learned on-line banking in a flash. Practicing together, three weeks before he died, I learned the needed passwords. Beyond that, there were accounts to be managed, eliminating some and creating others due to the move and death.

Credit cards glared at me, right after VST passed. With his name on every account, I started the slow process of letting companies know he was gone. If you’ve done this, you know it’s death by one needle at a time to the heart. Often, while on hold, I had the wrapping paper at hand, packing box after box. With laser-like focus, I dismantled our physical life in the 17 short days after he was gone.

As the weeks passed, the banking became routine. To date, no bills have been missed, or even late, because of my errors. Ira’s were moved and relabeled. New accounts were formed. Investments were created, and now, I’m the Financial Wizard of Winterpast. It’s just taken ten months to arrive at that title.

Directions are funny. Focused on writing, my path is paved with words that rumble in my gut, tumble out of my brain, through my fingers, onto the screen. Some days, I wonder from where they all come, making me laugh and cry with no one else around. The click-ety clack of the keyboard soothes sleepy Ollie at my feet. Like an alarm, he knows when the sound stops, his day begins. Until then, his puppy dreams occupy him. Focus returns to all things business and books today, with limited time to practice lazy . Right now, there’s a business I need to build, and a book that needs a cover designed. More webinars to watch, guiding my focus in the direction of growth, while choosing the happiest route to get there.

Have fun today finding new direction and focus. Prepare for February. Next week!!! Until tomorrow, I love you.

Provo, Utah thank you for reading! I appreciate you. My Cambrian Goddesses, I love you so much. Stay safe. To the Lovely’s, thank you for Winterpast! Have a great day!

It seems the entire world is on an interrupted journey. Things we took for granted have evaporated. As the television shows play at night, I’m fascinated with the lack of masks. The images don’t represent the real world anymore. Masked individuals hide their smiles and interactions as they hurry in to shops and scurry out to their cars, gelling to sanitize any chance of Covid right out of their lives. Faces are a lovely canvas for expression of soul and self, now hidden like spring’s subnivean crocuses .

It snowed again last night. Another type of masking. Yesterday’s tracks, from an occasion rabbit or bird, are hidden now. Everything’s fresh, while waiting for the day’s story to be etched upon it. As days go by, like you, I’m growing weary of being the main character in a story sans dialogue or direct communication with the outside world. Outside my window, the snow covered landscape is a Currier and Ives vision of a home in the wilderness. As still and flat as the pictures on an ornamental plate, is my life today. Yesterday, there were only two sets of car tracks in the snow. In the entire waking day, only two souls ventured out, or perhaps it was only one that left and returned home. My world is a very quiet one. Even the mustangs have found refuge elsewhere.

Journeys need to be on hold for now. As the decision makers fight over the next requirements placed on their very weary citizens, I think of my cruise in December and how I dream it will be. Everyone enjoying themselves on the trip of a lifetime. Days at sea in which to wrap up in a warm blanket on the balcony and escape into a great book. Ringing up room service and ordering whatever strikes my fancy at the time. A pretty dress for dinner with new friends eager to enjoy a pleasant meal. A show. Dancing. A walk to the bridge after dark to see the black skies twinkling, adorned with billions of stars. I make that journey multiple times a day, as I watch my coffee creamer supply diminish during this storm. Of course, the cruise described doesn’t exist, anymore than a recipe to replace Sugar-Free French Vanilla Coffee Creamer.

VST never wanted to cruise. We could’ve visited so many places, but, it wasn’t his thing. His disease caused paranoia, deep rooted and insidious. He loved the water, especially the ocean. But to let another be the captain was something he would never do. He was the captain of his own ship, charting his own unfamiliar waters until his very last day. When we first started boating in the early 1990’s, charts were on paper and needed studying. Folded maps held all the secrets beneath the surface of places you wanted to sail. Along with everything else his brain absorbed, late in the night, I would find him studying. Charts of Monterey Bay and the Santa Cruz Yacht harbor, spread out and examined carefully, while planning upcoming trips. He was prepared for any and every disaster. A lot to carry in one brain.

VST hated the thought of being trapped in a snow storm. For the last three winters, he was planning journeys at the first mention of inclement weather. Before snowflakes settled on VC, we were gone. The sunshine of Laughlin or Las Vegas provided relief from snow shoveling. Of all the horrible storms VC suffered over six years, we were never snowed in once, thanks to VST. Snowed out, yes. Snowed in, no.

Our journey was so viciously interrupted by cancer. Like a vulture, grief now pecks at the carcass of ruined dreams. My journey has been interrupted in ways I couldn’t have predicted a year ago. His journey was to a place so vast and far, there are no bridges connecting our worlds. Death cramped our style, eh, VST?

Today, I am going to do my best to take at least three mini journeys, in which there will be no interruptions. I plan to journey into the world of the Avengers and watch another fantastical movie, taking my mind off the snow and my house bound situation. A far more productive journey will take me into at least one closet, beginning the task of spring cleaning and the collection of discards for the spring yard sale. The last journey will be into the land half and half, vanilla, and Splenda, to create a new recipe for coffee creamer. Three journeys with three different results. I’ll enjoy this day, while the snow melts, and we are another day closer to leaving our homes and returning to our lives.

Thanks for listening. This widow needs her friends. Choose happiness. Grab a journey in whatever way you can. Through hawaiian music, or a travel show. Get out there and take a little trip. The price is just right.

Oh, the times in which we live! Splendid! Miraculous, some might say. Computers and phones make everything possible in this day and age. Even avoiding starvation while being trapped by a blizzard.

Snowmegeddon, which will long be referred to as the “Snow of 2021”, has arrived and I have now really screwed things up. VST was our premiere snow removal service. For all of his disabilities, he was up at the crack of dawn shoveling a dangerously steep driveway, a huge deck suspended 15 feet above the ground, and the back drive which involved walking the snowblower down the street, around the corner and up the back drive to our house. In retrospect, he loved the challenge claiming it was great exercise. I always appreciated his diligence and extreme dedication to this important task, all completed at 6200 ft..

I’d often ask him if he could just relax and let the snow fall where it may. Skip a day. For that, my faulty thinking would be mansplaned (new word — look up the meaning). Didn’t I know what would happen???? , he would ask in an amazed way. Not good amazement either. No. I didn’t really know, but it’d be nice to enjoy a cup of coffee with my husband.

The truth of the matter is, I didn’t know. Once you leave snow, it turns to a base of ice. A base of ice takes spring sunshine to melt. Living with VST, there was no empirical evidence to support this, because he removed the snow before the frozen base ever formed. I think you know where this is going.

When the snow started here, I relaxed with coffee in my cup and a movie on my screen. How delightful to just let the snow fall where it may. We’d just see about a formation of an ice-based, snow-covered skating rink. Besides, the snow shovels are stored outside in the shed. My little town receives very little annual snowfall, that being one of the reasons it was chosen. Unlike the feet of snow in VC, my little town gets inches. And not in one storm. Life was good that day. Calm. Un-shoveled, Pristine.

A day went by, and the next morning, things had changed. About 3″ of snow had fallen. Light and fluffy, crunchy under the footstep to the mailbox. Beautiful and smooth. It was a beauty I couldn’t disturb. Besides, the shovels were in the little shed out back. The sun would come out, melting it quickly. I happily retrieved the mail and never went outside again.

Yesterday, an additional 6 feet fell. I’m estimating here. It might be 12 feet. Okay, 6 inches. But, it might as well have been 12 feet, because now, I have an expansive area of ice covered snow, with more snow expected to fall throughout the day until tomorrow. Here I sit, clearly hearing one lone angel laughing his butt off. I can hear his booming voice saying, “I tried to tell her.” VST, you got me on this one.

With coffee creamer dwindling, my serious lack of driving skills in the snow, and ice covered roads, it seemed I’d be enjoying black coffee until that ran out. At that very moment, K called with a marvelous suggestion. Order groceries online. Who would have thought this was even possible?

After spending a short time walking up and down the cyber aisles of the local Raley’s, I finished my shopping with a deliver time of 4pm. Paying online, everything was done, including a generous tip to my delivery angel, yet unknown. I waited, taking time to freshen up my frig. More snow fell, now being too deep for retrieving the snow shovel from the little shed in the back. No safety line had been installed from house to shed. I could be lost in the drifts until the spring thaw. Again, heavenly laughter.

At 4:00 PM, in the middle of what I would consider a blizzard, but in reality heavy snowfall, the cutest woman drove up next to my open garage. She had eight bags of groceries holding the items I had selected earlier in the day. With a smile and wave, she was gone. The groceries were bagged nicely, with everything I’d selected now on my counter. This was truly a January miracle, I promise, I will experience again. No longer creamer-deficient, I have snacks and salads to last until next week when the sheet of ice melts.

Today, I’ll investigate the snow situation and make a path to the mail box. I might take the Jeep out to practice my 4-Wheel-Drive skills. Or, I may just put on another pot of coffee and binge watch Netflix for the day. Those shovels need retrieving, so please come back tomorrow to make sure I survived. This, too, will pass. My town doesn’t get heavy snows, don’tcha know???????

Flying in the 1900’s, when it was a special treat to do so, VST and I traveled to some pretty wonderful places. Early in our marriage, while working for a John Deere dealership in the Central Valley of California, VST’s reputation and super powers led us to beautiful places like Nashville, Tennesee, Puerta Vajarta, Mexico, or the Big Island of Hawaii. Rewarded for his outstanding job performance, the trips we took were well planned and a treat for us both. Although never First Class air, we were treated like royalty once we arrived.

Bucket list-ed, I still want to fly somewhere as a First Class passenger. VST and I flew First Class through life together. I’d often notice how few couples spent flight hours talking to each other. Their noses deep into a book, phone, or lap top, if you hadn’t seen them board together, you’d have thought they were total strangers. What a waste of valuable, uninterrupted time for relaxation and enjoyment of each other’s company. VST and I never wasted a minute.

From the moment I met him at the reunion, that September so long ago, our love affair was a First Class Flight. What made it so was our desire to choose seats together. It didn’t matter the menu or destination, traveling together everything was the best it could be. Raising kids, farming, sailing, or just watching a sunset, it was First Class. As the years passed, it was natural for us to carry our baggage together. He knew what I’d packed, I knew what he’d packed, and together, the baggage wasn’t too heavy. We flew through life First Class. It had nothing to do with the amount of money we were earning, or the house in which we lived. We were rich because we had each other. How I miss that now.

When considering destinations for future flights, I realize it’ll be quite different. No one with which to critique the food or service. No shoulder on which to rest my head. No hand grabbing mine at take off or landing. Just me, in very dark glasses. First Class or Coach, the seat next to mine will not belong to VST.

I’m so grateful life is still First Class for me. I have beautiful kids (not kids, but adults) I love dearly. I have my health and interests, such as writing. I’m lucky to have friends, both new and old. Baggage full of beautiful memories, mine to keep. But, no matter all the extras that come with First Class, my travel partner is gone. Just me in very, very dark glasses, looking ahead to the future, while enduring a bit of turbulence. First Class or Coach, VST no longer occupies Seat A next to my B.

On snowy evenings, headphones and a good movie mute VST’s absence. Some nights, grief steals the seat next to me, with incessant reminders of loss. Solitude and loneliness serve grief like eager new stewardesses. Then, a strong and quiet happiness comes over me to reclaim that seat. Some days, my worn and tattered baggage is a little tougher to negotiate. With reflection and repacking, my load is lighter each day.

As the days have melted into months, the journey is becoming easier while choosing my next destination. It’s my job to maintain balance and keep Flying First Class. A blessed woman I’ve been in this life. Memories will keep me on the happy side of the skies, even if I never take that First Class Flight.

Happy 2020 Tax Year. Each day, the mail delivers more great news. One year ago, VST drove to Costco to buy Turbo Tax 2019. Each year, he would labor over the taxes, starting with the arrival of the first W-2. Nothing escaped his memory as he worked on the computer. There were be frequent outbursts, but they were always muffled by the office door. He would emerge calm, when it became too much and he needed a break.

Predictably, the preliminary tax amount due was always something that brought us to our knees. It couldn’t be! It wouldn’t be! As VST remembered to enter this and that, indeed, it wasn’t ever as bad as the initial predication. Sparing me the dry run hysterics, he would save the very last examination of the forms for me.

“Darlin’, can you come and look at the taxes with me?” he would ask sweetly. In his office, he already placed a chair next to his, along with forms and supporting documents for joint approval. After a thorough review, together, we would hit the submit button. Team work at its finest.

This year, things are different. I have at least 10 W-2’s, some before death, some after death. IRA documents from the old accounts, and those from the new accounts. The stack is growing day by day. There isn’t a second chair next his his, only Oliver’s dog bed under the desk.

I didn’t run to Costco to buy the latest version of Turbo Tax, but ordered it on Amazon. Shrouded in shrink rap, it sits like kryptonite on his desk, waiting for me. Just me. K and T are coming to visit next weekend, and they’ll give me the strength to begin. Not only is it important that I get this right, it will be an emotional task. This is the first time I need to do taxes alone.

Knowing this year is complicated, I visited a CPA earlier in the year. His answers to my questions weren’t what I wanted to hear. Taxes will be brutal this year, due to some issues that were resolved resulting in additional income. The time to face the tax man is here, and I’m not looking forward it. At least, it will only need to be dealt with once for 2020. I’ll put on my Big Girl Panties, sharpen my pencils, and get to work.

When I open the file cabinet to retrieve documents, the 2019 tax folder glares back. The tab shows VST’s bold-sharpied-notation. 2019 Taxes. Cancer isn’t reflected in the handwriting, but matches 2018Taxes, 2017Taxes, and 2016Taxes. Handwriting doesn’t disclose that within a few short weeks after he wrote out the date, he’d be gone. The folder reminds me how much he loved me and wanted me safe. I remember when he went to Costco, he held his cane tightly. His back had been giving him pain, along with his knees, hand, and neck. There was an urgency that day, when he said, “I need to get these finished. We have all the documents, so, we might as well do them now.” That day, I didn’t understand how few minutes we had left together. I wish we hadn’t wasted them on taxes.

An appointment is made with the CPA for mid-March. Walking in, self-assured, with my completed taxes in hand. I’ll be confident that I did everything correctly, while refusing to make this more difficult than it is. I’ll make VST proud on that visit, but, more importantly, I’ll check off another super-power I plan to master in the next few weeks. Turbo-Tax-Charged, I’m coming for you Tax Man. Don’t worry, VST, I’ve got this. Yes, I do.

Reflecting on my relationship with VST, I’ve been thinking about what it was that made US work so well. Thirty-three years is a very long time to live with someone, while still wishing it would continue forever. Day after day, that’s how we found our lives, until his forever ended. As normal people do, we had our differences and spats, but the underlying desire to be together couldn’t be denied. While in the same space, carrying out totally different tasks, we were at peace. It wasn’t just by chance. We were a match.

A few days ago, it was suggested that I complete an online quiz to identify my Love Languages. I’d heard of Love Languages before, but didn’t exactly know what they were or why they were important. So, I took the quiz. In which the five Love Languages were listed as follows.

1. Quality Time
2. Physical Touch
3. Acts of Service
4. Words of Affirmation
5. Receiving of Gifts.

Before ever beginning the quiz, I knew where I stood. I could answer for VST, as well. Spending time with those we love was our main love Langauge. Gifts or pretty words didn’t sway us one way or another. Time spent with either of us was a true sign of caring. VST and I spent a lot of time with friends and family. Those hours with loved ones gave us many happy memories that we often shared together.

The least important to us was gift giving, and so, we had few traditions in our married life that included wrapped gifts. Christmas Eve was our special day to shop together. Each of us could pick out whatever we wanted knowing it would be the perfect gift, and not require the frustration of return lines. The stores were always quiet on Christmas Eve morning, making it enjoyable and romantic to select gifts for each other and head home to holiday fun.

Birthdays and Anniversary’s were celebrated with a card and meal. Again, the time we spent together was the most beautiful thing we could share. I would rather have been with VST more than anyone else in the world. Going to the dump? I was the first in the truck. To Lowe’s on a lumber buying expedition? Let me get my shoes. The task at hand didn’t matter because we were a twosome. How many times we were house-flippin-grungy, holding hands, and talking on the way into Lowe’s. People would often smile at us, two cute little old senior citizens that were still sweet on each other. True.

Acts of Service came to mind when I thought about all the things VST did for me, just because. He knew I was 100% capable of dealing with whatever needed to be accomplished in our lives. Yet, he would never send me out to handle tough tasks alone. We’d work together. His acts of love and devotion when caring for his parents made their last years on Earth heavenly, as we shared our time and love with them on a daily basis. This was the man I was lucky enough to love.

I patiently took the quiz, with the results right in line with what I already knew. The correlation between the results and the success of our relationship was clear. We spoke the same language during our marriage. 100%.

1. Quality Time –40%
2. Physical Touch –25%
3. Acts of Service — 25%
4. Words of Affirmation — 7%
5. Receiving Gifts — 3%

I had to laugh, as I thought back to the reunion and our first dance together. It was evident in that first 3 minute interaction that we had two of the Languages covered. His comment about the brilliant blue-ness of my eyes never phased me, as I told him he was full of bovine scat. The real character of this man would be reflected in his actions. It was all right there in that first dance and never changed much throughout the years.

For fun, take the quiz, of which are many to choose from online. See if your Love Languages are what you thought they were. I didn’t need the quiz to know VST and I were speaking the same language. I miss the quality time spent with him more than anything else. Thank goodness we made the most of it, going through life.

Last week, I was really hungry for lasagna. You know the kind. Sauce just the right thickness, flavorful and comforting. Rich and satisfying. The kind my mother would have made if she were Italian. That kind of lasagna. So, while in the frozen food aisle, I picked up a serving for one. The box looked Italian enough. The picture on the front was alluring with the look of deliciousness. I eagerly raced home and popped it in the oven. I wanted the lusciously thick layer of four cheeses to crust a little on the top, while being bubbly and satifying throughout.

Thirty long and torturous minutes passed, as the little plastic tray sat in the oven. A few pieces of cheese covered the top of the noodles. No lovely smells came from the oven. No browning occurred. A very sad example of lasagna emerged at the ding of the timer. No magical transformation happened. There it was. Plastic lasagna in a 2” x 3” plastic tray. One bubble burped, and then, it was dead.

Needless to say, the box lied. It was the most horrible lasagna I’ve ever tried. Rather like cardboard coated with tomato sauce, it was void of a few special ingredients. Patience and care. I’d forgotten to add those when I took it out of the box and shoved it in the oven. It was heated just right, but, that was all I could say. After a few bites, I lost my appetite.

Today, I’m making lasagna from scratch. Or at least from the scratch I can make it from at this time of year. In the past, I’ve made Bolognese sauce with real tomatoes picked only minutes before they started cooking. Heavenly. For this recipe, I’ll use canned tomatoes, but FRESH basil. With my favorite gangster movie playing, I’ll enjoy a morning of nursing the sauce to rich perfection. The recipe suggests mixing sour cream with the ricotta cheese for a creamier blend. I’ve purchased fresh Parmesan cheese, and will grate the mozzarella myself.

Served with this yumminess, Parmesan Garlic Twisted rolls from the shelves of WalMart will be served as the side. It should satisfy my longing for a home-cooked meal. According to the amounts of each ingredient, it should make enough for the entire Corleone gang, so I’ll plan to freeze it in individual servings. The next time I want real lasagna, I can walk to my freezer and take some out. If a gang comes to hit the mattresses, I’ll be ready.

Being single, I often forget to put care and patience into my meals. Usually, I’ve waited too long, and need something quick. By then, it comes down to whatever I can grab. I deserve better than that. This is definitely not the Keto recipe that VST and I enjoyed and lost so much weight eating. That recipe is still in my brain. I can whip it up when dieting is my focus. Right now, I am going to focus on amazing, ooey-gooey, mouth watering, rich and satisfying homemade lasagna, made with semi-fresh ingredients in the middle of a snowy winter’s day in the high desert.

Now, where is my copy of O sole mio??? Looking up the English translation, it speaks to my hope for today. Please enjoy the translation and have a sunny day yourself!!!!

English translation of O Sole Mio.

What a wonderful thing, a sunny day

The serene air, after a thunderstorm

The fresh air, and a party is already going on….

What a wonderful thing, a sunny day..

*** For those of you that love to cook, I‘m using an online recipe.

The Stay at Home Chef — The Most Amazing Lasagna Recipe.

For my Keto friends —

You won’t be disappointed —

“Just Like the Real Thing” Keto Lasagna — peaceloveandlowcarb.com

Enjoy!

I sleep well. Every night. No matter what. Another wonderful gift God has given me, sleep patterns haven’t been destroyed by widowhood. It’s a fortunate thing, because most mornings, I awake rested and refreshed. In the midst of widowhood, or any personal crisis, I can think of nothing more restorative and necessary than sleep. It makes an optimistic and happy outlook on life more possible.

Oliver and I have our morning routine down. He wakes me with adorable little puppy requests. Not a bark, nor a whine. Something in between. He talks and what he says sounds something similar to, “Please, Mom-Oh, wake up”. Waiting patiently, while I use the restroom first, it’s quickly his turn. Yes. Oliver uses my bathroom, too. He learned to use pee pads as a puppy when we RV’d. Truly, he’s the only dog I’ve ever known to have mastered this. Pee Pads and a bathroom? We can travel anywhere without the need for grass or snowy, early morning walks.

Coffee still brewing in the pot and sleepy cobwebs clouding my brain, the first flush of the day was followed by a low growl. Sounding like a dying animal, it came from the front yard. Hmmmm. I could’ve be hearing things. Houses creak and groan. It was Oliver’s turn, the noise had stopped, and it was time for his disposal flush. (No. He doesn’t crawl up on the seat, but his deposits ARE flushed away. No Muss, No Fuss.)

This time, another distinctive groan-ny growl complained loudly from the front yard. OH NOOOOO! My sewage ejection pump wasn’t well. Now. I’m no expert on these things. I wish I didn’t own a sewage ejection pump. It might be a macerator. Really wish I didn’t own any noisy, front yard, sewage related pump-thingy. Whatever the correct name for the little machine, it was out there announcing flushes to the neighborhood at 5 am. Loudly. Crap. Crap. Crap.

Hawaiian cruise sailing away, the price of the repairs would come first. VST would have known. Just known. He’d have been on the problem, and by noon, it would have been fixed. There was no mechanical item he hadn’t fixed, and this would be no different. Small problem. Sadly, there are no service calls from heaven.

Just then, the clouds in my brain parting, I remembered something all important. My Home Warranty!!!!! I’m sure I heard my mechanically minded angel singing as this thought came to me! With the stroke of a few keys, I’m scheduled with a plumber today. Well, my name has been sent to a plumber. We’ll see if I actually get a visit.

As a widow, put aside a few dollars each month for the less pleasant surprises in life. You never know when a groan in the dark is going to have a price-tag of thousands. In the case of a sewage ejection pump, there’s no choice about the timing of repairs. Sewage needs ejecting above anything else I could think of at the moment.

Home warranty policies are a great thing as well. After purchasing the policy, for a small service fee, anything covered in your policy will be up and running soon. It’s one more thing to help you dream your best dreams, as you sleep the night away. Beware of front yard growls. Could be a wild animal. More likely a faulty pump.

Just a year ago, VST and I were trying to find comfort for his unusually swollen ankles and feet. In the blink of an eye, it seemed my normally healthy, although disabled, husband had become ill. On our first doctor’s visit, the focus was on possible heart issues that could cause swelling. The first line of defense was a heavy dose of diuretics, which did nothing to correct the issue. Many tests later, the doc found VST’s heart to be in perfect health. From there, we started our downward spiral into the world of Cancer.

VST found strength through spiritual comfort. Covid hadn’t become center stage yet. Congregations still met, but because of our remote location and his illness, VST chose to watch a tele-preacher that aired daily. I would find him deep in prayer one minute, and sleeping quietly the next. His naps were a daily ritual, but then, it was winter, with not much else to do. Napping was the one activity in which his ankles and feet would be elevated. This minor set back allowed VST to enjoy the rest and relaxation that retirement brought. Each morning, he would present his ankles and feet to show me they were less swollen. And in the mornings, they were.

We’d both put on weight during the Christmas season, and made a pact to return to healthy eating. We’d resume our low carb diet, knowing it worked wonderfully for us. I lost weight, but, being competitive, VST lost more. VST lost seven pounds in less than a week. Then, he started to worry. Unknown to us, VST was losing muscle tissue with the fat, while retaining fluid. For a time, outward appearances hid the truth that VST was wasting away.

Comfort from fear about the weight loss was found in foods with the highest amount of calories possible. Double Western Bacon Cheese Burgers with an extra side of fries. Kentucky Fried Chicken with all the sides. Three meals a day, with snacks in between. Slowly, he started to gain a little weight back. Little did we know it was the weight of fluids he now carried.

Confusion bothered him as he became a little quieter and his naps a little more frequent. VST wasn’t as sharp as usual. He measured wood for his projects two or three times, and still made errors. Frustrations growing, VST repeatedly searched for spiritual comfort. Haunting signs, all, that we ignored then, and I remember now. We were entering a very dark and scary tunnel, not noticing the light growing more dim as we inched our way further and further along.

One day, I startled VST in his office as he labored over a quiet project. When asked what he was doing, he told me he was writing down a prayer. Correcting his work, he became more frustrated by the moment. Heartbreaking to watch, VST struggled with the transcription from computer screen to hand writing on paper. His doctoral dissertation had not given him this much grief. He asked me to leave, saying I was a distraction to his work. In reality, he wanted no witness to his grief and despair. Respecting his request for privacy, I left him alone to work with God.

It was a few days after his passing that I found the paper he’d been transcribing. It was a prayer that the tele-preacher repeated often on his daily program. VST had labored to write it down as best he could, and the effort it took to do that was obvious on the page. Clutching it to my chest, I wept, while reciting the prayer myself.

During my move, I showed the paper to K, telling her the story and how much comfort it brought me. A reflection of his ultimate struggle with cancer, it showed me things VST couldn’t say. It gave me comfort to know these words were in his heart when he left.

Unbeknownst to me, sweet K had a mission in mind. On simple white cloth, similar to a man’s handkerchief, she had embroidered the prayer, taken from a photocopy of VST’s precious prayer. A most beautiful thread color was chosen, a grey that matched the skies on the morning he went away. She framed this piece in a rustic gray frame, which looked like it came off a wall from a shop in VC. She purposefully left the glass off, so I could stroke the stitches and the words. Only an extraordinary teacher would know the importance of tactile reading. K is that excellent teacher. I stroke the picture often, feeling the strength and comfort from the prayer.

Comfort. We all need it. Some days, it is a plate of lasagna that took hours to prepare. Some days, it is just the right music played during sunrise. And sometimes, it’s holding a moment in your hands, and stroking the words as you read them. Today, find comfort and peace all your own.

The Whole is Greater than the Sum of its Parts. Aristotle.

Ari was definitely referring to widowhood when he made that statement. I’m sure about that. Without everyone’s support, there would be a lot of widows laying in puddles of our tears, surrounded by spent Kleenexes. At Christmas, I had a list of every single person or agency that had helped me through, and they all received a card and hand written Thank You. This year, I’m keeping an active list of people that continue to come to my rescue and make up T.E.A.M. Hurt.

As I was reading a bit about the “Whole being greater than the Sum of its Parts” this morning, I ran across the acronym T.E.A.M. In light of preparations for an exciting weekend, I thought it an appropriate topic. Together, Everyone Achieves More = T.E.A.M.

On my TEAM, I am blessed to have the most wonderful group of family and friends. Through the months, I’ve written about most of the key players. Some prefer to stay in the shadows, and I definitely want to respect that. Helping me form plans in my new life, they cheer me on when things go well while comforting me when they don’t.

Two of my supporting pillars are K and T, the kids (that are not kids, but adults). Capable, brilliant adults, I’m blessed to get visited by a twin-fueled jet pack of activity when they roll into town. They come with pre-set ideas of projects they can accomplish. The biggest thing they bring can’t be planned. When here, a connection of energy completes a circuit. It was the three of us that were VST’s caregivers during his fight with cancer. The three of us were part of his last earthly goodbye. When we’re together, through the electricity of love, we connect in a different way. The three of us almost make up one VST.

K reflects the soft, intellectual side of VST. Her daughter’s heart and spirit were born from his heart and spirit. She is analytical and optimistic. There isn’t any task that she can’t conquer, even the hardest of things, like becoming father-less. Her grace and kindness rest inside a fierce woman that is one to be reckoned with. So, when she is here, I get a bit of VST and his creativity, all wrapped up in the best hugger ever. A daughter is a beautiful part of life.

T. Well. He IS his dad’s son. Handsome, funny, quick witted, and beyond gifted in knowing about every system in a house, car, or anything that needs fixing. This was beamed into his brain from his dad. T is masterful at making his dad famous eyebrow looks. T reflects the manly, analytical side of VST. He has a man’s outlook on life, which is so refreshing. VST was a manly-man and T followed in his footsteps. T also has VST’s quiet wisdom and inner sensitivity which he guards. He is a tender-heart just like his dad was. A big old soft-ie. But, he will never admit that to anyone, although it’s obvious to those of us that love him best. VST, all over again.

These two kiddos, (who are not kids, but adults) being twins, have their own communication shorthand. I never know what they are up to, but, I know they have things cooking between them at all times. The last time they visited, they were going to sneak out of the house at 9 PM to go get homemade ice cream at our little shop. This time, I am sleeping with my door cracked. Don’t want to get left behind on their brilliant escapades.

T and K know their dad in a way that I didn’t. He was their father. I knew VST in a way that they didn’t. He was my husband. Together, we complete the circuit with amazing memories and stories. We loved VST best, although they had an 11 year advantage over me.

Together, Everyone Achieves More. I have a list for the two of them. This weekend, in their visit, I’m getting visited by an electrician, spa professionals, a computer programmer, a tax prepare-er, a handyman, a home decorator and design consultant, two therapists, comedians, and dog whisperers. Add in, two of the best people to spend time with, and the weekend will be amazing. Through laughter and tears, we’ll be honoring the tenth month that we’ve been without Dad and VST. Respect will be shown on Monday, February 8th, as we release 10 bright balloons to the desert sky. My eleventh word will be revealed and another month without VST will begin.

Stay tuned for the activities that are about to unfold. This weekend, I’m receiving a delivery for which I have been anxiously waiting. Splish splash, I was taking a soak………

A most unusual event I need to share. Yesterday, in the quiet of the morning, at the time just between dark and light, an radiant event transpired in my back yard. I’ll tell you about it now.

For the last few days, I’ve been a little under the weather wishing things could’ve turned out differently. As a widow, we all have those days in which we aren’t 100%. I’m no different. I’d watched a Netflix Show called Surviving Death, about signs that our loved-ones are near. I didn’t start with Episode 1, as I normally would’ve, but decided Episode 4 might be interesting. With no for reason for choosing that episode, I started watching.

My attention was immediately captured as the first story shared was about butterflies and the importance they had in one person’s grieving experience. I had a very similar experience with butterflies when VST’s mom passed away. While caring for her in her final days, I’d asked her how I’d know if she was near. Responding immediately, she whispered, “Butterflies”. That was her answer. Just “Butterflies”. After she died, every day, for almost two years, butterflies flew in and out of my life. In many forms. In many ways. From Monarch butterflies flying mid day at a busy intersection in the 113 degree heat of the Central Valley, to a story on the radio about a butterfly smuggling ring in Russia. Every day, there was a unique way in which butterflies were interjected into my life. I came to accept and love the signs that she was watching over me as I healed through my grief.

With VST, there’ve been no butterflies fluttering by. No strange cloud formations. No dreams or messages. Nothing. Just nothing. While watching the show I wished that, just once, I’d experience a sign that he was happy and at peace. But nothing came.

Blogging, I prefer to sit in my studio at my desktop computer. I have a nice office chair that supports my back. Oliver has his bed right near my feet. Comfy and cozy, I’m surrounded by things reflecting my life. It is unusual for me to blog in the living room, as I find too many distractions.

But on this day, I sat quietly on the couch blogging on my iPad. Usually the curtains would be closed because it’s dark when I blog. On this day, I’d opened them when I got up. Through the sliding glass door, I view the back yard. As I was blogging, something outside caught my attention, and looking up, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

In the back yard of Winterpast (the name for my home), there stands a Russian Olive Tree. In the high desert where I live, this is considered by some to be a junk tree. My magnificent tree grew up from a volunteer, majestic and beautiful. The back fence neighbor hates the tree and wants me to cut it down. Not going to happen. I love my junk tree and have since the day I met her. She’s a windblown transplant like me, thriving in the desert.

Yesterday, in that time of morning between dark and light, this dormant, leaf-less tree glowed. The darkened winter sky set a beautiful backdrop for the tree, which gleamed in splendor for a good ten minutes. I quickly got my phone and took pictures. It was a burning bush moment that I was lucky enough to witness and photograph.

In that moment in time, with Winterpast’s tree ablaze in light, I knew in my heart, VST was speaking to me, loud and clear. Heaven is a beautiful place. He is surrounded by all our loved ones while waiting for me. The peace and beauty surrounding the moment of splendor filled my heart with so many emotions. It was an awe-inspiring message that some would explain away by the angle of the winter sun. That’s a fine explanation, unless you feel differently, as I do from this experience.

Something made me change my blogging location, while typing on my ipad instead of my desktop. Something changed my routine to open the curtain while darkness eliminated any view. Something got my attention while I was intently focused on my writing. Something made my heart skip a beat and insist on pictures. Something different and wonderful.

As the tree glowed, the air around it seemed to glow as well. Golden-yellow-shimmery-iridescent magnificence right out my back window. The other trees were not glowing. Just my beautiful Russian Olive. I smiled. VST picked the right way to let me know things are brilliant in his world. My heart felt his happiness for my happiness. A sign I won’t soon forget, that came on a average morning, on an average day, while I sat blogging in that time of day between dark and light in the high desert.

Movies in the evening help me to wind down and fall to sleep. DVD’s do come loaded with insufferable previews, one after the other. A few weeks ago, one such preview caught my attention, and I decided order the DVD. The name of the movie is Collateral Beauty staring Will Smith, Kate Winslet, and Helen Mirren, just to name a few of the stars.

Expanding my DVD collection, I now have quite a few classics. With things changing so quickly in our society, you never know when old movies will be permanently canceled. In that frame of mind, I order 3-4 movies a week, and this week, COLLATERAL BEAUTY arrived.

I wasn’t sure if it would hold my attention or even be worth my time. After watching it, there was so much to think about, those thoughts spilled over into my dreams. Without giving away the plot, professional executive Will Smith suffers a loss he can’t deal with. His friends, being worried, devise a plan to help him. The movie’s message is that beauty surrounds even the most profound losses. In life, Love, Time, and Death are interdependent.

I forgot how much I’ve always liked the three main actors and their work. In no time at all, I was engrossed by the storyline , and watched until the last credit stopped rolling. The ending was a total surprise to me.

Time, Love, and Death were humanized, each one controlling different parts of our lives. Death gives Time and Love importance. “Love is the ONLY why,” was a special line from the movie. Time needs to be recognized and respected while being mindful of Love and Death. All three are deeply intertwined and woven through the movie in which the story was beautifully told.

When I think back to the three words as they relate to VST’s battle with cancer, we weren’t given much time to grasp what was happening to us. Nine weeks not much longer than a sudden death from a car crash, taking VST away before any of us could realize he was dying. Time was marked in days. 63 days of illness. 7 days of hospice care. 2 days of a coma. Eternity without VST every again. It seemed after he was gone, there were days that would crawl like the coldest molasses, and other days that were gone in the blink of an eye. The past ten months seem like it has taken years to complete. In other ways, I can close my eyes and be back in VC, watching the sunrise with my healthy husband.

There wasn’t enough time to finish our love story properly. We had to end it where we did. Love was never lacking between the two of us, but it was defined by time and death. Before-death and after-death love affairs are different. Our “Before”was what everyone longs for. Our “After” looks a lot like my grief. Without time, love could have never grown and bloomed. Without death, the scope of the beauty of our love wouldn’t have created my exquisite memorial mental tapestry.

Although Time, Love, and Death all deserve proper respect and attention, Collateral Beauty appears when you lose someone in your life. Collateral Beauty found in the love every hospice professional showed me as they gently cared for VST. In every sympathy card from friends and family. In the voices of strangers I needed to talk to when changing our financials. In the faces of our friends and family at his memorial. In total strangers that learn about his passing. In the past ten months, the Collateral Beauty in my life has exploded, leaving me in awe of it’s brilliance.

Take time to look for the Collateral Beauty in your life. The more you look, the more you see. The more you see, the more gratefulness will spill out of your heart. I hope you see the movie sometime. Just beware. The ending may touch you in a very special way.

There is life after dark! I don’t often see it, as I seldom go out at night. This started years ago for VST and me. Dark brings out all kinds of things in the high desert. Wild mustangs standing in the road, licking the salt like statues. Deadly ice waiting to spin a speeding car right out of control. Drunken revelers celebrating life’s milestones or nothing at all. The blackest of black covering everything, and making it difficult for those with poor night vision. VST and I liked to tuck in with our nightly routines as the sun slipped behind Mount Davidson, putting a bow on one nice day after another.

Now, night surrounds me with all the same things in my new town. A far off pack of coyotes sing their love songs to each other across the canyon. Wild mustangs visit our neighborhood like shadowy ghosts in search of food. The silence of the desert is so intense, the wind’s approach can be heard like a farway train, coming closer and closer, until it attempts to enter the house through my chimney, rattling my Russian Olive tree, as she sleeps in her dormancy. The train runs through town on schedule, roaring down the tracks running easttowesttoeasttowest.

Last night was different. With T and K here to liven things up, we ventured into the nightlife of my little town at 6:15 PM. Main street was bustling with commuters racing in both directions. The Won Ton had patrons waiting outside, offering the best Chinese fare in the area. We drove by while on our mission, headed for our hardware store.

Not having been there for months, my senses were assaulted from every direction. Paint, lubricants, pipes, fittings, tools, gadgets, the classic blue and white colors of the store. Faintly, the smells of fresh cut lumber, the favorite scent that bathed VST as he created beauty with a hammer and nails. I can’t walk to that end of the store just yet. For every project, VST and I would choose the lumber together. Every board. Those days included early mornings, Donuts-To-Go, orange tie downs, and red warning flags on the ends of the longest boards. Always, the unwanted patches of pitch on our jeans. They included VST refusing to ask for help to load lumber, because, he could do it just fine. Even when his body reminded him it wasn’t just fine.

Last night, our focus was on wiring for the new spa, which will be delivered today between 2PM and 4PM. As VST’s son, T knew exactly the configuration needed to bring bubbling jets to life. 40 feet of this, 10 feet of that, a box, some fittings, and we were good to go.

While dining at The Red Barn, we ran into Ninja Neighbor. Banter with a feisty waitress made dinner more fun with attitude and sass. At a time when I would normally be deep into my nightly movie, we shared laughter and good conversation. Being out in life was much more fun.

As I write, T and K are up and ready for the morning. Oliver hears them and is pleading to go see his favorite people. They are off to McDonald’s for early morning breakfast, as another day begins. I better be ready. Stay tuned.

Just looking at the number is chilling. In two months, I will be at our little RV park in Cayucos, California to celebrate his First Heavenersary. Our favorite place to visit, VST called it our Hawaii. We’d laugh at all the flight hours we were saving by staying on the mainland. Cayucos was indeed our Hawaii in the twilight of VST’s forever. On one of the last days that he shared his thoughts with me, he told me he wanted to go to the coast again. I know, VST. Me, too.

Ten months is almost one year of seasons. In the midst of winter, I realize I have been through the end of spring, a summer, and autumn without my best friend. VST made everything an adventure or building project. Either way, we enjoyed each other so much.

In 2007, both our jobs were taking a toll on us. I was a teacher for severely ill kids in the Children’s Hospital in our area. He was in charge of Child Protective Services for our county. He also helped abused elders and women. VST was one of the most popular managers in the place. If his employees needed help, he was at the ready. During fires, he was the first to call in and find out what he could do to help. Part of his duties involved making sure Foster kids were safely out of harms way during disasters. We were both stressed to the max, to put it mildly.

For a long time, in my dreams, I envisioned our cabin. I couldn’t tell where it would be, or how big, but, I knew we’d own one during our marriage. In the winter of 2013, I finally mentioned this and the hunt was on. Almost without looking, we found the most adorable little cabin, less than 900 square feet of abused space. Every inch was in need of renovation. Because of that, it was priced at a steal just for us. We took possession the night of our 25th anniversary in 2013. There was no hot as the pipes had frozen. The hot water heater had missing parts. There was no toilet. We didn’t need a frig. There was no heat, except for a wood burning fireplace.

On that first night, wondering what we had bought, we were just happy to be there together. We couldn’t sleep there that night because of the above mentioned problems, but, after the first week, all those things were fixed, and weekends would find us knee deep in pine needles and sawdust. It took us five years to finish the last project before we sold it. In those five years, we had more fun than a couple should be allowed. VST found a video on You Tube called, The Cabin. So hilarious, we would sing it on Friday nights on our way there. It was our little home 25 miles from home.

In the last 306 days, I miss so many things. Good Morning’s. Virginia City sunrises off the deck. Hot coffee. Channel 2 news. Our video game time. His walks while I made the bed. Projects. Lunch out after getting supplies. Holding hands. Arguing and seeing who could win. Making up. Talking to the kids when they called. Vacationing in the RV. A million little things. The sound of water running while he brushed his teeth. Early morning departures to places unknown. Running from storms to warm places. Yes. A million little things.

What has surprised me is that I have found many things in which to find comfort over the past months. Some routines have continued. I talk to VST a lot. I am learning to listen for signs and answers. He taught me so much about life while we shared it together. We promised to be together forever. We were. It was just that it ended up being his forever, not mine.

I heard something the other day that made sense. If a day in heaven passes in the blink of an eye, then VST will turn around and I’ll be there. It will seem like no time at all for him. For me, it seems like 306 days, plus a lifetime.

Ten balloons will grace the high desert sky today. T and K will be with me as we watch them soar. I know VST is up there watching. I know he wishes he was still here with us. Relax and enjoy heaven, VST. We will all be together again soon enough. For now, please watch over us. Send us a sign once in awhile. Give us something to laugh about. I love you so much, and miss you with all my heart. Your Darlin’, Joy

Optimism is something VST and I internalized as we navigated through the maze that was our life. Focusing on the good, we held on when startled by the flash-floods of life. VST and I looked for life’s lessons every time our normal was turned upside down. Invariably, we could find positives in every situation. Even the worst. In that way, we were perfectly matched.

VST’s parents were two of the most optimistic people I ever met. Moving to California during the dust bowl, they found jobs harvesting fruit while living in labor camps. From Oklahoma and Missouri, they found their riches in family they kept close. Descending from wealthy English families that received land grants from the king before the USA was a country, they could have become bitter at the twists and turns of poverty and discrimination. And, yes, they faced class discrimination as Okies, which is a derogatory term. They didn’t become pessimistic. They focused on optimism and God, making a wonderful life for themselves. The poverty of their youth made them strive for the riches of their elder years.

Farming was a fertile place for us to choose optimism. The vineyard taught us humility. It reinforced time management. It kicked us in the butt until we almost didn’t have one left to share between the two of us. Droughts, disease, and the tiny villainous mite, brought us too our knees. Our faith calmed us, promising next year would always be better. We learned to dance in the rain, while drying raisins lay drenched and rotting in it. We learned what we could control and what we couldn’t through farming while maintaining our optimism.

By 2014, optimism while living in California wasn’t possible for VST and I, so we packed up and moved to Virginia City, Nevada (VC). It was easy maintain a positive attitude there, because we were retired with Time, Money, and Health on our side. For six years, we enjoyed a wonderful life. I’d maintain optimism that the snow wouldn’t really be that bad. VST maintained optimism that we would be lounging in Laughlin, Nevada rig-side when the storms hit. The bottom line was that we chose to focus on the bright side of life.

During VST’s illness and his final days, I never saw his faith waiver. He maintained his path until the end, making his wishes known to us all. His faith in God helped him steer his course to the end. His total trust in the Lord was awe-inspiring. I never witnessed him asking “Why me?”. He rowed with the current instead of against, making a peaceful exit with one last sigh.

This month, I need to work on maintaining an optimistic attitude. It’s Month 11 now. I think about the days and how they’ve flown. The one year anniversary of his death is close. Winter plods on, with more storms promised later in the week. With optimism, I’m working on yard designs, and plans for road trips. Life is such a beautiful experience. Even at the worst moments, there is collateral beauty to be found and cherished. Optimism. Month 11. That’s the word.

Some days, we all just need to step back and breathe. Take stock in how lucky we are. Switch off the television and take stock in the beauty in our own lives. There is so much interference as we go about our days. Buy this. Think that. Hate this. Love that. This is accepted. This is canceled. It’s easy to get swept away in fear and anxiety, while simply losing our inner compass.

Easy for me to say, while I have been bubbling away in my brand new, squeaky clean and sparkling hot tub with 47,000 jets of varying sizes turning me into melting butter. One large cube of happiness. Okay, 47,000 is an exaggeration. A goodly number of jets. Even shoulder jets that face downward completely relaxing the shoulders.

Sunday was delivery day. T masterfully wired the new 220 circuit. After he sat for hours on cold concrete, the wiring is perfection in grey. Better than VST would have done. The proper breaker box is installed for any malfunction, none of which I foresee. Sunday night at 7 pm, with water to the fill line, the tub began heating, and was at 104 delightful degrees by morning.

One small problem occurred. When the tub arrived, delivery was swift. The two men were professional, unwrapping the spa in record time and putting it in place. All 850 lbs. of empty spa. Without a cover. Which was included in the price. Winter temps here have been below freezing, but the spa runs continuously. The cover company didn’t deliver the shipment, so there was no cover to bring.

This could’ve been a hair-on-fire moment. I could have had a Widow-Nuts moment. 0-60 kind of madness. The happiness of having my hot tub in pace and running really negated any of those reactions. In this COVID-Crazed society, there are all kinds of shortages far more serious than the lack of my cover. Besides, I can jump in and out more easily for the moment, which I have been doing throughout the day. So, while one person was raging on about the situation, I became more relaxed. There are some things that are worth hysteria. I went through one such situation on April 8th, 2020. After that, a missing spa cover is so far down the list of things fixate-able, it’s not worth it.

After T, K, and I released 10 beautiful balloons on Monday, they were on their way back home. Before they were 10 miles down the road, I was in the spa floating about. I soaked so much on Monday that my brain became soggy. I forgot that I had a 6 PM Board of Directors Meeting for the service group of which I am a member. Even worse, my sweet neighbor was driving me. She came to the door. Knocking and Knocking. Thinking the worst had happened. Where was I???? Bobbing about like a bathtub ducky in the spa. Oy Vey. Worse, I went to sleep without checking my phone. She was relieved the next morning to find out that I passed away. One of these days, the firemen are going to arrive to find out if the widow-woman has died. Hope they check the back yard. Yikes. Better keep my towel handy.

Centering oneself in the moment is the best medicine. Better than anything a doctor can prescribe. In each moment, you can only change or control what you can. Anything else just is or needs to be the way it is.

My plan for today is this. Plenty of music playing throughout the day. Turbo-Tax 2020 on hold until Friday. Keto dieting begins this morning. Chick Flick movies throughout the day, with a periodic musical included now and then. Quiet time in the spa to decide what adventures my springtime will include. And soaking. Lots of soaking. Have a wonderful day. Come back tomorrow, when, after sufficient pruning, I will return.

Visiting Walmart earlier in the week, my heart filled with hope and happiness for in the aisles in all their glory, bulbs grace the shelves. Peonys. Dahlias. Daffodils. Starts for onions and potatoes. Asparagus. Bare root berries and roses. The hope that fills my heart when looking at my new tubers is reassuring and comforting. Dormant now, their beauty waiting for spring.

There is so much to be done in the garden while it sleeps. Tillage of my soil, depleted and hardened. Amendments like gypsum, compost, fertilizer, and ash will help to make a nutrient rich bed for plants. Rose bushes need to be neatly pruned. Irises need to be separated and spread around the yard. All while I do my best to shield Oliver’s observant little eyes and nose from new things to dig up.

Oliver has been spending more time outside, running and playing. During his times, he loves being a stealth terror. My solar lights are slowly disappearing, one by one, as he plucks them out of the ground to devour the plastic sticks. His little dirt covered nose betrayed his quest to uncover my sleeping peony. He searches for the last dried apple hidden in the bark, while barking at his friends across the fence. We are both looking forward to spring, tired of being hidden away in the house.

Days in the high desert are warming slowly. The sun’s radiance makes outdoor activities pleasant, but, a real gardener cannot get lured into the belief that spring is here. There are more days of winter to come. Storms that arise out of nowhere and bring back the intense cold and snow are coming. No, it isn’t over yet.

Ten months ago, WINTERPAST (Song of Solomon 2:10-14, the name of my home) didn’t hold my roots in her clutches. I didn’t know her nightly groans and creaks. I couldn’t have appreciated the respite she would provide from the heat of summer and the cold of winter. I didn’t know how she would buffer the howling winds of widowhood, wrapped around me like a comfy robe. She has done all that and more. It will be a pleasure to adorn her with the most beautiful flowers and plants. She looks her best when dressed in life.

Seeds of hope will be in the ground soon. I hope that the next two months are kind to Oliver and me. The last part of our first year journey through the wilderness of widowhood could be the toughest. Every day, I need to cling to faith and hope, while choosing happiness and laughter.

Emerson said,

“Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys

Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs:

Who steer the plough, but cannot steer their feet

Clear of the grave.”

A limited number of springs to dress Winterpast in her finest flowers have I, mine to tend and love for a little while. Although I grieve, I am a gardener first. It is the garden that will heal my soul and help me through the saddest of sads. With that said, I look forward to planting hope just outside my door.

Journeying through widowhood, one of the things I miss the most are the familiar routines and predictability that VST and I shared throughout the years. Even though we enjoyed spontaneous travel, our basic routines were set. Coffee, followed by breakfast, followed by his walk and my chores. Everything had a time and place. When he died, my world was left in an upside down heap, waiting for me to sort things out and a begin again.

Through many months as a new widow, I’ve found that some routines remain the same. Coffee still comes first, followed by blogging. Early morning writing is the most rewarding part of my day. A time to sort through my thoughts, sharing those that have been the most helpful on my journey helps me heal. Writing gives me time and space to share precious memories of VST and me. My early morning voice shares grief while I mourn to the setting moon, as the new day begins. Purging a new day’s sadness before daylight helps me to reach for the happiness I choose.

Perhaps Covid has robbed you of your routines. Simply enjoying a day of shopping might be disrupted by new store hours. In my state, eating at a restaurant is limited to parties of four. Weddings lists have been trimmed. Funerals occur on Zoom. We are left longing for hugs from those we love most. The predictable laughter at family gatherings has been silenced, as we wait for a declaration that the pandemic is over.

Death certainly has robbed me of the predictability I came to expect from VST throughout our marriage. VST loved his schedules and kept to them. It was a comfort to do the same things at the same time during the day. Schedules helped us use our day in the most effective way, not wasting precious time. In the end, it mattered not, because VST’s forever stopped with the beat of his heart. The loneliness of my forever is a glaring reminder that familiar routines of the past are gone for good.

Living alone, many routines can become flexible. Lunch no longer occurs at a set time, but rather when I get hungry. Could be at 10 AM or 1 PM. I remember VST would look for lunch like clockwork at 11:30 AM, often wandering to the kitchen asking me if we were on our own for the meal. Dinner is predictably lonely and quiet. The drone of the television can’t erase the fact that I miss my meal-mate.

Rebuilding my life in small steps, scheduling my more difficult days has been an answer. Using my daily planner, each day, I think of three small tasks that need to be accomplished. These are jotted down and crossed off when accomplished. For weeks, I may not need the scaffolding of a written routine to get through the day. Then, grief has other plans.

As the days go by, remember there is a comfort to routines, even if they are new and it takes awhile to establish them. New routines bring a different look to our days. The predictability of spring’s warmth will keep me searching for new and valuable routines. Until then, predictably, I will do the very best I can to stay the course on this journey through widowhood.

Through my journey so far, I have been blessed with the BEST FRIENDS anyone could have every asked for. While my heart has been shattered in unimaginable ways, an army of the best people on earth have been there to check in, listen, make me laugh, and cry with me.

My very oldest friend is really more like a sister. We met when we were just toddlers. I have a vivid memory of our mothers, young women each with many children standing in the driveway. Songbird had flaxen hair, worn in curly pony tails on that day. She hid behind her mom’s leg as they talked. I don’t remember what I was doing, except thinking this girl was so cool.

Through the years, we shared bike rides, school, secrets, and talents. She was a musician from the day she was born. She taught herself to play the piano and guitar, never learning to read music. We wrote songs together, me helping with the lyrics, and her providing just the right tunes. Her house was the fun one to hang out in, and that we did. She was the only daughter, of which I was envious, being from a family of five girls. Her private bedroom was her sanctuary, something I could only dream of having. Private space.

She was gregarious, always making friends. She made the cheer squad. She even kissed VST after he made an amazing play in football. She married at 18, and went away to see the country packing her guitar, all of which I found fascinating as I trudged off to college. She divorced and I married. She married again, and the cycle of who was pregnant and which new baby was coming began. 34 years ago, I was present for the birth of her daughter, coaching her as she brought this miracle into the world.

She remains one of the most beautiful women I know as the years have rolled on. Funny, insightful, and vibrant. Heartbroken at the news of VST’s passing, she shared her sorrow with me. For, it was she that had insisted I went to the high school reunion in 1987, where VST and I met. Although we live in different states, she remains an anchor in my life that I am so lucky to have her.

There are some things that seem so impossible, they might as well find me standing on the streets of Katmandu while petting a vendor’s monkey. Treasures sometimes sit right under our noses waiting to be discovered, eliminating the need for exotic travel. Off ramps driven by every day, never exiting, could hold the most beautiful wonders one could ever see in their life. But life keeps us trapped in routine, enclosed in four walls, double-masked and afraid. I assure you, I would rather die of the virus than stay inside one day longer. My eyes need to feast on the high desert beauty, while feeding my hungry soul.

Every writer faces difficulties producing interesting material day after day. Imagination needs to be fed by new experiences. When a piece is produced, there are hours of pre-write that provide the final piece. Experiences and excursions provide food for the most interesting blogs. So, without divulging everything, know that I have been working on the pre-write stage since last Friday morning at 3 AM.

A few weeks ago, I started thinking about Katmandu. First of all, as a writer, the name is fun to write and more fun to say. It conjurs up images of exotic mayhem and energy, with sights and smells that would punch a person right in the face. A lack of presence and focus in Katmandu could cost you your life. Katmandu would be a moment in time never forgotten. A vivid immersion into life. Not a place to visit without a serious forward observer pointing out bad guys doing bad things.

For months, my soul has pined for one little adventure out of my house. This longing has fallen on too many deaf ears to count. Watching the mustangs, my mind has reflected on freedoms that have all fallen away to leave me boxed in a desperate state. Turning 65 left me to reflect on very real reasons I cannot just jump into my little white Barbie Jeep and rush into the tomorrow of the high dessert. Tethered to my house and sterile environment, I have searched high and low for a friend that longed to cut the cord and go on an adventure, even if it was off a BLM road just a few miles from my house. I needed to be away, for an hour or two to roll around with the tumbleweeds next to heaven under an angry cloud streaked sky.

My Jeep is not an average geriatric ride. A 2019 Wrangler, she is trail rated. She has been wanting to be tested in a way that included more than going to Walmart for a dozen eggs. And so, with the stars aligned in an extremely odd way, I found myself on the top of a mountain, in the highest of deserts, on the windiest of days, overlooking the world. The path to get there took a driver more skilled than me. At some points, being at a 17 degree incline, my heart pounded as my pulse quickened. But, in the end, there I was, feeling like I was dreaming. In 360 degree panorama, a desert landscape soothed my heart. Thirty to forty mile an hour winds ruffled my hair and chilled my bones. I found my Katmandu.

The exotic thrill of being on a high mountaintop with no sign of other humans can’t be explained. This isn’t a place I could ever drive myself, and isn’t a place I knew existed until a few days ago. One slip of a wheel would have sent my trail rated jeep down a 500 foot adventure of a different kind. I want to believe the effort it took to go to this place would be beyond most people with bad intent. This was a place where my heart was next to heaven in a way it needed to be for the shortest of times. I didn’t need to put on an oxygen mask, or carry high mountain equipment, because this place already existed in my normal world. Someone just listened, while kindly offering to be my sherpa for the day.

Dear readers, I know my limitations and would never attempt to return to Katmandu alone. A very steep climb to a small perch on top of the world will remain a place only the most experienced guides could handle. A place that I have know seen, which I can return to in dreams. My Jeep will need to realize her driver is one that put a sunflower tire cover on the spare tire. That speaks volumes about my ability to visit Katmandu on a whim.

I plan to construct a very tiny sign and return there one day soon. I will plant my sign as proof that I traveled there on a very windy and rainy February day. As for the sherpa, with all my heart, I thank you for seeing a weary soul and realizing that wild things can’t be tethered to four walls and survive. Wild things need to breathe fresh air and experience life. All great sherpas know this.

The high desert nourishes my soul. I can’t think of anywhere VST could have helped me plant roots that would fit me more. I’m not a fragile girly girl waiting for my next shopping trip. Anyone who knows the hoodied-me already knows with car keys hand I have a crazy adventure brewing in my head. Stay tuned. I can’t wait to share them with you

To my adoring fans. I am truly sorry for the change in routine. For the last few days, I’ve been under the weather. Nothing serious, just not feeling my best. Still choosing happiness, I’ll be much happier when I feel 100 %.

On top of that, a violent wind storm blew through last night. Nerve rattling wind speeds which shook Winterpast as it rolled through. Sleep was not very sound.

This morning, I woke up to plumbing problems of the worst kind, needing immediate attention.

I will return tomorrow. Your concerns about my well being are so sweet. I love you, my dear readers.

Illness of any kind is no fun at all. An ache here. A pain there. Pretty soon, they all get together and insist that you stop and rest. I found myself in this predicament during the last few days. When your body is complaining, it’s easy for your mind to chime right in. Pretty soon, you are a sad sack of pity, having a party for one. Well, I didn’t fall quite that far, but found myself with happiness a fingertip out of reach.

Moving slower than normal, I’ve been sloth-ing around. Watch a sloth. They can’t even reach for a piece of fruit quickly. Wearing my favorite sloth PJ’s, I was that slow when reaching for my coffee. It was then that I decided to retrieve the mail. On my front porch, strange new odor hung in the air. A pungent odor, unmistakable, that can put terror into the mind of any new widow. Even the strongest of the strong widow. Effluent. In layman’s terms, liquid waste or sewage.

Winterpast has an odd design. Although attached to the city sewer system, she sits below the pipes at the street, making it necessary to have a SEWAGE LIFT SYSTEM, (the maintenance all my responsibility, of course), like a very necessary elevator lifting everything away from my house to the street. THIS is broken. For two weeks. And now, it complains loudly, by leaking liquid into my yard. This, I discover, while ache-ing and pain-ing on the way to my mail box.

Along with this disaster, (which I am still trying to mitigate), there is another one. My new spa, pristine and wonderful, sits in the back yard without a cover. I paid for a cover that wasn’t delivered. A windstorm blew in, with and entire night of 60 mile an hour winds. Leaves blew in and found their way into my bubbling vat of soothing jets, (at least 1,052 of them). Right after discovering the problem in the front yard, I discovered that my spa had turned a beautiful color seen in watercolor paintings. The leaves were clogging my brand new dual suction, turbo charged filters. All because, the cover I bought and paid for hasn’t yet arrived.

Plopping down on my couch, I will confess to you, I had a few thoughts that didn’t include happiness. With those, I realized, I had to stop. I first needed to listen to my body and take inventory of what I could do to change either of these situations.

With a phone call, I was on the line with “Plumber and a Wrench” in the next town. Now, I know a lot about a lot. But, a woman seldom has an interest or desire to really learn about plumbing. I could seat a new toilet with the best of them. Sewage Lift Systems are way above my pay grade. When talking, Mr. Plumber gives me the following advice. Wash no dishes. Launder no sheets or towels. In fact, save the Tide Pods for another day. Do not bathe or shower. In fact, run zero water through the house. He assured me they would get right on this. He has now disappeared into thin air. I’m following his advice, but, can only do so a little while longer.

As for the spa, a cleaning was necessary. Soon, the bubbles of happiness were again crystal clear. A call to the spa company gave me answers I didn’t want to hear. It may be another week or two until the cover arrives. But, it will arrive. This will just be part of the crazy story of my first year as a widow.

That left me with one decision. One and only one. My mental state. I could cry. Get angry. Ask “Why Me?” Curse. Yell. Be frustrated. Want to pack a bag and bug out. Yes. I could do all of that, and did some of that. What I needed to do first was STOP. Just STOP. Put on my pajamas. Clear my brain. Have some tea while in the STOPPED mode. I listened to my breathing. And the wind. And Oliver’s snores. Things calmed. Although all the problems, aches and pains were still there, they felt different. Like a warning that life was going at too fast a pace. Sometimes it takes a strange whiff of something in the air to make us take stock.

I feel better today, although not 100%. I plan to lay low and continue to make phone calls to my new best friend, Mr. “Plumber and a Wrench”. I’ll sit in the hot tub and bob for leaves, while allowing the healing nature of the water to soothe my tired body. I need to remember that my widowhood is approaching dark woods. Things are more difficult than I anticipated on these last days before the one year anniversary of VST’s passing.

I need to practice lazy, as my extremely wise and sage God Mom would say. Everyone needs to make sure to use that skill sometimes. Today, it’s me. Today, find some time to stop and take inventory. There is a solution to every one of life’s problems. Some just take a “Plumber and a Wrench” and a little patience.

Angels are all around us. Sometimes life is so overwhelming we just can’t recognize them. There are many situations in which women remain vulnerable and at the mercy of the world. Broken plumbing is that such situation. Today was that kind of day.

After visiting with my tele-doc, whom I adore, I handled the medical side of feeling better. Don’t forget that option when an illness creeps up on you. Yes, tele-docs are not for every medical problem, but, for many, they can provide excellent care. From start to finish, I had a prescription in less than one hour.

However, the plumbing problem remained an odorous situation. Around 8 AM, I received the nicest call from the first angel of the day. A receptionist from “A Plumber and a Wrench”. She was ever so kind, informing me that the technician would be arriving around 1 PM to fix the problem. Immediately, I felt a ton of bricks lifted off my shoulders. Although I couldn’t use any water in the house, someone was coming that would remedy my plumbing nightmare.

Indeed, the sweetest guy named Johnny arrived right at 1 PM. He was here to fix the sewage elevator lift pump. After a little while, he came to me to report terrible news. This type of pump cost $4,000 and was manufactured in New York. It would take days for it to arrive and another day to install it. There was no escaping the problem. I would need to budget the fix. Period.

Going back inside, I again felt the weight of the world and realized how vulnerable we all are. In the blink of an eye, anyone can experience a problem in which creative thinking is needed. For some things broken, I know what to do. In this case, I was at the mercy of the plumbing company.

It was then that a mysterious neighbor named Schnauzer Dad walked by and changed the entire narrative of my problem. He informed sweet Johnny that this was a city problem, not a home owner problem. The city would fix it all. Furthermore, he drove home and got the direct name and number of the man to call. The rest was handled by Angels in Overalls. People are so kind when they learn of a widow’s loss. Most can’t begin to understand the true loss, but they want to. They know it must be the worst thing in life that can happen to someone. It surely is. Johnny promised to stay and make sure I was in good hands, even though he could have run home to his baby son and wife.

Truckloads of city Overall-ed Angels flocked to my yard. They fixed the broken pump, which I find out now, even has an alarm that should have gone off alerting me to the problem. I now know that. I also know that I am not alone in this independent state I find myself in. I can ask for help, and help will arrive. An important lesson when one is in the barren wasteland of plumbing problems along the journey of widowhood.

Angels don’t always appear trumpeting on high. They can be found when you least expect them, but always when they are needed the most. They come in all shapes and sizes. Some even smoke cigarettes and have a cross tattooed on their forearm. My angels swooped down in City trucks, clad in blue overalls to save my day. Lots of laundry to catch up on today. Keep your eye out for angels in your life.

Widowhood has taken me on a trip I never expected. The highest of highs, and lows that seemed subterranean, with ghosts and goblins scarier than giant wolf bats with grizzly teeth. A haunted house freak show, with surprises around every corner. A distorted carnival mirror of life showed me things in wavy form, making it difficult to discern what might be real and what imagined. And yet, I made my way through the last year growing into this beautiful woman, more sure of my steps every day.

My words, I held dearly. For my new readers in all the far away places I’ve only read about, I chose a word a month. These were my life rafts as currents of days and weeks carried me forward. I was an unwilling traveler at times, just wanting to lay down in some leaves and forget about it all. Time had other ideas. These monthly words helped me identify what was real and necessary for healing.

1.Food, Shelter, Clothing

2.Friendship

3.Love Everlasting

4.Adventure

5.Faith

6.Happiness

7.Truth

8.Aloha

9.Rejoice

10.Respect

11.Optimism

When grief attacked my soul, the monthly word would give me focus on the parts of VST and I that were so precious and buoyant. Those words lifted me above snapping alligators and howling coyotes. They held me close to VST’s heart and the life we created as two child-rich but penniless kids in the winter of 1988. They helped me remember what my core values are made of and what VST helped me cherish in life. They healed me from the inside out.

No one can really understand what grief in solitude is like. When I moved to my sweet little town, there were those that made reference to the reputation of the place. A truck stop. A wide place in the road. A haven for addicts. Less than desirable location. My little town had a reputation she just couldn’t live down in the minds of those that had never given her a chance. I moved here and fell in love with every little scar. Every little wind storm. Every tumble weed or broken down mobile home. For, she and I are a lot alike. We’ve been through some stuff, yet we are survivors.

Now, the scariest part of the journey begins, because a year ago, my sweet VST became suddenly ill. I look back at my calendar and weep. His first test was last year on Valentine’s Day. Even then, the doctor was ruling out heart disease, and not the true monster that was cancer. I look at the words on my calendar and can see a difference in the handwriting. I remember the confusion overtaking our lives when VST was losing his mind. Those memories combined with the date on the calendar, one year later, produce a venom that is sadness X a million, and that is grief. That is now. “One Year Ago” is in the next room, waiting. April 8, 2021.

These monthly words are now all around me, and I have a comfy raft of them. I can lay back and bob along when raging rivers come while focusing on the stars. The best of memories that are US, cradle me while covering me from the cold. I’ll make it through, I just might shiver a little in the process.

These words are also doing something else. These are qualities I’ll not live without in my life. As I surround myself with new friends, I find those words are descriptors of the quality of friends I select. Overflowing, they will be abundant in the last chapter of my life. I’m choosing to make that so, with God’s help. When you combine all of them, you find true paradise. That was my life with VST, that is my life now, that is my life until life is no more.

Miss Firecracker and I had dinner last night, after her return from a fabulous trip across the country. She and I talked about our widowhood, and know we’re through the thickest of the forest of widowhood. We’ve both found acceptance in our hearts that life is here and ours to enjoy while embodying calm and happy. Through dinner, we laughed. A Lot.

The restaurant held only one other couple, young and sweet. Before they left, the man came to our table.

“Ladies, Thank You for bringing laughter to the restaurant. It was so nice to hear happiness coming from your table. No one laughs anymore.”

Upon visiting, we found that he and his wife were new to the town, taking a chance on her like I had last April. He was uncomfortable interrupting, but he had to tell us “Thank You”. Miss Firecracker and I cracked a few jokes with them, and immediately, we had two new friends. That’s just how she and I roll.

Our journey is okay now, she and I. We are widows. We were wives. But, First and Foremost, WE ARE WOMEN. Two very strong, beautiful, wonderful women to be reckoned with. Watch out world. We are on the move.

Belief in yourself is everything. Listening to a webinar by the prolific and amazing author, Kennedy Ryan, her main advice to new writers was simple. Make BELIEF your #1 strength. It’s an amazing superpower that can allow you to achieve more than you every dreamed you could. Believe IT into existence, whatever IT is for you.

Almost retired from teaching in California, VST and I were busily packing to move to Virginia City, Nevada. We had found our home and each weekend would drive six hours on Friday nights to get there with a load of our possessions. We did this 52 times before we were really able to say we were Nevadan’s. Often our friends would question us. Why? How? When? Few understood our need for a new adventure in a place where we knew no one, nor had family. They were mystified, while we believed in our plan.

One day, I was at a Lobby in a Hobby Store when I found the best coffee cup. White with gold polka dots, the inscription on the cup said, “She Believed She Could So She Did”. It was written for me. Throughout my life, things have happened that seemed insurmountable, if not for a core belief that I could survive and thrive. Sheer belief in my ability to conquer whatever problem stood in the way. VST and I shared this belief.

When VST and I first moved to VC, I was hired as a one year replacement for the science teacher at the VC Middle School. Although I’d taught a variety of classes from K-12, being a middle school science teacher is a whole different animal. I believed I could and I did. Nights that I wanted to cry, I did, but just a little. While drying tears, I buckled up and prepared curriculum for the next day, convincing myself that those kids were lucky to have a superior science teacher. Me. That year, our tiny mountain school of 96 kids had 6 entries in the Northern Nevada Science Fair, with one of my 8th graders taking 1st place in Environmental Science. I believed I could, but, also helped him believe he could. So we did, winning First Place!

When VST passed away, I needed to embrace that statement more than ever. There were many times when boxes way bigger than me needed hoisting down flights of stairs. They needed delivery to a storage area, only to be hoisted and moved again when the new house was mine . Financial issues needed to be handled quickly, but in the correct way. This by a woman that didn’t even know how much my monthly pension was, because VST was our banker. Decisions about the estate needed to be made from a woman that wasn’t a lawyer. Me. Friends needed to be selected when all I wanted to do was pick the first person I saw at Walmart and invite her into my life.

Through all those crazy times, it became clear that the more I believed in myself, the more I could accomplish. Little by little, the decisions that I’d made turned out to be right for me. Friends I picked are delightful. Winterpast became the best home I could have moved to. The new spa now bubbles away in the back yard. Oliver is thriving. My heart is smiling. Everything is okay.

It’s easy to get entangled in the triad of sadness, fear, and anger. I’ve written of these three comrades before, but they encourage a fourth. Self doubt. When those four get together, mental mayhem follows, leaving me to doubt everything. Believe me, when the sewer went down last week, those four had a field day wreaking havoc with my search for happiness. Thank goodness everything is now working as it should, and I am returning to normal.

I’ve needed to believe I could drive in a snow storm. That I could be the lone Hospice nurse. That I could let VST go when he needed to. That I could stand on my own two feet proudly, while honoring his memory. That I could take care of a 1/2 acre yard. That I could find life again, while smiling. That I could be strong enough to cry sometimes, too.

All those things are huge accomplisments of which I am very proud. But, I also found life will continue to throw hurdles at me. I can’t avoid them. I just need to believe that I can get through anything in life, because, quite frankly, I can. With belief, we all can accomplish great things.

The latest test will be my book, self-published later this year. My business waits to be created, about which I am learning by watching webinar after webinar. I’m able do this. I must do this. I will do this. This is the year, because I want it to be. I believe it is. And, so, it will be.

Readers, whatever you are dreaming, believe it IS already. No matter how fantastical you think the vision, just believe it to be attainable. It could be the smallest endeavor. Those are good places to start. Just believe in yourself. The rest will fall into place.

Just a year ago, if someone would have told me what today would bring, I would have said they were crazy. Unthinkable it was that VST would be brought down by cancer. With very minimal pain for a guy that was in perpetual arthritic pain, there was no way we could have known how soon our goodbye would come. A counselor referred to this situation as being similar to death by car crash. In many ways it was just that fast.

As life often does, the sudden finality left us all reeling. Remembering back, it was suggested in the sweetest of words that VST and I would take long walks together and say the proper farewell. That we could have “Love Story” moments, heart-breaking-ly sweet and tender in which we shared our last words with one another. Death had other ideas. There is nothing sweet and tender about cancer. There was no time for deep conversations that tied everything up with a bow.

Two days before VST passed, I had the rare moment to sit and hold his hand. He was slipping into a coma, but still held my hand as he had so often done strolling into Lowe’s with his Darlin’ at his side. Even though he said nothing, he was listening with eyes closed, and an open heart. As we sat quietly, I thanked him for the life he shared with me. For sharing my deepest worries and best successes. For being the one I would tell my secrets to, while knowing he would understand better than anyone else. Talking through my tears, I shared until he had slipped away from me into a world between here and there.

VST died the next day. He took half of me to heaven. Plain and simple, there is no other way to put it. Life went into a strange mode in which I needed to find my way alone. I continued to talk to him every day, while sharing my grief with the one person that would understand. My VST. I talked to him about everything. Wearing a mask while driving, it didn’t look weird as I continued to tell him about the latest problem or success. We had reversed roles, and I was now the driver, while he rode shotgun. Listening.

As the days turned into months and the season rolled on by, the conversations became less. Earthside friends filled in for him. Until I find myself in today.

Grief and widowhood are the strangest experience anyone can ever go through. Truly, a wilderness of the unexpected. The mind plays cruel tricks when you think you might have heard footsteps in the kitchen, or someone in the bathroom. You think of something sweet you just need to tell your loved one, and in a nano-second, you catch yourself remembering that you need to hold that until you meet again on the other side. But, each day, things get better. Slowly, you find yourself again. Little by little, you accept that life is different now that they are gone. You heal.

These days, I find that my sorrow has been replaced by a joy from deep within. There are so many things for which to be grateful. Just this morning, I was thinking of VST and his distrust and dislike for doctors. Having a brilliant and analytical mind, he knew very well how to choose the medical path right for him. I have no doubt, if given two years of medical treatments or one week of Hospice, he would have chosen the one week. He left me on his own terms, quietly closing the door as he escaped on that spring morning last year. As he left, he was no victim, but finding his own path to heaven with God’s help. I know that as well as I knew his scent in the dark, or his hand holding mine.

These days, when thinking about him, I often smile at stories that we wrote together. The kids. The farm. The mountain house. The cabin. VC. RVing. Just being us. The happiness we wrote as our life story is in my heart. I can turn the pages and remember it all any time I want, and now, it is comforting. The focus on what we created brings a peace that quiets the voice of what might have been. There is a comfortable place for the two to exist in my heart now, and that brings acceptance and closure.

No matter where you are in you journey of grief, please know, things will get better. They will never be the same. That’s a given. Somedays you will slide backwards. Somedays you will catapult forward. It is a crazy journey, this path through widowhood. But, as in any journey, it is possible to end up in a place of peace and happiness, with the best memories comforting you. It is this I wish for us all.

Widowhood and retirement change this person’s views on weekly life. No longer are there two special days of the week to wait for or avoid. For decades, weekends were the days that held all the things that overflowed from the week. Fun things. Extra work. Chores. Time to think. Time to escape. All of those things wrapped up into two silly little days.

Nightly television programs were like stepping stones to the two days of the week we didn’t have any scheduled. Saturday and Sunday held a rhythmic sequence all their own, and we cherished them. Now, Saturday and Sunday are just two more days inserted into the 300+ days I’ve lived without VST. No meaning or function, they are like all the rest for me. Some days, they are hard to live through.

In the 1900’s, without things like Netflix or YouTube, a person was at the mercy of Saturday or Sunday morning cartoons. With little else to watch, one would be encouraged to actually open the door and see the world outside. Maybe even spend a day in it. Now, we are all easily seduced into hours of entertainment at any time of the day or night. It’s as if the world has turned into the interior of a giant casino. Anything you want to do can be done 24/7. Rhythms I grew up with are gone.

These days, the one constant is the seasons. Thank goodness for the solar ballet, keeping some yearly cycles predictably recognizable. Yesterday, sitting inside my house, the most beautiful day was on display outside. I’ve noticed that my trees, mature and grand, are stretching their buds, getting ready for life, again. It will take a little more time, but, the swelling of the branch tips tells me spring is just around the corner.

Last week, the holiest of time in the Christian faith began with Ash Wednesday. In my state, even the practice of placing a small smudged cross of ash on the forehead is now a distant memory, and ashes are sprinkled on the head. It seems every single tradition we have is being eliminated, all in fear of a deadly virus. At a time when faith is needed the most, it’s being challenged in strange and sad ways. Traditions are being eliminated, leaving many of us wondering what will be left when all the restrictions are lifted. I sat pondering this in my house, as the sun warmed the day.

It was then my something caught my eye at the back fence. A happy little gathering of the cutest kind. The birds have returned. Little ones, big ones. Red breasted robins hopping across the lawn. Little finches meeting up like old friends, deciding who will be lucky enough to move into the high rent district of my two little bird houses. Squawking crows overlooked the entire party. Just like that, the weekend entertainment had arrived on wings. Busily, the new tenants were racing to and fro, carrying little bits of fluff for the new nests. Winterpast slowly comes to life, as the calendar marches on towards March.

Sunshine is great therapy for those of us that grieve. Spring is a time that reaffirms the cycle of new life, after a winter of sadness and grief. There are amazing miracles happening in our own back yards, while we heal. Just open the window and watch. Happiness can surprise you on the wings of new little friends just doing their thing on a beautiful day.

Good morning, dear readers,

Every girl needs a little holiday. I will be back tomorrow.

Joy

Days for me are filled with write-able moments becoming the seeds for a wonderful story. When one can just sit for in the moment and soak up the sounds, sights, and smells around her, the stories are endless. Choose something and focus intently, you’ll be amazed.

On Holiday for 24 hours, I visited the most beautiful of spas. Last week, deciding my desert-dry skin needed some real revitalization, I booked a treatment at Spa Italiano in Sicily, Italy. Okay, couldn’t quite make it to Europe, so I chose a close knock off.

I don’t do spas. Well, I might need to change my thinking, as this was something not experienced in my 65 years. I guess I never chose the right one before. The first step was entering a store front. Just your usual overpriced lotions and potions. Wonderfully soft mittens and booties to capture all types of emollients, allowing them to work with the heat of your body. This shop was intoxicating, with colors soft, boxes intriguing. Checking in, I needed to embrace the art of relaxation.

The sweetest people work at these places. Where do they come from? Breathing lavender for eight hours a day softens any bitchiness that can boil beneath the surface. These ladies were the kindest of kind, ready to send me off to the land of nod. After taking the necessary information for payment, which could end a blissful state after treatment, they ushered me into Stage 0ne, the locker room. Presenting me with a robe that was out of the movies, they explained the procedures and left. This robe was like a mini-coccoon. Just the perfect size, luxurious and warm. Heavenly.

When ready, the first group of spa angels sent me heavenward in an elevator, explaining the spa was on three levels. Level one, although elegant, was functional. I wasn’t prepared for level two. The elevator door swooshed open to a retreat of the Italian kind. The lighting was just this side of dark. You could certainly see where you were going, but, the glare of the high desert sun was blocked with the absence of windows. A ceiling to floor waterfall reminded me of Hawaiian nature. Soft music calmed my nerves. This was the inner belly of Spa Italiano, and I had just purchased a ticket to nirvana.

Another spa angel gave me a bottle of water and escorted me to an inner sanctum of relaxation. Large, puffy, white leather chairs held my formally tense muscles, as I started to melt like a warm cube of butter. The world needs to go to a spa. Everyone. All at once. The peace in this room was overwhelming. Closing my eyes, I sipped cool water and listened to the wall of water tinkling its little tune. A true blessing, my world stopped and breathed in the delicate scents in the air.

After sitting at few minutes, the masseuse came through the door and gently called my name. Mrs. Hurt. How long it had been since someone had been thoughtful enough to call me by the precious name of Mrs. Hurt. VST was smiling in heaven, seeing that I was doing something really nice for myself. I felt it.

I followed her like a sheep into the treatment room. With respect for privacy throughout the treatment, she began. I purchased a mineral wrap. That sounds boring. This was anything but. Let me explain. You get scrubbed as one would lovingly prepare a potato for the oven. The application of a warm, scratchy scrub lifts off a layer of dead skin, leaving your skin feeling the softest. Of course, the stuff they use is like a buttery concoction of scents that go into your brain and flip the OFF switch. As I lay on a heated treatment bed that quietly went up and down, she worked on legs, arms and back. The music was attached to the bed, causing it to vibrate softly with the base notes. An immersion of the senses. I went to a place in which I forgot she was there, while nearly falling asleep.

After the application of a second heavenly moisturizer, the next part came. I was wrapped up in a thin plastic sheet conveniently hidden under the sheeting on the bed. I was left to ABSORB for a time. Just absorb the emollients and music, while laying on the warm bed wrapped in warmer towels. Peace. It was tranquil bliss.

When she returned, she went to a computer screen outside the shower and with a few taps of the buttons, she turned on the next part of this adventure. Left in privacy, I entered the shower of all showers, in which I could have remained forever. This shower was comprised for four small squares two on either side of the shower. With the temperature set at 102, these squares randomly showered. I swear it was timed to the music piped into the watery cubicle. The sequence in which these squares emitted water made the experience even better. With the perfect temperature and pressure, this shower rinsed away the first two applications and left me waiting for the third.

After drying, she returned for a head massage, and then the final application of dreamy moisturizer I could feel my body absorb. It was if my hungry skin was feasting on nourishment. Hard to explain. And with that, I was left to rest.

Fifty minutes of sheer heaven. At the end, I was taken through the reverse routine, and allowed to leave. I really wanted to sneak back up the elevator and hide until they closed, just absorbing the peace and quiet.

Not everyone has a Spa Italiano. Especially not a three-story one. Not everyone can go out in a Covid riddled world right now. But, most of us do have a regular shower that can create steam. However it works for you, plan a little spa date. Dim the lights. Start a candle. Warm your towels and take a moment for private relaxation. It seems I lost years of bad in a 50 minute trip to nirvana.

A holiday is a delightful thing to take. It doesn’t need to be days or weeks. It can be less than an hour. Everyone needs one, especially now. Good luck and bon voyage!

Every day, I feel lighter. This could be compared to a very long back packing trip, where supplies are consumed along the way. Putting on a pack each morning, it feels the same, but as the days go by, you begin to notice a difference. The stress and strain on your shoulders becomes less. You have more energy as you settle into the rhythmic pace of walking from here to there. So goes the journey through widowhood.

Reflecting back on earlier journal posts, I smile at the woman that began emerging ten months ago. Through a spring of widow’s fog, a summer of healing, the fall of exploration and a winter of reflection, along the way, I am getting to know myself on a much deeper level than ever before, while accepting that I am still pretty lost. A new life I’m creating of my own choosing. A journey full of so many twists and turns, it’s only through my own words, journal-ed on very lonely nights, that I am beginning to understand the strength and toll this took.

My studio has always been my secret hideaway. Girlhood trinkets and treasures remained hidden behind closed doors, safe from prying eyes. So much evidence saved from a life rich with wonderful experiences is hidden there. Those precious mementos need to move into plain sight for my own enjoyment. Winterpast is becoming the supreme She-Shed, all my own. I feel the spring bloom just around the corner, and I will blossom right along with the flowers in my garden.

Flowers. Today, I visited Lowe’s and to my utter delight, I found the first spring flowers on display outside the store. Being a wise and seasoned gardener, I know it is too early to plant delicate blooms. Dangerous frosts still await the high desert and these flowers are only a tease of the spring to come. That reflection I need to apply to my own life, so very tentative and fragile. Wanting to dance away from this nightmare is only normal. However, to dance too quickly can cause one to trip up and fall flat.

Writing continues to be an outlet that I am living for. This morning, a marketing webinar carried me deep into social media requirements, newsletters, and more blogging. Marketing my words will bring such satisfaction, for in my own thinking, I won’t be a REAL writer until the first book is published. Silly, as I publish ever day here on my blog. But, the words need to be un-delete-able on cream colored paper, page after page thrilling my new readers or bringing them to tears. 2021 is the year for this to happen, again, creating a new part of life that I haven’t experienced yet.

Friendship and laughter are alive and well inside Winterpast’s walls. Life is coming full circle to rest in a very happy space. Happiness hums me to sleep at night, while past memories bring smiles of a life well lived. As the new pages are written, I know this is what VST would have wanted for me when he asked if I would be happy living in Winterpast. Yes, VST. I am growing in happiness and light.

My marketing webinar had some very good advice for me this morning. In life, we must make short term and long term goals, while scheduling our days to make the most of valuable minutes given to us. One must believe in unique abilities and visualize wonderful accomplishments while staying the course. Then, we need to DO. Just DO whatever it is your heart says is the right thing.

2021. Stay tuned. Ready to take off and fly with my writing, the possibilities are endless. Thank you for reading, and stay tuned.

Warnings about the deep end should never be ignored.

Tell me somethin’, girl.

Are you happy in this modern world?

Or do you need more?

Is there something else you’re searching for?

***

Tell me somethin’, boy.

Aren’t you trying to fill that void?

Or do you want more?

Ain’t it hard keeping it so hardcore?

***

I’m falling.

In all the good times I find myself

longing for a change.

And in the bad times

I fear myself.

(Words borrowed from “Shallows”. Song Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga from movie “A Star is Born”. Written by Andrew Wyatt, Anthony Rossomando, Mark Ronson, and Stefani Germanotta)

The Deep End. This applies to so many things in my tenth month of widowhood. Some days there are no shallows. No place to stand on the soft sand while the waves of Waikiki rock a person back and forth. No lengthy strands of shallow water in which to walk a very long way into the Pacific. No. Just unthinkably deep water in which some days this widow must tread like hell to stay afloat.

Spending most of my time at home now, I’ve been sheltered from the reality of damage wielded by Covid-19. Last weekend, a friend wanted to take me for a walk next to the Truckee River in the Biggest Little City in the World. A gorgeous river walk has been completed for some time, rivaling the most beautiful spots anywhere in the world. With the snow-capped Eastern Sierra peaks towering above, this park is tranquil.

Walking along, I was lulled into thoughts of how ridiculous it was to stay inside, cowering from life. I actually felt wonderful walking along this beautiful river, while watching a mallard couple flip their little bodies downward in the shallows to eat from the bottom of the river. Pointed duckie butts upward, their little orange feet whipped back and forth through the air. Just the two together, vulnerable to danger, as they ate whatever duckies eat.

The man-made portion of the Truckee River was pristine and inviting, with steps leading to the water’s edge. The most beautiful rocks had been placed invitingly for sitting with one’s feet in the river. With the bright blue sky overhead, the perfect number of white puffy clouds were overhead as if dashed up there by an artists brush. The sun warmed us, and if there was perfection in a moment, we were experiencing it.

Only a handful of brave souls were out for a walk in the sunshine. Sunshine is the best disinfectant ever. Having been a faux-hippie mom of the 70’s, I learned that hanging cloth diapers in the sun to dry after laundering disinfected them and bleached them pure white again. Sun and fresh air are great medicine and a healing element for cabin fever. The key is social distancing. It always has been.

As a child, my mother told about the days of polio or meningitis, when families would go to picnic near the local canal. Every family stayed a distance away from the next. Children didn’t go on play dates. You stayed with your own. Farmers knew these things already and didn’t need Public Service Announcements to explain it. You kept to yourselves. Any farmer worth his salt would immediately isolate a sick cow or pig from the others. It was common sense, uncommon today.

Walking along this perfect path on this perfect day, we enjoyed the moment. A man with a Harlem Globetrotter’s coat came up to us and wished us a wonderful year. An older gentleman, his eyes were kind as he smiled. He, too, knew the magic of a sunshine-y day next to the river. Goodness floated in the air as we exchanged niceties and both continued on our way.

It was then, we moved from the duckie shallows into the deep end. With a left turn, we entered the dark, real world of homelessness, poverty, despair, and abandoned hopes and dreams. In the bowels of the Biggest Little City in the World, it was immediately apparent to me that we were in the deep end of “No More”. The last time I had been in this part of town, VST and I were floundering in the deep end of Cancer. As I became our driver, we made several trips downtown for visits to CT and MRI machines. GI docs, and Oncologists. Just a year ago, the town was bustling. Store fronts advertised their goods. Visitors were crossing the street from one cavernous casino to the next. Now, the quiet ricocheted off the skyscrapers. Empty. Desolate. Urine stained streets. Beggars in alcoves. Immediately. The DEEP END. I feared for myself, while fearing others, as well.

Sunshine was gone, blocked by behemoth structures of stained concrete. There was no light or lightness in this place. As cars raced through the center of this place, they didn’t stop. No longer a hub of fun and activities, this was a wasteland of “What Was”. Broken humans, zombie like, dotted the sidewalk. Sadness coated me like an unwanted shower from a puddle splashed up from a rain soaked street.

My friend didn’t quite understand, being naturally skilled at swimming through these situations as a SEAL. In Sherpa-like fashion, he realized my fear and we returned to the JEEP, racing back to the safety of home.

Reflecting on that experience brings me back to my own widowhood. So many days and weeks string together like pearls of beauty. Happy days of buying bulbs for spring, or soaking in the new hot tub. Then, one picture or a song on the radio can cause momentary devastation, as if you hit a pot hole and need to tread water while getting back to the safety of the shallows. Never knowing when this might occur, the exhaustion from constant bombardment is deep.

Like the ducks, I find the shallows to be full of the best food and safety for now. There’ll be a time for venturing into the deep. For now, I’ll stick to wading.

Looking at the calendar, I remember facing December 1st, and the dread I felt over the onset of winter. Not a “Central Valley of California” winter, where the lows never got much past freezing. High desert Northern Nevada winters where the high might reach 20, while the wind chill factor would be much lower than that. That kind of winter. Postcard winter-white days, with mustangs standing in snow, their woolly coats hiding protruding ribs. Winters in which the cloudy sky kept the sunshine hidden for days on end. Winter days when my garden slept soundly.

Well, Day One of spring is three weeks away!!! The time will change on March 14th, giving us long evenings to putter around in the garden. The birds are gearing up for new life. More exciting than that, my lawn knows. Yesterday, I spent some time cleaning up. The lawn had a hint of green, being just a tad warmer than the surrounding air under the protective blanket of decaying leaves. How exciting! It thrills the heart of any gardener. Mine is no exception.

I’m itching to bring out all the lawn and garden furniture I tucked away in November. But, the high, as I write, is 23. Still a little chilly to tan with a glass of lemonade. The optimism spring brings makes me want to jump the gun and drag things out. I just may need to act on that impulse.

For Christmas, I bought myself a new wind chime. One with beautiful tones that will sing softly as the breezes of spring blow across the desert. With the stronger winds of March, it will complain louder. Clanging will occur as torrential spring rains pummel the ground. My yard came prepared, with a complete drainage system to carry away water from flash floods. The desert is a brutal place in so many ways.

Back yard sounds bring thoughts of widowhood. The torrential sobs, out of control and vicious, that rack a new widow with agonizing pain during shock and denial. Soft voices bringing comfort to a broken heart as it suffers through pain and guilt. Depression, reflection, and loneliness that blow over in waves like a high desert wind storm. Just as the chopping hoe removes unwanted weeds and the rake smooths the ruts, life is reconstructed. As the garden blooms again in the warmth of the sun, the heart works through the unthinkable. Acceptance arrives, just as surely as spring has, year after year, century after century, since the beginning of time. Predictable and sure.

Winter in my yard has been silent. Octogenarian neighbors have huddled inside, not even asking gardeners come to bring relief from the quiet. Sounds, created miles away, drift slowly towards Winterpast. The sounds of nature have been my only company on most days, and know them well. I know how long it takes for a howling bank of wind to buffet my house. I know their usual path and the sound tells me their strength. How many city dwellers don’t even know the wind makes a sound? In my world, the wind IS the sound.

Even now, in the newest of light in the day, the birds are talking. Planning their course. Flirting. Little birdie dates are being made. The search for nest material has begun. The fight over the bird houses is in full swing. Spring! Spring! Spring!

Get your shovels sharpened, and take inventory of your garden tools. Don’t wait! Go buy some new bulbs and plants to dress the garden in color. Time to nourish the soil and prune the roses. The show is about to begin. Don’t be late. Three Weeks Left!!!!! SPRING!!!!!!

It has been 326 days since I lost VST. The sweet lady on Day 1 and I are hardly recognizable as the same person in some ways, exactly the same in others. Learning along the way, I’ve become stronger, while appreciating everything it took to get me this far. Safe and happy, I approach the milestone of Month 11, only a week away.

The observance of the One Year Milestone will occur at our favorite place, Beach Town, USA. I’d never stayed there prior to enjoying it with VST. He made the place come alive with stories of his visits as a child, becoming a younger version of himself as he told them. Many times I asked whether we should have moved there instead of VC, but his answer was always the same. We’d never return to California, but continue to visit his beloved beach as often as we could.

326 days I’ve been in the wilderness of widowhood, however that number is only the days I’ve lived without him. The grieving started months before when Cancer threw curve balls that we dodged. Changes in personality and even the ability to stand normally while attaching a sign to a fence were written off to old age, as we snuggled into our dreams. A longing for our old life came to both of us months before Cancer made an entrance.

Thirty-nine days are left before I reach the Ist Heavenersary. The world needs names for everything and someone else coined this. Probably a way for Hallmark to pump out more cards. It works, because I’ve yet to meet any widow or widower to which this day is not horribly significant. A passage into another phase of life. Not to say I’m expecting things to be dramatically different, but they will be. Just as when 2021 arrived and I could finally say “VST died LAST YEAR”. A significant passage.

Yesterday, I realized my house needs a revamp that will be completed before I leave in early April. Just as the tide changes the appearance of a beach, pictures and mementos need to change places. Quite frankly, I’m turning my house into a She-Shed as there is just one SHE that lives here. It’s time to celebrate ME, discovering the style I love while I change things up. Yesterday, I started in the bedroom.

Spring cleaning the blinds, vacuuming under the bed, and polishing the furniture, the time to consider my adult taste in design has arrived. As a woman, it was already in place. The addition or movement of a picture can change up the focus which will be happening over the next month. It’s time for a few more precious and private possessions of VST to move to the guest room. For a few more drawers to become empty. It’s the final phase before I reach the Gate as I enter Year Two. It’s time.

Miss Firecracker and I had dinner last night. Being an absolutely sweet and wonderful friend with advise that is priceless, she knows all I tell her, and sees more I haven’t divulged in words. In careful discussions, our conversations tell me a lot, while her reactions tell me more. Everyone should have a Miss Firecracker as their bestie in life.

We’re both doing the same. Working in our nests, while working through our grief. Deciding what to sell, what to donate, what to box for the kids, and what to hold close to our hearts. Three decades and then some is a lifetime of sharing. Even a special pen can hold memories, given from a realtor as we sold the ranch. To others, it would be worthless, unable to produce ink on a page, but to Widow-Me, it is priceless. Miss Firecracker and I are going through this process. No one, other than another widow, knows the exhaustion this produces. Mental. Spiritual. Emotional. Physical. Cardiac. Total Exhaustion.

No one but a widow knows how good it feels with every box that is packed away. No one but another widow knows each box rips away a part of your heart that needs to heal all over again. As the process continues, the healing phase seems to go quicker, the goodbyes to precious items become easier.

There’s a peace in letting go of things to which one can no longer hold. That includes the longing for a mate that is gone. The strangest thing is this. I’ve let VST go thousands of times in thousands of ways. To release him totally to the universe is still impossible, and I suspect will be impossible for the rest of my life. His eternal love lives in my heart. No rearranging of those precious memories, as they adorn the most beautiful She-Shed that is my heart.

Oh, the joys of a fresh week! Just like getting a brand new journal in which to write! The possibilities are endless and the first words a delight to behold. So is it on this Monday morning as the sun is just peeking out of the East. The birds are singing outside my window as the week begins its journey onward.

I find comfort in the bustle of Monday morning. Commuters all leaving to head off to their jobs. Kids slowly finding their way back to classrooms. Teaching long ago, Monday morning meant different things to different kids. To some it meant saying goodbye to enriching experiences with their parents. A trip to the beach or snow. Immersion into a favorite book they had been waiting to begin. Or just time to rest their brains after a busy week. For a sad few it meant relief from a horrific home life and the promise of a hot breakfast while returning to a comforting routine.

For us all, it meant a week together as one functional Third Grade family. Room 20 was a place of safety and learning. First and foremost. It was a place in which we counted minutes as carefully as nuggets of gold, because they were that precious. It was there we all learned about time management. A day is a terrible thing to waste, because you can never get the minutes back. We made sure we spent them wisely.

As you can tell, I miss spending time with students. There is an amazing exchange that occurs between a wise and loving teacher and her kiddos. If your children or grandchildren are with such a person, please remember to thank them every day. When I taught, kids were with me more than with their parents, Monday through Friday. It was if I was their moon and the stars as they mine. Through that trust and friendship, I showed them the world of words, watching and learning as they became writers. Some would beg to write through lunch. True. Imagine my delight.

Never an athlete, I was a terrible PE teacher, unless it involved telling a story about injuries and how to avoid them. I wasn’t much better at math, carefully studying lessons the night before and hoping I didn’t misspeak, as the kids listened intently. Language Arts was my wheelhouse, and the kids spun into a kaleidoscope of verbs, nouns, adverbs, prepositional phrases and more. They spun ideas and stories into a vast array of thoughts we stapled proudly to the walls. They went on to do great things, one in a doctoral program learning to help disadvantaged children. Another surprising me as a pediatric nurse with her stethoscope hanging proudly over her scrubs. Hundreds more doing great things I can only imagine.

They came to me knowing letters and words, and in one school year flew away as writers. They always took a bit of my heart with them that last day, scooting out the door into summer. During 180 days together, they took memories of the time spent learning about important events and thoughts. They left me with my own memories of precious hours spent with golden children.

My teacher manuals rest on a shelf in the garage, long outdated for newer versions. Teaching strategies that worked well in the 1900’s have been replaced. Covid now tethers children to home computers where things might be great or not so great. “Teacher” has become a flat vision on a screen, not a sweet woman that could comb your hair for you before school because mom didn’t have time. Not the yard duty woman on the playground on a foggy morning giving out free hugs to whoever needed one. Not the whistle yielding ninja that could stop a running child from slipping on ice. Just a flat screen reciting the days lesson with no chance to see your reaction or watch your feet tapping softly because you really didn’t understand.

These days, my own time management is focused on personal writing as thoughts and words splashing up on the screen. My heart has waited patiently for years to tell its stories. Now it’s my time to practice grammar and spelling skills. A time to vent from my soul. Minutes now equal stories, weeks away from becoming my first book.

Monday. It is a fantastic day with possibilities for the week. Even retired, Mondays are special. A chance for re-dos while changing up a routine that isn’t productive into one that sizzles. Wake up! Day’s a wastin’! Have a great Monday!

Yesterday, the doorbell alerted me to the welcome sight of delivery men with my long awaited hot tub cover. The hot tub has been a wonderful indulgence, providing hours under the stars to contemplate life as a published author, among other things. Bubbles of luxury allow relaxation to overtake me, preparing my mind for hours of deep sleep. Yes, the hot tub was an important addition, although I’ll agree, a wee bit extravagant.

A girlfriend went a less expensive route, buying a “Spa-In-A-Box” (SIAB) for $400 at WalMart. Having soaked in both, her SIAB is absolutely perfect for her situation, and also delivers relaxation and a place to unwind. Good for moderate climates and three seasons, her tub is currently deflated and in the garage, awaiting warmer days. So many options are available when considering the addition of a hot tub to your life. Being outdoors in a tub of hot water is wonderful no matter the vessel in which you soak.

Delivered on Super Bowl Sunday, my spa was quickly hooked up by T, VST’s son, (totally claimed as my own). High desert temps are not especially friendly when attempting to turn cold water into 104 degrees of heated luxury. The cover was back ordered, while I was assured it would be shipped separately and quickly. So. I waited. And waited. And waited. And waited, until I finally reached out to investigate the cause of the delay. With several contacts, I finally found my cover angel and the problem was resolved.

Not before I received last months power bill.

Yikes.

Just.

Yikes.

Now, with the cover in place, I have every hope that the bill will return to a more acceptable amount.

The point of the story is this. I could’ve been raging since Super Bowl Sunday, demanding a cover that was back ordered and unavailable. I could’ve spent more money and ordered another cover. I could’ve sent angry emails and posted horrific company revues. But why? The outcome wouldn’t have changed. I chose time to relax and be happy in a beautiful, bubbly, luxuriously, wonderful spa while practicing patience. The cover arrived, and all is well. Happy ending.

Two days prior, a most welcomed visitor stopped by. Yielding his magic on several of my neighbor’s yards as spring approaches, my beloved gardener rang. A most interesting guy, he’s a proud new citizen, knowledgeable in every aspect of gardening and yards. He has a real occupation, but gardening is his passion, listening to Lindsey Stirling music while working magic on the yard.

As Senor B and I took inventory of needed projects, I found myself agreeing with him on necessary pruning and tillage. These are two jobs I can’t do myself, if only for the magnitude of the job. With over 25 trees of all varieties, all 10-16 years in age on 1/2 acre, there is no way for me to accomplish that task alone, or even with help. I needed to Fold ’em and say, “How much and when?” With answers to those questions, the pruning project will commence, including the removal of debris.

As a solitary widowed senior citizen, there are some things I COULD do, but SHOULD NOT do. Pruning on a ladder can tumble one right into a hospital emergency room. Not something I can accomplish at 65 years of age. I can hear a collective sigh of relief from my kids (that are not kids, but amazing adults). Thank goodness for Senor B and his staff of helpers.

There are so many spring projects left to complete. Using the warming afternoons to start spiffing up the place, my days are busier now. The high desert winter afternoons are choking out snow and cold. The bluest of skies are back with puffy white clouds streaking through. I’ll never grow tired of the beautiful place in which I live and thrive. Even the mustangs are spring-time-feisty these days.

Sometimes we all need to accept help, while taking a breath as we realize our limitations. Some things planned take time. Grief appears, demanding attention. Keep faith that spring will hold a recognizable normal, something for which we are all longing. Smile as you step outside into the sunshine. It’s good for what ails us.

Meal time. Not sure about your situation, but, around here, meals for one are not fun to plan. Just a year ago, like clockwork, VST would remind me that mealtime was imminent. Just what would it be? Finding me deep in a project, he’d ask if I’d planned something or if we were on our own. Meals were always shared, so the answer was one of two. I had something in mind or we were going to hunt and gather. Always. VST didn’t cook.

Now, meal times sneak up, surprisingly stealth. Without another to share something prepared, my nutritional intake is out of whack. This is not healthy and it’s certainly not making me happy. Many days, my new Ninja 5-In-1 Grill sits shiny clean and ready to grill. My Omaha meats lay individually wrapped in their frozen state waiting for culinary inspiration. Having thrown away more vegetables than I care to report, I bought more today. I fear their fate is the same as the rest if things don’t change.

Breakfast around here is an easy fix. Doing very well on a high protein, low carb diet, eggs are my go to meal, scrambled with a spoonful of salsa if I’m feeling feisty. That with a cup of coffee and my motor is running. Off to the day, whatever that may hold.

After a protein snack at 10, lunchtime starts to get a little troublesome. I’ve found that Subway provides three meals of nourishment from a Foot Long sandwich. More days than I want to count, their fresh veggies and meats on freshly cooked bread have kept me alive. My town is very lucky to have a wonderful Subway with the sweetest sandwich artists. The sandwich bread provides my carbs for the entire day.

Dinner sends me over the edge. I’m not a great cook. Usually, I’m not even a kind-of-good cook. I really don’t like to cook, so what I prepare is usually not yummy. Eating alone brings out the need for culinary perfection, which I never attain. The Ninja has helped quite a bit, and there IS the ice cream maker, my star appliance. But, one cannot live on grilled burgers or ice cream alone. Here-in lies the problem.

As many of you know, I’ve booked a 15 day cruise in December. Just the thought of 45 gourmet meals at the ready is enough to cause a widowed non-cook to dance her best jig. Some may go to a spa for pampering. Just point me to the best diner in town and I’m in bliss. Homemade pie? All the better.

In research for today’s blog, I ran across a website called Onedishkitchen.com. Looking at the recipes, it gives me hope that I could prepare any one of them and enjoy dinner again. The biggest trouble I’ve had is preparing a recipe which is designed for four people, while I’m just one. Not being a connoisseur of Left-Overs, there is always wasted time, money, and food. A terrible tri-fecta.

You would think that after 327 days, or 47 weeks of widowhood, I’d have this basic need figured out. I think back to the first days after losing VST in Virginia City (VC) when the local diner kept me alive with fried chicken, tacos, and cheese cake. Not cooking during Months One through Ten could be excused for a variety of reasons, but now, there is no excuse. I need to get it together in the kitchen and nourish myself.

One inspiring movie that got me to thinking about a kitchen challenge is Julie & Julia. A cute story about a young woman smitten with Julia Child who decided to take a year to create all her recipes and blog about the experience. The parts about blogging made me laugh, realizing anyone that has ever started a blog probably goes through similar emotions. If you haven’t seen the movie, you might enjoy it.

I’ve also started watching the Food Network, with holiday baking shows holding my attention. Being a baker at heart, let’s forget the other food groups and just focus on sugar, flour, fondant, and chocolate. Add some holiday pastel’s and call it good.

Thanks for listening to my latest lament about widowhood. I’m off to prepare a breakfast for a champion and start my day. Remember to nourish your body and soul, as you find your way through widowhood.

My beloved speaks and says to me:

‘Arise my love, my fair one,

and come away;

for now the winter is past,

the rain is over and gone.

The flowers appear on the earth;

the time of singing has come,

And the voice of the turtle-dove

is heard in our land.

The fig tree puts forth its figs,

and the vines are in blossom;

they give forth fragrance.

Arise, my love, my fair one,

and come away.

O, my dove, in the clefts of the rock,

in the covert of the cliff,

let me see your face,

let me hear your voice;

for your voice is sweet,

and your face is lovely.

My beloved is mine and I am his.

Song of Solomon 2: 10-14

Winterpast. My house is truly living up to her name, blessed with this name at VST’s eulogy. She is strong and warm, sheltering me through rough seasons, starting last spring. She has given me shelter through the hottest of summer days, and protected me from high desert winds that have howled through many nights. Tears have fallen within her walls, but laughter blooms now, full and rich. Happiness grows by leaps and bounds. Acceptance of life on life’s terms has made a slow and steady healing possible.

This will be the first spring in which I can watch the rustlings of new life in the little bird houses. Irises will stretch their leaves towards the heavens as I watch intently. With lawn dressed in luscious green, I’m the caretaker of wonder for now. The slave to the imminent work that’ll appear as I care for my gardens. In this spring, I, too, can bloom in laughter and optimism. This is the first year of my womanhood, while standing firmly on my own two feet. This is the first year of my new story.

After April 8th, I’ll no longer identify as a widow. Of course, a widow I’ll always be. But, after the first year, I choose to identify as a woman. Just that. Normal. Old. Senior Citizen. Crone. Beautiful. Karen-ish-ly spoiled. High Maintenance. Woman. For to continue to identify as a widow will keep me from the rest of my life here on earth. A life that, I promise you, will explode like the biggest fire works display you’ve ever seen. In my attempt to reach the heavens from my earthly platform, I’m living my best life here on earth.

Winterpast has seen it all. Secrets will be kept in her soul, as she is a true home. An intimate cocoon in which I’m my true self. Her gardens are my touchstone to creativity and life. She is an outward expression of everything good that is inside me. She is my Winter Past. My Moving Forward. My Safe Place. Love your home, because, after all, Home IS Love.

In every life we have some trouble

But when you worry you make it double,

Don’t worry, Be happy. Bobby McFerrin

VST loved music. His main genre was Country Western. It was there he felt the most relaxed, remembering times with his Grandfather and parents, enjoying Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys. When I met VST, he knew no other kind of music. Just the singing guitar and songs like “Bill Ball’s in Cowtown” or “Drop Kick Me, Jesus,Through The Goal Posts of Life”. But, with five children, ages pre-teen down to six, and me, his musical life was to change.

As a child, I was raised on musicals, dreamy girl songs from South Pacific or Oklahoma were always playing. When VST and I our blended our families into one, an eclectic combination of musical taste emerged. My youngest son would be taken over over by Michael Jackson’s, Bad, while VST’s son was enjoying M.C.Hammer. The kids and I were always listening to music of one kind or another, with my taste staying near the 70’s or 80’s pop.

Somewhere in this mix, VST was exposed to the song, Don’t Worry, Be Happy by Bobby McFerrin. It was then, his mom began to worry about him. VST loved this song and would listen to it often, never missing a single word. He would even nail the whistling. The important point was, he got the message. VST chose to be happy whenever possible. Optimism was his superpower, lightening dark moments with a joke, or just a look in which he would raise one eyebrow higher than the other. I love laughing with him and happiness infected and brightened our days.

Soon the song was the favorite of all the kids, as well as VST and me. A coffee cup with the inscription Don’t Worry, Be Happy, sat on his desk as a reminder. Everyone knew this was VST’s theme song.

One day, his mom took him aside, after he had played the song repeatedly for her.

“Don’t you still like Country Western?” intently, she asked as she awaited the answer.

He just laughed and that became a joke tied to the entire subject of music. VST WAS Country at his core. One reggae song couldn’t change that and never did. As Terry lay still and gravely ill, I sang “On The Wings of A Dove” to him. One of his favorites, I know he forgave my quivering voice as I sang the entire song. I know those wings carried him to heaven as he left us.

Sweet K gave me a printed version of the words to Don’t Worry, Be Happy in the shape of a heart. Adorable, and a reminder that VST is hoping we are all happy and doing well. He is in heaven singing, his bass voice complimenting all the soprano angels. Keep singing VST. Keep smiling. We will all be together again someday.

Until then, I’ll remember, Don’t Worry, Be Happy.

For other boosts of happiness, Try—

The Happy Song — Pharrell Williams

Fireworks — Katy Perry

Can’t Stop the Feeling –Justin Timberlake.

That should get you in the mood for happiness!!!

In this mask covered world in which we live, it seems an impossibility to make new friends. No way to show a smile or concern, it becomes difficult to direct a new conversation towards someone that can’t see half a face in which to gauge intent. So, we all just hurry in and scurry out, missing those moments which were once used to connect with others. In doing so, we miss a million chances to make new friendships.

Since April and my move to this new town, I’ve become best of friends with myself. I know all my favorite habits. Opinions on television shows. Best dinner routines. Favorite snacks. Things that bring me down and those that cheer me up. I know them all. While quarantining, I’ve become an advocate and best friend to one. Myself. Never have I been so alone, yet never have I had such great company. I’ve slowed to a pace in which I listen to my own voice, checking on whether new opinions still match up with my heart’s core values.

The garden has talked to me in brilliant roses shaded in yellows and coral. The birds throw in their opinions as they flit and fly here and there. Oliver speaks his peace, giving me heck if I don’t grant him the proper amount of respect. The trees watch over us all, still holding back their leaves of green. The garden has a lot to say about my mental state. Right now, it says I’ve been a little less diligent on keeping the grounds spotless. Perhaps a little more consumed I’ve been about the days that are rolling on towards April 8 and VST’s heavenersary.

Thank goodness the phone does ring from time to time. My bestie, CC, keeps tabs on my shenanigans. Speaking to her, I hear my true self. She knows exactly what’s in my heart and what’s missing. Thank goodness someone does. When I get a little ahead of myself, she reminds me that I need to take things just a little slower. Our best conversations of late have been those of real girl secrets told over giggles and sighs. Secrets you tell someone that shares only best wishes for you. To have a CC in your life makes you a very blessed person, indeed.

CC snapped our wedding pictures the day VST and I married. Quietly capturing two young lovers exchanging vows, she gave me the greatest gift all those years ago. A visual feast of one of the best days for VST and me. The ghosts of those gone before gaze back from my wedding album. Our parents all gone ahead, now have fun with VST in heaven. A sister, dear old friends, and acquaintances, remain only in images on paper, now. CC caught all that in pictures, giving us the best wedding present we could’ve asked for.

Through the years, we’ve shared child rearing, a house once, long ago, divorce nightmares, dance floors and dates, 2nd weddings, and cancer’s theft of our beloved husbands. Now, we share widowhood. It cloaks our conversations in odd ways. We both know what the other experienced. There are days when we discuss the hows and whys of our widowhoods, and there are days we’d both like to forget.

These days, we have lots to discuss and laugh about in the ways of Senior Citizen Dating. At our age, we might be expected to be in dual rockers, knitting socks and sweaters for grandchildren. But, we’re far from that stage of life. Having a best friend that knows me better than anyone else in the world is comforting. As we exchange findings in our dating research, we’ve found new topics in which to howl with laughter. Laughter remains the best cure for what ails anyone, and we find our conversations delightfully healing.

The day I met CC, we were at a community meeting, protesting proposed apartments in our little suburb. CC and I talked after the meeting and it was obvious. We were both interested in our quiet neighborhood, wanting it to remain that way. There was also a fiery spark of friendship between us. With one Hello, we became friends of the very best kind, long before the day of masks and political correctness, in a time when a smile to another could be reciprocated and returned.

As Joni says,

“And the seaons, they go round and round

and the painted ponies go up and down.

We’re captive on the carousel of time

We can’t return, we can only look

Behind from where we came,

And go round and round and round in the circle game.

I’m so lucky CC is in my orbital space. I’m glad we took a chance on Friendship over forty years ago on that spring day as we held babies, our own. Riding those ponies through the seasons, we are, she and I. Friends to the end.

Say Hello to people today. Smile at your neighbors. Take a chance and wave. You just never know when you might meet a new friend.

Everyone is searching for one true love. That person that’s the first you receive a smile from in the early morning, and the last you give a hug before dreams blanket you both. The person that knows you better than you do yourself, at times. The ONE. The trouble is, ONE can become ZERO if Cancer comes knocking. Such is the situation in which I find myself, along with millions of other widows and widowers in this world. It’s just a sad fact of life.

A few nights ago, I was trying to explain the wilderness of widowhood to a new friend. I found myself searching for a string of words that could explain my experience, while floundering and becoming tongue tied. In the final analysis, there are some things known only to the heart. There is a serious language barrier when trying share the experience in words. In My experience, emotional heart aches can’t adequately be translated into explanations. And yet, I try.

VST and I were a complete circuit of electricity. For decades, we functioned in one complicated sphere of knowing. If you’ve been lucky enough to experience this with another, you understand. He was my person between 1987 through 2020. Plain and simple. With little room for others, we flew through life like two crows. Some days soaring, some days on the ground, picking on road kill. Truly. Life is like that some days. So is love. We were blessed with a great marriage, working like hell to keep it as good as it could be. It was our collective focus.

Going through life with a completed circuit board is equally as bad as grieving for the person lost. My life, nuclear-powered with VST, is now powered by me alone. Rather like moving from the automobile age, back to the days of the horse drawn cart. Slow and laborious, everything demands the effort of one, so much easier and more fun with two. Some tasks have fallen by the wayside until I find ways to accomplish them on my own. Other things just get hired out. A marvelous concept.

Contemplating the next phase of my life, I’m sure of one thing. At 65, journeying alone can be a self-fulfilling prophecy. If I accept solitude for the rest of my life, that is exactly how I’ll exist. Alone and lonely. Having experienced the brilliance of love for three decades, the loneliness of solitude will cause a premature, withering death. Of that, I’m quite sure.

VST and I would banter as we drove mile after mile across country. He was sure he would leave this world first, while I knew it would be me. Neither of us believed it would happen for years. We were racing through retirement like children at recess. Screaming our heads off as we ran down the sidewalk of life. Eating ice cream for breakfast, if we felt like it. All the while, cradling the love that was our marriage. We were blessed with the biggest blessing a couple can have. Love Everlasting. For that blessing, I am eternally grateful.

Springtime comes with wonderful changes. March winds blow outside Winterpast, making me feel like putting on a nice pot of soup. Sunshine is greening my lawn. Optimism is in the air. I’m the author of my own pages, now. Choosing to write in rainbow colors, I remember the past, while living in the moment.

Mindful.

Hopeful.

Faithful.

Happy.

This lonely heart wants be happy again. I’ve been wishing for a new friend with which to walk. Someone who shares my smile, while listening carefully. I know God has something wonderful planned for me. Stay tuned. This will be one great read.

Today, VST’s been gone eleven months while I’ve been left to regenerate. During our lives together, we were rarely apart eleven hours, let alone months. So much has changed during that time. Along with his physical absence, gone are traditions and activities once taken for granted. In many ways, I’m glad he didn’t need to suffer through the last eleven months with us all, as he would’ve resisted all the changes in a big way.

When VST passed last April, Covid Terror was striking everywhere. There was no normal in which to fall back on or cling to. Even the simplest activity, such as sharing a meal with friends was eliminated. I found myself alone with stacks of boxes, awaiting movers that would arrive 17 days after widowhood did. There was no changing or stopping a million little details that needed attending, as new buyers were moving in right after the last dust bunny had been swept away in the Dunmovin House. Harrowing days of loneliness swirled together with the frenzy of a huge move. Big risks, and bigger unknowns. All while grieving for the loss of one-half of my being.

Last night, a friend and I spoke after reading the blog of the first time. In a concerned voice, I sensed a worry that something was missed in the times we’ve spent together. Was I really okay? Who was this Grieving Gardener? This caused immediate concerns that I’ve missed something while lost in Widow’s Wilderness. After a few sleepless hours last night, I’ve returned to my psychological base camp. I’m doing just fine, for me. In my own way, I’ve made it through an emotional and barren landscape of grief. Such a personal path of growth, it becomes impossible to explain the transformation and healing, except by gauging one’s own heart. Mine is doing well, although changed forever.

This month, my last word describing VST and our relationship is REFLECTIONS. We were always reflecting on our course through life, deciding whether to remain on a path, or veer right or left. Reflections reminded us that time was precious beyond anything else we owned. Reflecting on our relationship, we found ways to repair the things we could, and accept the things that were impassable. Through the course of more than three decades, we made a beautiful life together, unique and our own.

Reflections in my mirror show a woman I’m just now getting to know and like. Strong and beautiful in a very quirky way, I’m exhausted, yet resilient and strong. Not an athlete myself, I’ve never finished a grueling race or made 17 runs down the slopes of Sugar Bowl, but I’d expect that April 8th will be such a day. Banged up and battered, I’ll plant my flag. I’m a survivor, completing my first year of life as a single woman. Never realizing my identity was so intertwined with the rigors of being a good wife, a rebooting was necessary. As I heal, there is contented happiness found in discovering who I am now. Since September 24th, 2020, writing has been a way to vent my pain and suffering, but also delight in new discoveries and personal growth. Without words, I couldn’t have come this far.

Today, I’ll release eleven colorful balloons to the heavens. I remember May 8, 2020. A very scared, lonely widow stood in my back yard with one solitary balloon. At exactly 10:30 am, the balloon was release amid painful tears, and she dropped to her knees and spilled tears into the lush lawn. Oh, yeah. That was me. My balloon releases have been meaningful and healing. Each month, with one more added to the bouquet, the beauty of the moment is remembered and acknowledged. Each month, the experience changed in subtle ways. Each month, I’ve changed as I heal.

I’ll never be the old me that was a side kick to a very complicated and wonderful VST. He taught me a lot about cherishing things that are most important in life. He also taught me a lot about things I’ll never accept in my life, again. This is my time now. The choices I make will write the last chapter of my life. VST-isms will guide some decisions, while Joy-isms will make final call.

Surprising me some days, the trust I’m finding in my own judgement is refreshing. In the last years of our marriage, I found it easier to trust VST and his wisdom, accepting decisions he made for the both of us. Laziness? Partly, yes. With a final acceptance that VST was the man, and men just know. Guess what??? Women know just as much about important things. Trusting myself now, I’m finding new skills, while using my intuition to guide me.

Today’s personal reflection won’t be the same tomorrow. Growth changes the reflection in subtle ways. Grateful for a wonderful life together, I was blessed to find love with VST. Now, I’m equally blessed to find I love myself.

Dear God,

Do you have a minute to talk? Through sheer faith in you, I’ve made it through some pretty fierce times recently. As the last of winter’s raging winds howl outside my house, I decided there are some things I’ve needed to say for awhile.

First of all, Thank you, God, for carrying me through the raging fires of Cancer, the loss of VST, and the loneliness of widowhood. You’ve been beside me through nights when the loss was blacker than the darkness. Lonelier than prison walls. You’ve also been there when happiness overwhelmed the sads. Present for all of my 65 years, you’ve sometimes cheered me on, and other times wept at the poor choices I’ve made along the way. I’ve only needed to ask for strength to carry on, and you’ve always provided what’s been needed in my life. For all those gifts, I’m eternally grateful.

So many times in my life, you’ve answered my prayers. You’ve given me beautiful and healthy babies to love and children to raise, a husband that cherished me throughout our lives together, and a multitude of blessings, too numerous to count. When my prayers weren’t answered, I accepted that your plan would unfold, even if it wasn’t the plan we would’ve wished for. You’ve offered a heavenly sanctuary for VST and everyone else ever loved and lost to heaven. In that, you have answered my prayers with the knowledge that VST is safe and happy with you.

A gift I could use right about now is clarity. Clarity in decision making. In relationships. In choosing new people to share my life. Clarity in life, helping me to rise above fear and doubt. As a mere mortal woman, the waters of life can get muddied. A few road signs along the way would sure help as I make my way in this complicated world.

Today, as my friends and I were shopping at a Garden Center, I noticed your smile in the spring flowers there. As the wind made leaves dance, I heard your whispers of happiness. As stray snow flakes fell from a random cloud on high, I saw you wave to me. The natural beauty with which you have blanketed the high desert in which I live is a treat for my eyes. I feel the need to thank you for that natural beauty surrounding me every time I leave Winterpast.

Lord, in my world, I smile more often now. You’ve blessed me with friends and family that have supported me through the last year. You’ve provided for my every need, through days of doctors, cancer, and death. You carried me through the flames as I lost VST, preventing me from being burned in the process. You’ve helped me to heal through faith, hope, trust, and love. For these gifts I am truly grateful.

It has been said that “She who kneels before God can stand before anything.” I kneel now, thanking you for the recent blessing you have bestowed on me. Truly answering my quiet and heartfelt prayers, I thank you for hearing my plea and answering me with the beautiful gift of love and peace.

God, I hope you rest sometimes. This old world is a place full of busy demons. Please, take in some happiness and wonder at the beauty that is your creation. Don’t give up on us. We are doing the best we can in very hard times.

Thanks for listening, God. If you run into my sweet and humble VST, would you please give him a special “Hello” from me? Fill him in on the happiness that’s surrounding me these days. It is because of your love and care that I can and will go on. That goes for VST, too.

With Love and Adoration,

Your Faithful Servant,

Joy

There’s no denying the fact that spring is knocking at our door! Yesterday, the sun shone brightly as the winds raced across my high desert hide-away. The birds remain focused on their happy little songs, while I’m deep into planning my own backyard bliss.

This morning, while waking from a great night’s sleep, the most interesting item I found. An expandable wall of fake greenery. Yes!. Ivy-like greenery that is instant on an expandable frame. I can think of so many uses for this, including but not limited to, the side of the RV barn, which is expansive and bare, the back fence, which is also bare, and most of all, as a privacy shield near the new hot tub! As this stuff is rather pricey, I need to start with one panel and evaluate the uses.

I have rounded the bend and am now a true Senior Citizen.

For years, repulsed by fakery, I would look away at gardeners that chose plastic grass over the real thing. Just turned my head in horror. There’s no substitute for the soft, sweet smell of a freshly cut lawn, or the feel of soft grass as you lay down to look at the clouds above. Now, I find myself on the brink of installing fake lawn in my front yard. The times they are a changing.

In the high desert, the choice of landscaping material is rock. Sadly. Rather like living in a real life version of the Flint Stones. Red rock. White rock. Red and White rock. Tan rock. Big rock. Small rock. Decomposing rock. Sand. All sensible choices when water is at a premium price. Winterpast, however, is adorned in green. She may be the last of her kind, and I’m thrilled to be her care taker. I’ll make sure she gets a drink before I do. An oasis that I tend to with loving care. My back yard brings summer comfort with rustling leaves, funneling desert winds in just the right directions. It is truly paradise for me.

Considering plans for the the front yard, I have different thoughts. When I bought the house, it was time for a little change. Over the years, the plants had become unruly and overgrown. It was with change in mind that I had them removed last fall. Now, the yard is like an unpainted canvas, ready for splashes of color and a new plan. My plan is to make it inviting, with zero maintenance required. I have enough work in the backyard for two homes.

When considering options, I decided on fake lawn instead of white rock. Luscious, inviting, multi-height and colored leaf blades of grass, inviting enough to look like it needs a quick mow. Lawn at the perfect height and color, yet never requiring a drink or mow. Just an occasional sprinkling to remove the desert dust. PLASTIC LAWN. That will fit into my plans perfectly.

Along with that, I plan to rework a the large, curvy flower bed, replacing roses and shrubs. A dash of paint on the front door and porch railing, and the spring projects will be complete. Winterpast will, again, look like a million bucks.

Yard work is so many things to me. Time to think. A creative outlet with unlimited DYI projects awaiting. Science projects in the form of soil analysis and additives. Ecosystem analysis striving to find the right number of predators and prey. Sunshine and Vitamin D therapy. Bed-less-tanning with a side of cardio. All those things wrapped up into gardening.

In my neighborhood, it also means social interactions with helpful visitors. Working in the front yard promises plenty of conversations as the procession of walkers trickles by. In the high desert, it’s still customary to wave at every passing car with a toothy smile and large wave. Mask-less walkers stop to comment on the improvements with their own suggestions thrown in for good measure. It’s a happy place full of wonderful friends I have yet to meet. Winterpast is the place I’m thriving.

Gardens will share a lot about life with you if given a chance. The new buds of spring are ready to open, in spite of the frosts that are sure to come. No worries. They bud and leaf out again and again, always pointing towards the sun-filled days of spring. The cycles of life go round and round, affirming hope and faith in a bright today.

Ready for adventure? Look in your own back yard!

It’s snowing right now. A strong, unexpected spring storm. Droopy white flakes fall heavily to the ground. The storm is lounging over the desert, causing motorists havoc and angst. As I sit in the safety of Winterpast, I wear a huge smile. My heart is at peace and I’m truly happy even though it would be understandable if I felt otherwise.

There always seems to be an “Even Though” that could snatch happiness away at any moment. Some days, clutching to happiness for dear life, I feel my smile slipping away. The other day, I started pondering the real essence of happiness, identifying for myself, those things necessary to be happy.

Experiencing a snow storm brings me to a mindful state. There are many observations to be made. One should first observe the roads. Winter snowstorms can be so intense, you could feel as if you are in the Donner Party, hopeless and alone. Before panicking, first look at the road. Outside my window, the road is clear as the warmth melts the snow. Focusing on the beauty, I ignore all the inconvenience a snow storm can bring, while focusing on the beauty of the snow flakes. Fresh flower bulbs wait safely in my garage for proper planting in the back yard. The tree buds haven’t begun to swell yet, still in their deep winter dormancy.

In a mindful state, my thoughts turn to grateful feelings I have for the beautiful place I live. It is stunning and alive. The snowstorm will transforming my little world for a short time. Like a child playing dress up, Winterpast is again cloaked in white. The work that awaits me in the next weeks is under the cover of snow. I’m so grateful for the safety of my home. In these days of Covid, how lucky I am to have such a wonderful refuge. Such a comforting home in which to smile and laugh.

Laughter is a huge part of my happiness these days. Big booming bolts of laughter have been shaking me to my core, as I am getting to know a brand new friend. Not just any friend, I must admit. A most unusual person, unlike anyone I’ve ever met before. As laughter ricochets off the walls, happiness is blooming around here. A good sense of humor is essential for any happy household, and Winterpast has been comedy central for the past few weeks.

After laughter has subsided, and friends have gone, solitude is readily available in this the age of Covid. I’ve found that being alone, and accepting the silence as an old friend has strengthened self-respect and self-love. The quiet gives me time to sort out my feelings. I can dance in the kitchen while making tacos for one, singing badly to my favorite ’80’s tunes. All the while, I find peace and contentment in my own little world of happy.

Writing every day, I’ve found my lifelong passion. As I do what I love, happiness grows. Through the years, I was blessed to have a teaching career that brought me satisfaction and contentment every day. My students were a constant reminder that living in the moment provides wonder. They were a teachable moment in gaiety, from the minute they entered our classroom, until the last one scurried home for the day. Happiness springs eternal days of youth. Looking back at childhood photos, the joy spans decades bringing me back to days of wonder and endless summers of cheerfulness.

As the days go by, I am finding I carry fewer regrets. Trying to grab at yesterday leaves one with a sore arm and an empty hand. Projecting into tomorrow sends us shooting arrows into thin air, with no assurance of where they will land. Today is the day to seize laughter, wonder, gratitude, forgiveness, and love, while being mindful of the beauty that surrounds us. True beauty is everywhere, but, it begins in a happy heart.

The snow is starting to stick to the pavement and I think I’ll be snowed in for a bit. Worse things could happy. For now, where’s the popcorn? I’m going to watch a comedy and laugh a little while.

Aloha. An essence of being: love, peace, compassion, and mutual understand of respect. Living in harmony with the people and land around you with mercy, sympathy, grace, and kindness. (Skyline Hawaii Adventures and Tours Blog)

With a powerful winter storm in full swing around here, the high was in the 20’s last night. Grey skies blanketed the desert and I stayed in, not even venturing out into the wonderfully warm waters of the new, covered hot tub. It’s just been too cold. Period.

As I practice lazy inside the walls of Winterpast, tidal memories take me back to the wonderful times spent in Hawaii embracing the Aloha Spirit found there with every visit VST and I made. So many times co-workers and family would question what it was that took us back time after time. It wasn’t the convenience, as there were hours of travel time to get there. It wasn’t the fabricated culture, which became tiresome after the first few trips. It wasn’t the status of traveling to such a far away beach, when the Pacific Coastline was mere hours away by car. It was Aloha.

Aloha is found in the air. In the sand. In the sky. In the smiles of people who feel and embrace it, once you are there. Hawaii is a brilliant treat for the eyes and soul. Plants and flowers growing there are almost unbelievable in their size, magnificent shapes, and colors. A pathos plant that struggles to grow in California, grows to the size of an elephant’s ear in Hawaii, as it’s tendrils climb telephone and power poles. Plant life thrives.

Spirits abound in the islands. Both those held by the living, and those dancing in the afterlife. The waves and trade winds perform beautiful duets, as people find their playful sides on the beaches and oceans. Time slows down. Love grabs your spirit by the hand. All of this while people smile and exchange Aloha.

Many times, while lounging on the beach, new dreams of fresh adventures would materialize in thought. Free from the day to day grind of life, our minds were free to soar like shore birds, considering the next adventures we might take. Evenings would find us enjoying sunset dinners, while celebrating life together. Neither of us could ever get enough of the island life.

When we finally retired, many friends and family assumed we would move to the islands to live out our retirement days. Both of us considered it, but decided that to move there would erase the magical side that we had enjoyed for decades. Our last trip was in 2013, when, after visiting for so many times, we simply told our co-workers we were headed to the beach. A dose of Aloha once in awhile can heal many woes and soothe aching hearts. Hawaiian music has a rhythm unique unto itself. When life gets overwhelming, a little island tune can make things better, returning me to a state of Aloha even when I find myself in the cocoon of Winterpast.

Watching VST learn the hula early on in our relationship was a memory I cherish. My clunky man, never having the benefit of dance lessons, did his best to sway and tap his toes to the music. Being a good sport, he did his best to try, while being adorned with a coconut bra and hula skirt. Even in this situation, it only took a look my way to smile and carry on. He was in a state of Aloha and good spirit. Love surrounded us and made even the most embarrassing situation funny and sweet. Hawaii changed everything, allowing us to vacation in a bubble of love and happiness, while we left the real world back on the mainland.

Hoping to return to the islands someday, the dream of Hawaii is alive and well in my heart. I think of how the air will soothe my dry skin and lungs. How the waves will sing me to sleep. How the beautiful trade winds will caress me and blow through my hair. How the Menehune will dance around me as I sit on the beach and look out over the bluest of seas. Love Aloha, but even more importantly, learn to LIVE Aloha. It may just fix what ails you.

(Cadance Borrowed from “Oh, The Places You’ll Go” Dr. Seuss)

Spring is arriving

The clocks, change them back!

Lose one hour of shut-eye

Squint-eyed on our backs.

Change the clock on the stove

Change the clock, microwaving

Change the clock on the mantle,

Changing clocks, you’ll be slaving.

On your own, you. Go quick or go slow

Directions without, it’s a yes or a no.

Now sun on the street, shines at 6AM

You check this clock and that

Trying not to forget ’em.

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

Directions without, it’s a yes or a no.

With the speed of a youngster

To this room and that,

You flit here and there

Time not for chit-chat.

And you may not find any

In some certain rooms,

No clocks in the shower

Nor next to perfume

Time speeds away on this very bright morn,

What was 7 is now 8

It makes you forlorn.

Not very hungry for lunch you now feel

Because noon was eleven

Yesterday, Making you squeel.

The day is off kilter,

It brings up a frown,

You feel sort of angry,

A little bit down.

But finally, each clock,

On this race-away day,

Is now showing time right,

Or that’s what they say.

You sit down and ponder

Smiling broad and sincere,

You did it, you did it,

Without any fear.

No directions were needed

To set your world straight.

When Six became seven

And seven became eight.

You don’t lapse behind,

You’re right on the money,

What?

It’s bedtime already?

Time change is quite funny.

To bed in the twilight

That used to be seven,

Now eight and fifteen,

My brain says, “Oh Heaven’s”

Where are my glasses

A book I will read,

Time slow as molasses.

Changing the clocks,

A simple task, not,

Thanks for listening to my tale

I thank you, a lot.

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

The time has changed, and I’m a little behind this morning. As I smile about my day yesterday, I’ll share with you what made it special. Just little things that unfolded throughout the day, that when rolled together, made the most beautiful day on which to reflect. I often forget to rejoice in a day full of little bits of happiness stirred with a dose of surprise.

Yesterday started out in very normal fashion. Feeding Oliver, enjoying the first cup of coffee, and blogging. All very enjoyable on any day. I’ve found the luxury of having my groceries delivered makes any day a grand one. You can’t imagine the delight I feel when the doorbell rings and my bags of carefully selected groceries await. A luxury I feel blessed to enjoy. At any rate, with my feeble brain, I forgot some key elements on my list, and needed to head off to Walmart to finish shopping.

The first bit of great luck was that they just put out the new swimsuits. Having just acquired a hot tub, a girl can’t have too many, so I bought a variety in different sizes. As it turned out, the three styles were made for me in my 65th year. No movie star or model body here, just a regular senior citizen body. Happiness strikes at the soul of any woman when she finds the right swimsuit. I found more than one! Home run!!!

As I was rejoicing over my find, a sweet girlfriend and I ran into each other and had the best chat! You know your town is not that new to you anymore when you meet a friend at Walmart. How wonderful!!! We visited about this and that, and decided we’ll have a dinner and soaking party in the next two weeks. She was bubbly, cute, and wonderful, as she always it. Again, happiness filled my heart, as I thought about how lucky I am to have wonderful family and friends.

Once home, the gardener came to spruce up Winterpast and prune my trees, not a task I could do myself. When I receive services that I’m unable to complete, I’m deeply grateful. The man who cares for my gardening needs is such a good guy. Referred by a neighbor, he too, is a friend. We enjoyed getting caught up after his long winter absence. Winterpast looks ready for spring now. Fresh and crisp under the brightest blue sky.

I also decided to go for a walk today. The first one of the year, it was the perfect day for it. I found that my walk is 23 minutes long, around a very busy neighborhood. Now, I pay attention to little details in the yards surrounding me, getting ideas for my front yard project. I.m taking note of which home owners own their own tractors and heavy equipment, in case I might have a need for such services. Every day, I rejoice in the choice I made when moving to my neighborhood. Such a beautiful place. I’m truly blessed.

As the day continued to get better and better, my sweet K called to check up on me. She is the most beautiful daughter anyone could ever ask for. As we talked, I remember that not all that long ago, I was her age, with sons of my own in their late teens. Where did the time go? She and I chatted about this and that. K is the most gracious and sweet soul, having had the worst year in her life with the loss of her beloved dad. She has grown so much through the loss, becoming even more beautiful. I am the most blessed to have her in my life.

Bearing two sons, I never really understood what it meant to have a daughter of my own. Through the saddest of days, VST’s daughter became my heart-daughter. In our conversations, I’ve shared about this crazy new life called widowhood, and she’s always been there to listen, even when I know it must be weird and hard. For that, I am tearfully grateful, as I rejoice at the love we share in our family.

Finally, I got a call from a dear friend that was craving a bit of homemade spaghetti. With the pot simmering full of Italian sausage, ground beef, diced tomatoes, basil, spices and goodness, I readied the house for dinner. Bringing laughter and sweetness into my life, I’m grateful for the day we met.

All these minutes were rolled into a normal day. Others might find my day mundane and boring. I find it was everything that a wonderful day should include. Great Weather, Family, Friends, and new bathing suits that fit. It really doesn’t get better than that.

Rejoice in the little things!!!! And check your clocks. The day’s a-wastin!

Please forgive me. The time change robbed my blogging hours.

I will be back tomorrow

Thank you for supporting me by reading!

Joy

Optimism — Hopefulness and confidence about the future or the successful outcome of something.

Optimism –In philosophy, the doctrine, as set forth by Leibniz, that the world is the best of all possible worlds.

Tax Day — April 15th. A day dreaded by all. This date is not usually accompanied by an optimistic feeling. I wish to change that for myself.

Yesterday, while remaining optimistic, I spent the morning massaging the entries in Turbo Tax to come up with an amount of money that will represent my donation to the United States Government.

Tax Day. Last year, preparing our taxes was one of the last things VST lovingly did for me. His 2019 Tax folder proudly displays some of the last numbers and words he wrote. Although I always joined him to approve and sign the resulting document, he created the tax return after completing the heavy lifting all year long. Just one of the hundreds of things VST handled so quietly and perfectly while he was alive.

Grateful that Turbo Tax is available, I started entering documents a month ago when the kids (who aren’t kids, but adults) were here. It’s pretty amazing how many tax documents arrived after the first of the year. I’d just put them in my own tax folder marked 2020 Taxes, just as VST would have done. Pretty soon, my little folder was bulging. I must admit, I was a bit overwhelmed by the number of important documents.

Soon, I couldn’t ignore the task at hand. One by one, I entered the information written on the forms, and soon, I created my very own 2020 Federal Tax Return. Just ‘Like That! One entry at a time, until my folder was empty. Then, I created a binder of supporting documents, printed a copy of the tax return, while reviewing the numbers many, many times. I found some glaring mistakes and a few not so obvious, until the resulting Tax Return is one that makes me smile. Professional and complete, with supporting documents and worksheets.

During this little adventure in computer entries, the worst thing occured. My internet service went down. Drat. With terrible timing, I could have run aground. But, with a simple phone call, I reach a lovely technician who found the trouble and got me back online. She, too, had such a sweet demeanor, which made the entire situation better. In an hour, things were fixed and I was computing taxes, again. Our combined attitude helped to make the situation conquerable and pleasant.

Later today, I’m going to see my Certified Public Account (CPA) for one last look. It never hurts to have things checked over by a professional. Just maybe he’ll look and find a glaring error that will save me hundreds or thousands of dollars. Maybe the government owes ME money. Maybe A LOT. Maybe………. Well, maybe I’m a bit giddy that I just got the darn thing done. I accept the amount that I owe and will send it off as soon as I get the green light from the CPA.

Optimistic at the entire process, I hope a least a small portion of the money I send in can be used to help someone, adding to the greater good. VST would be depressed for a few days after the taxes were done. Just moping around with a heavy heart. We all have a choice in how we look at things. I could easily go down that path, fuming about the waste in government and how the small amount I’m contributing (Not Small To Me!) will be thrown to the wind. Or, I can just envision it doing some good. I’m choosing to be optimistic, because either way, I need to write a check and send it on its way.

My CPA owns and runs a prestigious accounting firm. When I met him last fall, we had a great visit. He’s upbeat and positive, which makes today’s visit something to which I’ll look forward. His secretary called me on Friday to confirm the appointment, and she was a bit of bubbling happiness on the phone. Just checking to make sure I’d be there. I’m thankful she wasn’t down in the dumps, too. After a drive through the high desert, today’s trip to the state capital will be something different and fun. Another milestone will be met. My first Tax Return as a widow will be completed. Another thing I’ve accomplished, that I didn’t know I could.

Optimistically, I am cleaning up the desk, feeling the taxes are complete and ready for the mail. A coat of furniture polish will bring out the shine on the rich mahogany finish. After a bit of shredding, the process of saving documents for next year will again begin. I’m hopeful that next year, I’ll need to report income from book sales. Don’t worry, Uncle Sam, I’ll save a little for you. Just don’t be too greedy. A new author needs some pocket change left over for fun.

Time changes for me are never an easy thing. Truly an early morning person, there is a limit to how early I rise. Trying to wake at 5 is really 4. There is a limit.

As I drag around this morning, please forgive my inability to produce a wonderful blog. My sleepy cobwebs are just too thick.

Please enjoy earlier blogs for today. Tomorrow, I will return refreshed, with interesting topics to share.

J

Even the best laid plains run aground, at times. So it was with my late night tax project. Two days earlier, my ego was riding high. I waltzed right into the Accountant’s office, pretty as you please. In my arms, I held a mint green binder, complete with all appropriate tax documents in individual page protectors. Each type of document was placed in the appropriate category, behind section dividers. Tax Returns were printed and placed in front for inspection and I felt victorious.

The accountant looked through everything, saving me a quick $400 in the first three minutes of my visit. As he worked through each section, I won his approval. My head was swelling at a rapid rate, as he complimented me on my work and organizational skills. Ha. I’d indeed conquered something I’d never done before. At least, not in many decades. I was on top of the world. With our meeting completed, I paid him $100 for his time, saving $300 by visiting. I was singing on the way home.

One bit of advice given was that I E-File. “No problem, “ said I, smugly. VST and I E-Filed the last several years. My tax program would guide me through the last steps, leaving me finished with the 2020 Tax year.

When I got home, I looked through the taxes once more, knowing this would be the last time in my life I would ever file as a married woman. It was an odd feeling. Like stepping off a life raft into a sea of hungry sharks. In black and white, there’s no denying it. I’m single and will be that until the end of my forever. Of course, there are the obvious financial implications, with higher tax rates for single people. But, more than that, there is the lonely fact that VST is gone and I’m now a family of one, with Oliver my dependent.

The words printed on the top of the tax form were stark and final. Deceased. 4/8/2020. I’m glad I’m experiencing this near the One Year Anniversary of his death, ending another chapter, as well. As a couple, we’d always come to an agreement on when to start and complete our return. VST was on the conservative side of taxes, making sure that every deduction was supporting by the correct document.

Once, we were summoned to the local IRS Office. There was a discrepancy they needed to discuss with us immediately. Terrified on the long drive into town, we wondered, out loud, what the discrepancy involved. We were hoping for adjoining cells when they locked us away after finding years of mistakes unknown to us. It was a dark drive.

Upon entering the office, the IRS agent brought out our taxes. A line was highlighted in which we had entered a $100 donation to Job’s Daughters.

“Here at the IRS, we take donations very seriously. These donations cannot be made carelessly, and declared when they’re not valid. Mr. and Mrs. Hurt, one cannot make a donation to a person’s daughter. Job would need to be part of a non-profit or religious organization. What do you have to say about this???? ” The agent let the last few words hang in the air, while looking over the top of horn rimmed glasses.

We were speechless. Job’ Daughters is a Masonic youth group for girls aged 10 – 20. It’s a 501 (C) (3) organization, for which all donations are completely tax deductible. We left holding hands, relieved that we would not be ushered to federal jail.

Returning to last night, perched at VST’s desk, I was ready to send the taxes into cyber space. I checked, once more, that all entries were correct. Everything seemed in order, as I pushed the FILE button. An email arrived stating my taxes were on the way. Everything was just great. For 32 minutes. Until, with another email, I found my taxes were rejected. Just like that.

I repeated the procedure two more times, finally realizing, there was a missing code. I needed the code to complete the transaction. A code from last year. A pass-code that VST would’ve hidden in that unusually sharp brain of his. A code now gone forever. A code I would have no way of every finding again.

It was with those thoughts, my ego returned to normal size. There are just some things that are not worth fighting. Pass-codes are one of them for me. The line was drawn there. I threw in the towel. Defeat cuts deeply into the ego. But, defeat it was.

My taxes were mailed in a legal size envelope, Certified Mail, with tracking, thank you very much. There are postmarked March 17, 2020, including a check for taxes due, and all required documents. Just like that, I have cut the rope, now in my own financial life raft. I can create my own codes and carefully record them for later use. There are bound to be rough seas ahead, but also starlit nights, enchanting and peaceful. Let the currents carry me where they will.

Driving is not my favorite past time. Being a cautious driver, I observe the speed limit, rules of the road, and the antics of others. My only wreck was in 1973, when I totaled my brand new sunshine yellow Mazda RX3. It was a very fast car, driven by an even faster young lady. The jaws of life were involved to extricate me, uninjured and furious that they would be using such a device on my formally beautiful car. Confusing, as the devastating damage couldn’t be seen from the inside where I was sitting. Luckily, I wasn’t injured, those being days of the 1900’s, before air bags and seat belt laws .

Yesterday, with taxes in hand, I left with my postal delivery in hand My new little town is just that. Very little. The US Post Office is about two miles away from my house, all on country roads, usually empty. Leaving my neighborhood, there are a few twists and turns and then……. The Straightaway. Yes. A portion of the road that just begs for speeding. There are houses on one side, and BLM land on the other. It gives off a sense that no one is watching. Anywhere. I speed on this stretch of road.

Now, I don’t mean to. I know it is highly rude to the people living on this stretch. The road is clearly marked 25 MPH. My speedometer clearly says 40 MPH as I speed on to the STOP sign. There are families that live on this road, enduring the speedway right outside their kitchen windows. Each day, I promise to do better on the next trip. Each time, I speed.

Little Town, USA, in which I live, has another peculiarity. Very seldom are there visible patrol cars of any kind, any where. One reason could be that there’s very little crime in our town. At least, that is what I wanted to believe. However, the little bank was robbed yesterday. My bank. With my quiet, professional tellers that like to give big happy smiles and wish you the best day when your business is done. The sweetest people run my tiny little bank. With only four or five employees, they are polite and efficient, providing a sense of family while you bank. A man with a gun robbed them yesterday. He stole their happy place. And mine. He hasn’t been caught yet.

My little town has crime. Lots of it. Something not to be forgotten, as springtime can conjure a heightened sense of complacency.

So, it’s easy to speed on this quiet little stretch of road, without giving it a second thought in my quiet little town that has next to no crime. Until yesterday, when this senior citizen lady in her souped-up white Jeep with the sunflower tire cover (ME) came rolling around the bend, already going at a pretty good clip.

Rounding the corner, engine roaring and waiting for the straightaway, brakes were applied immediately when trouble appeared ahead. Patrol car lights. Yes. A sweet neighbor was sitting, mortified, in her beautiful SUV, while the officer was writing up a speeding ticket. I guess I’m not the only one that shoots down that road like greased lightning, rattling the neighbors. I slowed to 23 MPH as I carefully passed the officer and his perpetrator, formally known as my neighbor.

It brought me back to the moment. I can’t forget to follow the speed limits. Watch for signs. Avoid erratic drivers. And, stay in my lane.

Things always go a little better when you follow the established rules. You can avoid collisions and road rage by doing so. It may take a little longer, but by observing the speed limit, you will get to your destination safely. Going a little slower, you can enjoy the scenery and blue desert skies. You have more time to react to pot holes or stray items on the road. You can watch for renegade mustangs crossing your path.

All those points apply while going through life, as well. Speeding through, you miss so much. Quarantining at home, time has slowed and sometimes even seems to stop. The days still go by at the same rate, but pass more slowly. The great outdoors begs for leisurely walks through beauty. In solitude, I’ve found time to consider life and the direction I want to go.

There are so many choices to make now. Physical choices involving the yard and my 2021 landscape additions. Choices of spring clothing and footwear. Choices in home decoration and organization. The list is endless. However, physical choices are only a cover for the deeper spiritual and emotional landscape of life. It’s there where we all fight demons and find angels. In the quiet of the desert, I find the solitude gives me wide open spaces in which to dream new dreams and put nightmares to rest, once and for all.

Today, I’ll be practicing safety first, with doors locked and a watchful eye. The bank robbery makes me want to bake a plate of cookies, delivered warm to my financial friends. They will be re-evaluating their own safety procedures, while hugging each other a little tighter. Masked robbers with a gun steal more than the money they take. Innocence was lost yesterday, in this, out little wide spot in the road.

Slow down, my friends. You never know who is watching around the corner. Just waiting for you. Could be your friendly highway patrol, or a bad guy. Keep your eyes peeled and slow down.

In the last year, there’s been little opportunity for something as simple as a date on Friday night. With the virus controlling the show, restaurants have been all but shuttered. Things that we used to consider routine, like a dinner date, are now rare, treasured events. At least for me they are. So, last night was something special.

Finding a new friend is a wonderful experience of life. Like beginning a book by an unknown author, rich and exotic stories await as time is spent together, listening. My new friend and I grew up in entirely different ways, in places as different as Zimbabwe and Paris. Although born days apart in the same year into large families, the similarities of our early lives stop there. I’m learning about life in the refined East, while sharing about life in the wild West.

As different as we are, the more we find we are similar. A close friendship is building, as we keep track of shared interests, similar tastes in food, and things we find humorous. Yesterday, I was asked to join him on a Friday night date.

Discussing options available in my little town, the subject of KFC came up, (as in chicken). It was then, I knew my dining choice would be in Virginia City, Nevada at the most beautiful of restaurants named Cafe Del Rio. As a past resident of VC, I’ve spent hours dining in this fantastic venue, seated at comfy wooden chairs and surrounded by the history of the Comstock. Just eating in the dining room is an experience. The surrounding walls are rock, holding mysteries of the miners that might have handled them. The food is divine, the service, extraordinary. This is a place where the entire staff cares deeply about your dining experience, because, they own the place.

Driving to VC in the white Jeep Wrangler, dark clouds covered the vast desert sky. With another storm forming, we could see the mountaintop on which I lived for so many years from Highway 50. Blanketed by clouds, we were traveling to the base of Mt. Davidson at almost 6200 feet. Since April 8, VC has been an easy place to avoid, holding too many memories from my life with VST. But, last night, it held the promise of good food and friends.

Driving along 6 Mile Canyon Road, I remembered all the times VST and I scurried up and down the windy route. Any road that leads to VC is treacherous and needs the complete attention of a sober driver. Making the tight twists and turns while creeping higher and higher, sweet memories surrounded me. Thriving there for a time, it was our happy place for many years. Yesterday was the first return visit that didn’t involve tears and a heavy heart. I saw the town for the charming, quaint place it is and became just another tourist looking forward to dinner.

The owners of the restaurant were happy to see me. So many nights, they provided food for me when VST was sick, and after. The last 17 days of my life in VC, their food kept me nourished. Last night, the Gospel Fried Chicken didn’t disappoint, complete with HOMEMADE mashed potatoes and gravy, corn cut right off the cob, fresh coleslaw, and the centerpiece of the plate, boneless chicken breast prepared in a very secret way. All heavenly. We then shared a piece of Apricot-Ancho Chili Cheesecake with Chantilly cream on the side. Everything served with friendly banter between friends.

We now have another thing in common, both being true fans Cafe Del Rio Gospel Fried Chicken. We’re finding that time between us is sweatshirt-and-jeans-comfortable. Whether discussing the finer points of growing up on a farm, or being a Navy Seal in Desert Storm, we talk easily, seasoning our discussions with laughter and good stories.

For now, I’m looking forward to more Friday night dates to new and fun restaurants as Covid loses its deadly grip on our lives. Meals, movies, walks along the Truckee River, and friends. The last year has held enough horror, sadness, and tears to float the 7th fleet. With caution, its time for me to explore the world that awaits me.

Throughout life, there are sayings that stick with a person. Each generation has a special selection of these, which leave the youngers scratching their heads at the meaning. Almost like a secret code to another world, these phrases bring a smile and knowing to those that understand. They leave those that don’t get it confused.

Once upon a time, VST and I farmed in the Central Valley of California. On our ranch, there were 109 rows of vintage grapevines. Planted before 1936, these grapes were a variety lost to the ages. Their flavor and texture were of another time. They were not for shipping, for their skins were far too fragile. They were Thompson Seedless grapes, green in color. Not the huge grapes you find in the store, which are tricked into being that huge size. These were normal sized grapes, which when dried in the sun, turned into delicious Sunmaid Raisins.

For seventeen years, VST and I carried for our vines the best we could. We worked two full time jobs to support our little farming hobby. Forty acres is a lot of land to care for. One fourth of a section of land. If you every need to walk down a vineyard row, picking up discarded thick wood removed during pruning, you begin to know how long the rows are. Especially if it is a cold, foggy Central Valley morning, when your irrigation boots get stuck in mud.

There you have another phrase. Stuck In The Mud. Until you have been, you don’t know. A terrible predicament. A Stick In The Mud prefers their life to remain that way. Stuck in the mud. Horrible situation.

On our farm, there were 109 rows, most of them, very long, continuous rows, stretching from one side of the ranch to the other. Whether irrigating or shoveling, one would start at row 109 and work back towards the house, which seemed ever so far away. Hours later, you might be at row ninety-five, depending on what you were doing. Fixing wires that supported the grapes. Shoveling in gopher holes or shoveling off sucker vines growing at the base of the stumps. Cutting down weeds or tying up tendrils. There was always something that needed doing.

Our house sat in the middle of rows 1 – 30-something. A nice square space in which our house was, along with a big red barn and out buildings. This divided those rows into two sections which were named The Short Rows.

Every one of us would look across the vineyard toward the house wishing we were already there. Plodding along in the cold, wet, or extreme heat, we moved at a snail’s pace. There was time to think and ponder the problems of the world. Time to wish we could win the lottery and never need to pick up a shovel again. Surprised, we might scare up a quail or coyote. Always, we moved toward the house and the short rows.

Now, in life, I’, working the short rows. No matter how I wish the days would zoom past April 8th, I plod along. Each day a little bit closer. There are more opportunities to sit and rest, but, I’m not done yet. The last year has worn me down. Emotional blisters are healing, but the heavy weight still makes them sting a bit. I find I’m a bit more calloused from widowhood. I’ve found I could carry more than I thought I could. Looking back, I am proud that I made it through, a stronger and more competent woman.

The best thing about the short rows, is that you could find rest at the house. There was a bathroom right there. Grabbing a cold water, you could sit under the shade of the patio and take a break. The breeze seemed a little stronger there, promising that the job at hand was almost finished.

In life, there will always be another pass to be made. Another daunting experience in which you return to Row 109 and start all over again. So glad VST and I could experience farming and life together. Someday, he’ll be waiting for me at Row 1. Bring the lemonade, VST. I’ll be tired.

September 24, I began blogging without a clear goal. Yes, there were murky thoughts of completing a book. But that was all in “SOMEDAY” status. Nothing was visualized as a memory before it even happened. Each morning, I’d look up stats for my blog and remember squealing when I had ten readers from the preceding 24 hours. There was only one constant. I wrote, every day, inching along with the excitement provided by those first few readers.

Slowly, the readers and number of reads increased. I remember the excitement I felt when I reached 50 readers and 100 reads. It was an amazing feeling. But, it didn’t meet a set goal. An un-aimed arrow always hits its target, they say. My arrow sailed gracefully hitting a perfect bullseye into thin air.

After a few months, with the realization that my numbers continued to grow, I set a few goals and upon reaching them, said a little “Ya-Hooooo”. I continued writing.

This morning, my past readers number over 5,000. My total reads are over 11,000. Not shattering in the world of the internet, by any means. My past readers come from more than 48 countries and 29 states. I average 100 readers in a 24 hour period. It’s time to set some new goals, so I know when to plant my flags. One goal is to have readers in all 50 states. Slowly, I march toward that mountain top.

When journeying through life, goals help us move along, rather like a tow strap. I can’t imagine not having daily, weekly, monthly, and annual goals, monitoring them for needed adjustments. It’s just the way I roll best.

Thinking about the future, it was suggested that I consider the point in which I will embrace the fact that I’m a published author. The blog is one milestone along the way. But, when I close my eyes at night, I don’t feel I am a true writer, yet. So, what will it be? The first day my book is advertised on Amazon? My first sale? My first book signing? When I have my first book available in hardback, e-book, and audio versions? Those are all flag plantings I need to decide upon. Until I do, I won’t know where to plant my flags, and they’re pretty heavy to carry along.

I plan to celebrate when I reach these pointy peaks in my writing life, envisioning a shiny sports car with the license plate “PAGES” proudly displayed. I see it. But, the real prize will be when I reach all the things listed above, and have multiple books in print.

This last year, goals have helped me get through some pretty tough days in the wilderness of widowhood. During April, 2020, I listed hourly accomplishments while struggling to breathe. There were so many things needing to be done as I readied Oliver and I for our big move. I’d make a list of three things. When they were completed, I’d list three more. Without tiny goals, I wouldn’t have had things ready for the moving truck.

Tiny accomplishments grew into bigger ones over the last eleven months. Journal-ing along the way left a bread crumb tale of memories. What a unique year it has been. One that none of us could have predicted, packing punches delivered one after the other. Each time the knock down blow was delivered, we all regrouped and stood tall again. Here we are on the brink of returning to some sort of normal. Bruised, but standing.

I have a big flag to run up the pole on April 8th. One year will have past since I lost VST. During that year, the trails have been treacherous. Some days, the winds, rain, and snow have been blinding. Sand storms have caused me to hunker down until they ceased. Each storm left me stronger and more determined to move forward. That’s the point right? Don’t get stuck in the mud. I find these last few days are more harrowing than all the rest combined. No one can warn a grieving gardener about that for it’s an experience all its own, individual and unique to each person.

My flag is huge, and reads “An Appeal to Heaven“. We can all hope for someone to show us the way, following leaders. We can try things we’ve heard online that might be helpful during a crisis. We can wait for stimulus checks, and new laws to lead us in the direction of someone else’s choosing. But, when all else fails, and hopefully before that, An Appeal to Heaven will show the way.

Pick milestones along your journey and remember to plant your flags. You need them flying high as a celebration of your accomplishments, and a sign to others behind you that things will get better with time.

This morning, the alarm didn’t go off, and neither did I. I fell asleep to raging winds last night, awaking to a beautiful morning of glistening snow. Just a dusting, mind you. Swollen buds and sprouting irises don’t do so well in this cold weather. My apricot tree, covered in blooms and bees will be complaining over this. I hope I get a few apricots with a second bloom, as the days warm.

The weather report is very encouraging from Saturday on. Days in the mid 60’s and nights above freezing. Hopefully, spring is upon us. Outside my window, two of the fattest little sparrows are eating the buds on the tree branch. They have rosy chests and plump little bodies. Everyone around here is ready for winter to end.

This morning, I’m going to do my best to stay present in the moment. There are so many things needing attention, being mindful is difficult. I just realized it’s time to shop for Auto and Home Insurance. What did people do before the internet? We were all at the mercy of insurance agents. I so remember when the agent would come out to the ranch to visit my mom and dad. Coffee was brewing in the Presto 12-cup Stainless Steel percolator with fresh home-baked goodies on the table. He was a valued member of the team, providing insurance against unforeseeable hazards and dangers.

Now, one simply shops online to compare the best rates for a specific situation. In 1973, the insurance agent looked around for watch dogs. It was desirable to have a couple to keep thieves at bay. Now, there is a complete list of un-insurable dogs. Thankfully, Cream-based, Piebald, Green-Eyed, Standard, Wire-Haired Dachshunds are not listed. Especially cute ones like Oliver, crazy as he is.

Perusing list after list of insurance choices to come up with a magical price, I realized I’ve been paying way to much for years. Yet again, another way that I will save money. I am enjoying this part of my life reset. Probably a good idea to dust off your copy of insurance policies to make sure your rates are competitive.

Yesterday, I chose a new Home Warranty Policy. New widows, listen up. If you own your home, this is a must. Home Warranty Policies are the best thing ever. You buy a yearly policy for around $500, depending on your situation and location. Then, when something breaks in your house, which things always do, you simply report the item to your company and they arrange a repairman. My fee with them is $75. That’s it. They repair or replace the item in question. You are all set. Matters not, whether a small light socket or your entire Air-Conditioning Unit. Repaired or replaced. For your one time fee. They arrange the technician in a timely matter, and handle the problem. Finito!

We have all had situations in which something breaks resulting in a huge repair or replacement bill. Who wants that? Check online. There are many companies providing this service, and it matters not how long you have owned your home, whether it is mortgaged, or even if you own it free and clear. Check it out.

The salesman from which I purchased my policy yesterday was knowledgeable about his product. He did try to upsell me on a longer, cheaper, better, and more wonderful option. I stuck with the one year plan. So, now, I hope I don’t need their services for the next year. With new appliances, just out of warranty, you never know. Summer is coming up and my AC unit could break. Something could short out my electrical system. Anything could go awry. So, this is my little hedge against disaster.

VST used to handle all these little details so quietly, I never really gave them any thought. He would have Bonanza playing in the background. While Hoss and Little Joe were solving the latest problem, VST was crunching numbers and finding us the best insurance for our situation. He never complained, but always enjoyed his duties in our partnership. He was good at those sorts of things. Now, I’m finding out, I am, too.

At the moment, the sun is shining in a hopeful kind of way. The winds are slowly moving some stray-gray clouds off to the East, revealing the bluest sky. The dusting of snow is melting slowly, perhaps being the last of the year. The trees everywhere are swollen with new life, but not yet leafing. Tuesday brings the garbage truck around, automated and efficient, moving slowly from house to house. Neighbors are bundled and enjoying morning walks, reminding me I need to get moving.

Moments in the present are so beautiful. There is so much to take in when just stopping to look through an open window. I could get lost for hours doing just that. Today, I need to accomplish some vital tasks. There will be more moments of mindfulness after I complete a few things around here! Enjoy your day!

A year ago, those words came screaming into our ears, although the Gastroenterologist asked them very quietly. Not once, but twice. We sat stunned. VST in a confused state. Me, on heightened alert, wishing I’d heard anything else come out of the doctor’s mouth. CANCER. What did it mean to two people, married for 32 years? What did it mean to best friends? Lovers? Children? Grandchildren? You know, CANCER means something different to ever single person it ravages.

VST sat on the examining table, still and quiet, as one would expect of a Doctor of Psychology. Studying each word. The order of the words. The intonation. Any body language that gave hints. The pause before his question and our answer seemed like our forever. The cat was out of the bag, so to speak. VST’s disease was CANCER.

Nine weeks isn’t a long time for an illness to begin, progress, and finish in death. VST wasn’t in terrible pain, although he had pain. Withering away, his muscle atrophy was startling. The growth of his abdomen caused trouble with breathing and sleep. But, he continued to insist he felt too good to be really sick. The doctors had been baffled, as every blood test given came back within perfect range. VST was like that. Healthy in every other respect. A handicapped athlete until the end, walking 4 miles a day, even when he was ill.

I finally had to ask for clarification from the GI Doc, as this question was just too broad. It was then he told us the hard truth. Once the location of the cancer was found, we would be referred to an oncologist. Our time with the GI Doc was done. Again, he asked, “What does CANCER look like to you?”

VST and I had discussed our end of life wishes so many times. The end is the end. Period. If there were no real options, the option we chose individually was to do nothing. We just happened to agree on that point. That was what cancer looked like to both of us on that very bleak and horrible day.

We discussed our options and the fact that Cancer markers were at extreme levels in the blood work. Normal. 20. VST’s — 4500. But, the cancer remained illusive and couldn’t be located. All the usual places were clear. With this mystery raging, VST would need to undergo more scanning and probing until the location could be discovered. He should not be mistaken. We should not be mislead. Cancer was raging, with the location hidden somewhere in VST’s body.

I’ll never know how much VST understood or accepted on that day. His mind wondered frequently, spending much time sleeping. I was losing the best parts of my husband, best friend, lover, partner, co-parent and co-grandparent, investor, and co-conspirator. I was losing 1/2 of myself in a brutal way. Through it all, VST remained quiet, compliant, and reserved. He relied on his faith in God, increasingly found in prayer. He’d started his journey away from me weeks before the doctor posed the question.

What does Cancer look like to me? Broken Hearts. Terror. Anger. Sorrow. Loss. Pain. Suffering. Morpheine. Long nights. Caregiving. Hospice. Sore muscles. Sleepless nights. Bargaining for another chance. Lost dreams. Strangers helping. Expense. Meaningless doctor’s visits. Time wasted on worthless treatments. Solitude. Isolation. In the end. Cancer means Goodbye. That’s what cancer means to me.

Quietly, we rode back up Geigher Grade to our little town of Virginia City after the appointment. Twisting back and forth on the harrowing road, the topography was similar to the situation in which we found ourselves. On one side, there were sheer mountains, with car-sized boulders ready to fall onto the roadway at any moment. On the other side, sheer drop-offs, in which a wrong turn could send a car sailing into the air for hundreds of feet. Doom on either side, the little white Jeep scurried back to the safety of our home, while VST slept soundly, his head propped upon the door.

As I drove, I wondered just what cancer meant to VST’s doctor. In a few short visits, the doctor had come to like us very much. I’m sure the conversation we just had was jarring to him, as well. Every doctor takes an oath, “Do No Harm.” He didn’t cause this harm, but had to deliver the worst news to us. He needed our prayers, too, as his heart was breaking for us.

VST never answered the question. Maybe he couldn’t in the state he found himself. He never cried or shouted to the heavens. He never questioned “Why Me?” He simply took the hand he was dealt and played it out. VST was one of the strongest men I have ever known in my life. His faith was un-shake-able. His love, the purest. His care for his family, the most sincere. VST lived life in the arms of God until he left this world. An example I will do my best to follow. I’m so blessed to have been his Darlin’ for all those years.

Over the last year, Cancer has meant different things to me. Memorial. Old Friends. New Friends. Memories. Sweet dreams. Night terrors. Lonely days. Lonely nights. Meals alone. Mail for one. Monthly balloon releases. Letting go. Acceptance. One year Heaven-ersary. And, so much more. It means different things on different days. But, always, it means a loss of the way things were, even if things go well. Just like the scourge of Covid, things never return to the delicate state they were before. It takes strength, true grit, and a deep faith to continue on.

Take a moment to think about what CANCER means to you. This post surprised me. Such a complicated topic, with endless answers. I hope no one ever asks you the question, the way we were asked. No one should need to experience that. Sadly, it happens every day.

For over two decades, one very large and well-known company covered Home and Automobile insurance needs for VST and me. In the first years, it was rather like a new love affair. Low rates. Nice little emails. Attention to details on their part. Policies, like clockwork, would arrive in our mailbox. Although we never met with an agent, as people did in mid-century USA, we did often speak by phone. All was wonderful. Until it wasn’t.

Upon VST’s death, the insurance company was on my list of services of which to alert. As a widow, it’s unsettling to receive mail addressed to a late spouse. Nothing can ruin a day faster than mail for someone you wish would come around the corner to snatch it from your hand. When such mail arrives, I quietly write “Deceased” on the envelope and put it back in the mail to be returned to sender. This has extinguished most contacts. But, this insurance company decided to play ball a little differently.

I was informed that my insurance would “SKY-ROCKET” due to VST’s death. Their terms, not mine. In order to keep my lower rate, they would simple let VST “drive on” as the main policy holder until May 2021, nearly an entire year later. I informed them that, while VST loved to drive, he was no longer able to, being dead and all. Their response was the same. He would remain the primary driver on the policy to keep the lower rate, which would explode in price the following year.

This made no sense to me. Two cars with only one person to drive. It seemed to me the chances for a mishap were cut in half. I couldn’t drive both cars at once like a chariot racer. What were they thinking???? It occurred to me that, in case of an accident, I would simply jump in the passenger seat and say, “He did it.”

I continued to get bills addressed to VST, and even tried a second time to get them to understand. I have two cars, but, one driver. Me. A non-ticketed, no accident, wonderfully safe driver with zero claims in the past five years. No losses. No problems. The answer was the same. My insurance bill would balloon to astronomical levels in May of 2021 without VST at the helm. Both the auto and home owner policies would increase in price. This was insanity on their part. A very good customer with a perfect payment record now had incentive to jump ship.

With April almost upon us, I started to review insurance policies, such as the Home Warranty, which I spoke of a few days earlier. With May 2021 just around the corner, I decided to shop around and see if I could do any better. I didn’t have much hope, but, it was worth a try.

My insurance was tied to an association of which I have little in common, except my status as a senior citizen. American Association of Retired Persons (AARP). The magazines would arrive, cringe worthy and not representative of my thoughts, values, or mental age. They would immediately go in the trash. The only benefit was the wonderful discount on my auto and home insurance due to my membership. For years, the trade-off was okay. Now, there was no more trade off, and my affiliation was irritating on every level.

It was then, I remembered a conservative group called Association of Mature Citizens (AMAC). They offered all the same benefits as AARP, but would represent my views more closely. With a phone call, I found they also have an affiliated auto and home insurance company, also nationally recognized and reputable. I was in business.

I’ll warn you, shopping insurance takes the better part of a morning. So many questions about every aspect of your car and home. But, the results were astounding. By shopping, (and I did have a very good rate before), I saved $600 for the year between the two policies. Just like that, I found better coverage, even including hail and wind coverage for my house and RV barn. In the desert, that is coverage very important to include.

Before giving my old company the heave-ho, I tried one more time to talk to someone about fixing the problem of having an angel-owned policy. I was informed that my existing policy would increase in price by AT LEAST $150 a year, quite possibly more. It was impossible to remove VST from the policy until May 2021. Further more, new rates weren’t available until April 15th. It was then I knew very well where I could get 2021 rates. FROM A NEW COMPANY, Thank you very much.

So, as the song goes, “You Gotta Shop Around.” Just because you’ve had the same insurance for years, doesn’t mean it is the best or the cheapest. A reset in life can lead to better service. The old adage, “Vote With Your Dollar”, rings true in this situation. Take charge of needed services. Shop like you would for the best deal on a new pair of shoes. With savings like these, you can buy a few new pairs.

As a child, one of the best times of year was Spring. Baby lambs were everywhere. Kittens magically appeared out of darkness of the decrepit old shed next to the animal pens. Birds fed their tiny little hatch-lings. The vines sprouted and bloomed, and life, in general, was fine. Spring fever hit with a vengeance, leaving us ready to park our school books and go climb some trees.

Television was in its infancy during my childhood. The first television we owned was revered by all. I remember the first time we turned it on and watched the Test Pattern. All huddled around the little screen, a black and white pattern magically appeared. Turn off the TV and it would disappear. Turn it on, it was back. Magical. Enough in its simplicity, because there was nothing else like it.

In those days, there were hours in which there was nothing to watch BUT the test pattern. People actually slept during those hours. When there was nothing to watch, children really did go play outside. ALONE and FERAL. News was in the evening, between 6 and 6:30. Finished. People actually ate dinner together at one table. Those magical days were something we would all do well to remember.

One of the best parts of spring had to do with The Wizard of Oz. With no VHS Cassettes, DVD’s, or Digital rental sites, movies were seen in the theater. Once a year, and once only, The Wizard of Oz was shown on a random Sunday night. We were allowed to stay up for the entire movie, if we could stay awake. The first years, movie was watched in black and white, as there were only black and white television sets. The first time I realized Oz was in technicolor when Dorothy arrived there was a magical moment.

Each year, that night was filled with the scent of freshly popped popcorn topped with real butter. Dad would stand in front of the stove with his pan and lid, working magic. Always adding too many kernels to the pan, two little girls would squeal with delight as the lid would raise and fresh popcorn spill out. Wide eyed, we’d watch every single scene of the movie, learning every line as the years went by.

Thinking about the similarities between the yellow brick road and the widow-y journey I’ve been on for the last few years, I smile. In the first month, I remember feeling as if I was spinning round and round, while getting no where. But, as the spiraled trail spread out, I started to see new territory and while traveling somewhere new. My yellow brick road traveled through lands and scenery foreign to me. On certain days, I found the ability and desire to skip a little, being forever mindful winged monkeys could jump out and snatch me at any moment.

My journey has been lined with yellow bricks of sunshine. Bordered by poppy fields that lured me to sleep once in awhile. Funny new friends along the way, all utilizing special powers, while searching for things lost or lacking in our lives. The thing that kept us going was, well, GOING. We didn’t stop or travel backwards. We just kept going, no matter the forests of wicked trees, or unknown terrain. We sang a little, too.

Two weeks are left on this journey of the FIRST year. Last year, VST and I crammed a lot into the last two weeks of his life. We accepted that he was so very, very ill. He slept more than he was awake. When he was awake, he wasn’t really himself, or at least, not the VST I’d loved for so long. His brick road spiraled backwards, while his child-like side returned. His legs didn’t work as an athlete’s anymore. Wobbly, he would carefully gauge each step and smile broadly when he made it across the room without falling. Through his journey away from me, he held onto his strength, dignity, perseverance, and faith in God. He moved in tighter and tighter circles back from where he came, while I moved on, further and further away towards my rainbow’s end.

Rainbows and endings. What a sight it must be at the end of the rainbow. Brilliant colors all blending and planted into the ground like tree trunks, sprouting eye popping jewel-tones while reaching for the heavens. Searching for the rainbow’s end, I haven’t looked for gold or physical riches. I’ve found peace, contentment, rich memories, acceptance, and happiness. Just like any rainbow, the location changes as you get closer, but these things I’ve found along the journey. We’re here but for a short time. A shroud has no pockets. But, a soul is pure light and energy made up of what we’ve experienced here on earth. Those things are the treasures found through my time with VST.

April 8th will complete my first year of widowhood. Looking back, the woman that struggled through cancer and death has turned into ME. Although I’ll be a WIDOW forever, that title doesn’t quite fit anymore. Maybe it never did. I’m a WOMAN, plain and simple. Complicated. Difficult. Loving. Simple. A Gardener who Grieves, but a gardener, first. I hope that your journey through widowhood brings clarity and peace along the way for time takes us all on memorable journeys.

There are some mornings in which my brain pauses, as I struggle to focus on a topic. I find myself in that situation this morning. Retiring to my bedroom at the normal time, last night, I made a poor movie selection. I’ve been soaking in the happy antics of Rock Hudson and Doris Day, when I decided on a change of genre.

Turning to the gloom and doom of World War II, first I watched The Caine Mutiny. A very interesting look into the psychology of powerful men. There were four movies in the set, each focused the days of World War II. I found The Caine Mutiny to be fascinating on several levels, including the role women played in the movie and at the time of war. With nothing more disturbing than the quest for a few lost strawberries and an outrageous storm, I decided to begin another movie before falling to sleep.

The next choice was The Bridge on the River Kwai. In my old age, the movie was at times, hard to watch, leaving me in a less than a sleepy state. In today’s world, there would have been far more violence and gore splashed upon the screen. Movies of the past are artful in suggestions of things so terrible, your mind is left to reach its own hellish conclusions without visual aide. It was of those scenes from which my brain borrowed characters.

Dream sequences can be a bit comical sometimes. I was sitting on the beach enjoying the sunshine, as I’d planned to do for so many months. All of a sudden, prisoners of war came streaming right past Dom’s Clam Chowder and Bait Shop to a whistled tune. They continued until they were in place and someone gave the command. Like that, the pier fell into the water, the flying pieces turning into dolphins, which swam away. Cheerfully, everyone on the beach clapped loudly while the prisoners each took a surfboard and paddled off, whistling John Lennon’s Imagine.

As it turns out, my planned adventures to the little beach house were blown up just like the Bridge on the River Kwai. As April 8th got closer, it became obvious that the stress of the heaven-er-sary is weighing heavier on my shoulders than I first thought it would. That, coupled with the fact that the beach town is 459.3 miles away, made me reconsider my decision to venture so far. I rewrote my plans for the day, accepting that sometimes one needs to take a step back and regroup. I will be spending April 8th in the comforting walls of Winterpast.

T and K will join me on April 8th for a last monthly release of 12 brightly colored balloons. Each month has brought a different path for the balloons, along with different emotions and feelings. To think I’m at the end of the first year of widowhood still amazes me, returning me to a last bit of widow’s fog. How can it be that a year passed so quickly? How could one year take a lifetime to pass?

After getting a glass of water and returning to my comfy bed, dreams came again.

This time, a brand new television, grand in scale was sitting in my living room. Colonel Saito and Lt. Colonel Nicholson were sitting with me on the couch debating how high the new television should be hung, while T and K looked on. I had no input at all, muted, while watching the prisoners outside prune my trees to short nubs while removing all fruit wood. Oliver sat in a tiny prisoner of war outfit, looking forlorn as the tired men slaved away. Branches were being stacked for the new bridge, with every bit of wood being needed.

Again, my eyes flew open, happy to find myself in the safety of Winterpast, with no sign of prisoners or the enemy anywhere in sight. The dream did give me the great idea that I DO need a new television. With that new thought, it took me a little while to return to sleep, considering my options on just how high the television would need to be hung, without the help of Saito and Nicholson, by the way.

Today is a great day for one gardener to get her game on while bringing gardening tools out of the shed. Under the shining sun, today is first day of outdoor activities for me. I have garden beds to design and bulbs to plant.

Tonight, I’ll return to Doris and Rock. Send Me No Flowers. No enemy warfare need to assault my dreams and blow up a peaceful night of sleep. Have a wonderful Saturday.

Peonies are my favorite flower. Most unusual blooms grown from bulbs, until last year, I had no idea they were my favorite. I wish I’d documented the date the first shoots sprouted. I didn’t. But I do recall my wonder at the long shoots supporting tennis ball sized heads. I wondered what on earth these plants were. When they bloomed, I was hooked. Pale Pink Peonies. Each day, I rush to my favorite plant, awaiting signs of awakening. So far, nothing.

In other news, there is the matter of the small little beast that lives with me. Oliver. Some days, I want to cry as Oliver struggles to reach mature dog status. We are well into our second year of life together, and there are no signs that this 25 pound PUPPY is maturing in mind or behavior. None. Emotionally amped-up and needy, this guy runs at full speed all day long, every day, every hour, every minute, every second. Like a puppy on crack. A 25 pound puppy on crack.

One would want to believe that any dog would find Winterpast a haven for the four-legged kind. With shade, far corners, impenetrable fence line, shade, and water, any reasonable dog would prefer being there to the confines of the house. Not Ollie. When he is inside, he wants out. When he is outside, he wants in. Oliver wants what he doesn’t have at the moment, like a small, spoiled child, with me being the spoiler supreme. I’ve created a doggie monster.

Sir Oliver of Ashworth Hall is a Standard, 25 pound Dachshund of the most unusual variety. If you Google Cream, Piebald, Chocolate, Wire-Haired Dachshund, you will find his kind looking back at you. Oliver happens to have green eyes that are alarmingly human. He is smarter than me on most days, just unable to type, having no thumbs and all. He forgets nothing, and has a nose that can find the most carefully hidden treats. He forgives me for all my faults, except when it comes to food. Oliver is a food driven dog with a weight problem who lives on 1/3 cup of kibble twice a day. His world revolves around his feedings, twice a day. Very active and healthy, my chunky monkey zooms at warp speed even with getting such a small amount of fuel.

Winterpast offers so many things that Oliver has decided are treats of the best kind. The most frustrating are the small solar lights that lined all the paths in my yard. The yard is truly park like, with paths that go here and there. It would’ve been so pretty to line them with lights. One day, I decided to make that a reality, buying 50 such lights and installing them one by one. Oliver watched. He pretended he was asleep, with one eye open, of course. Each light took time, as I peeled off the labels, measured for placement, made sure they worked, hammered a small stake into the ground and attached the lights. Around the yard I went along the paths. The yard did look great the first night, when the lights came on. Lovely.

Oliver suddenly wanted to disappear outside during the day. It was a delightful respite from his inside antics, so off he went, sailing into the back yard. Slowly, I figured out why he was eager to go outside. He began digging up the lights, chewing up every small stake I had so lovingly installed. If the light got in the way, he chewed that up, too. At first, I didn’t notice. Now, the measured spacing is no more. A light here, an empty hole there. And Oliver deciding for himself when the next one will be removed.

He also loves the drip system. It must taste wonderful. Perhaps I should try an emitter salad, or Spaghetti with a touch of irrigation tubing. This dog is highly destructive in the cutest little package. He knows quite well this will not find favor with me. He can’t help himself. With 1/2 acre of yard, he has so many tastey treats to discover. I have a spring and summer of mangled irrigation tubing and emitters to repair or replace.

Yesterday, I was busy in the house, and looked out to see him tearing up yet something else. Something new and shiny, like a piece of foil. I couldn’t place it, but went out and picked up the pieces. I know now. He’s decided it’s time for the pipes to be unwrapped and the irrigation system to be turned back on. What a little helper!

Oliver has cleaned up every bit of mummified fruit from last year. Roaming the yard, he finds an old apple and whisks it to the lawn, where he devours it. Any toads should shudder, with his constant patrol. Yes, Oliver is a very busy, busy boy.

Some would say he is bored. To them, I would say you have never lived in my house or with Oliver. He is on 24/7. Visitors come and are shocked at his energy and behavior, because this dog is a crazy Labrador in a very tiny body. He is a solid package of TNT, ready to rock and roll, always with the cutest doggie smile. His days are busy and filled with lots of doggie activities. He just prefers the ones he creates more than the ones I provide.

I know very soon, I’ll have a real dog. Not a crazed puppy. At some point, I’ll look across the grounds of Winterpast and he’ll be snoring under the old apricot tree. His gnarled chewing bones will lay untouched next to emitting drippers watering my pink petaled peonies with the perfect amount of water. For now, he’s right to remind me. It’s time to start watering the back yard.

More peonies are going in the ground today. He will be blindfolded while I plant these. He need not see what treasures Mom-Oh is hiding. Off the the gardens for me. Have a beautiful Sunday!!!

With Easter less than a week away, springtime is here. At R-Time Hardware, the babies have arrived. Chicks, ducklings, and even infant turkeys all chirp away on clean sawdust. Nothing brings a smile quicker than brand new baby chicks. Their fluffy little cuteness takes me straight back to childhood.

Being a red-neck country girl, the most exciting day on the farm was the one on which any baby animal arrived. Some arrived the usual way, found on a cold morning, steaming next to their mom. Baby bunnies wiggled, hidden under a cloud of their mother’s soft fur, prepared by her before their birth. Others came by special delivery. Such was the case when the chicks would arrive.

Each year, Dad would order 100 brand new chicks specifically to provide our yearly meat supply. I have no apologies, for I was raised on an organic farm before Organic was the word of the day. There were no pets, except the dogs, who worked for their meals. Everything that we ate as we grew up was fresh and from our bountiful garden or livestock pens. All the meat consumed was raised by my father, in between his other duties as a farmer. This included our meat chickens.

Chicks are delivered in groups of 100, sexed and boxed. Now, who sexes them is a mystery to me. You can’t tell a rooster from a hen in the beginning. Well, obviously someone can, but that wasn’t a skill I learned as a growing farm girl. Whoever did this was good, because from all my memories, there was never a rooster in the bunch.

Roosters can cause havoc in an otherwise peaceful and tranquil farm setting. In the coop, they can upset the hen house, for sure. They are noisey, and later in life, they can become dangerous. We never had such critters on the farm.

There are two versions of chickens one can choose. Those raised for meat and egg-layers. Dad never raised eggs, which was funny, because we certainly consumed enough of them as a family of seven. I guess Mom drew a line in the sand, refusing to add daily egg collection to her long list of chores.

After receiving the chicks, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and give each one a drink of water and a bit of food. He would observe their behavior while assessing their health. They would be transferred 25 at a time to the brooder, outside in the room sized chicken coop. Our brooder was 4 foot in span, and circular in shape. Under this, the chicks would be warmed by the light from a simple bulb. They could run in and out, but slept quietly at night under the warmth.

Baby chicks are very delicate. The change in water can make them sick. They get too cold. They can get too hot. They can forget to eat, or eat too much. Chickens, as a rule, are not the brightest animals in creation, so they need constant supervision to make it to two day old chicks. They are also a sought after taste treat for thieves, such as opossums, raccoons, hawks, or coyotes needing human protection.

Dad watched over these little guys as any nervous parent. Twice a night, he would go out to the coop to make sure everyone was nestled in and no one was sick or injured. With plenty of food, these babies grew to full grown chickens in six weeks. All at once. No stragglers. All babies were full size chickens in 42 days.

Over a week, and with the help of anyone who would, along with those of us that were forced, these chickens were transformed into packages of meat for the next year. This was no small task, and no quick job. The resulting meat was fresh and wholesome. Any of you that have had the opportunity to enjoy fresh chicken know what I mean. It ruins you for grocery store chicken from that point on.

Strolling by the babies at R-Time Hardware, I stopped and thought about it. There were the coops, for sale. The little noises were so enticing. Bags of chicken feed were at the ready. I could raise a new little crop of my own egg-laying cluck-ers. But, reality hit. Chicken poop. Stray feathers. Hawks. Oliver. I had to let the dream die.

For those of you that have your own chickens, enjoy them. They are delightful little animals, and fresh eggs and meat are a delicious addition to any dinner table. We should all remember, the only truly organic food comes from our own back yards! Bon Appetit!

My, oh my. One year of memories weigh heavy in my heart. I hope the lessons learned in the next week are minor compared to those from the prior 11 months, 3 weeks. Never in my wildest dreams could I have predicted the horrible turn of events that came knocking last year. No one could. A schooling of a very cruel sort began in the winter of 2020, that of which I’d wish on no one.

A brittle twig will not bend. I learned there’s not a correct way to grieve. One needs to be flexible, just like my old apricot tree. When the winds come and blow away the leaves, there she is, shivering but strong. Although fierce winds blow, her branches remain strong as they move with the gusts. There were so many days full of plans that needed to slow to a snails pace, because I could go no faster. I would make the most fantastic scheudules, only to find that, when the day arrived, it was more than I could accomplish. Take for instance, the Beach House.

Months and months ago, I decided that I would spend VST’s Heaven-er-sary at our Central California Beach. The one at the RV park where we spent so many weeks between 2017 -2019. The cute little house and all her windows point to the Pacific Ocean. That little house would be mine for a week. From April 5-11, I’d enjoy the waves, while dolphins lept and sea birds dove.

When VST and I would visit this little town, we would head out on the pier to our secret resting spot. Benches line the pier, but there is one on which we would always sit awhile. Norm’s memorial bench. Norm, who would be well over 100 by now, was a great guy who was a friend to everyone he met. He had served on the school board with my dad, and his wife was my God Mother’s teacher in elementary school. Seeing who could get to the bench first, VST and I would sit and talk. It was there the ocean went crazy one day with a flurry of dolphins, whales, gulls and other sea birds. Every animal in the sea that day was in front of the pier, with the ocean churning in a frothy soup of activity. It was a breath taking show just for the two of us.

That bench represented a familiar face from the Central Valley. A farmer VST knew well. Someone who’s name was spoken often in my house as a child. A man so good that an elementary school was named after him. We always found it to be a beautiful place to think about things. Sometimes VST and Oliver would go and rest alone. I could see them from the rig, suspended over the breaking waves as they watched the surfers just below them.

As the weeks went by, I realized that to drive almost 500 miles in one day would be a lot for me to handle. Last week, I realized that to complete that trip was more than optimistic during a very emotional week. Sadly, I canceled. The drive was a factor, for sure. But going to the town that held so much delight for us on our visits on the one year anniversary of his death would prove to be too much stress for me at this time.

Learning to be flexible has been the biggest lesson. Through packing, moving, unpacking, and making a new life, I found that an inventory of core beliefs and values was necessary. Ways that things had been done in the past might need to be changed up. Just as I cleaned my closet, I had to purge my heart and start anew. Thank goodness the move occurred. So many friends worried about the choice of moving 17 days after VST’s death. There was no choice in the matter. The DunMovin House was sold. Winterpast was purchased. In the middle, there I was, between here and there. Between Widow and Woman. Suspended in a bridge of fog.

Accepting What Is. That was another big lesson. In the past year, I traveled through landscapes of different kinds.

The Bargaining Basement of Dispair, Shock and Denial. “If Only………. ”

The Forest of Pain and Guilt…….. “I miss him so much. If only I had…..”

The Ocean of Anger and Bargaining………”Why Me???? This isn’t fair……. ”

The Reconstructive Meadow of Working Through—-“This IS something I can do now…….”

The Spring Time Orchard of Acceptance and Hope. “What a beautiful life this is!”

Because, life IS beautiful and I’m so very blessed to have had a beautiful one so far.

Choosing Happiness. This has been the most fun lesson of all. Through this entire experience, on so many days, I would tell the mirror, “I can Choose sorrow and anger. Or. I can choose Happiness.”

There really is no good choice other than happiness. In the beginning, I’ll admit, there were days I needed to fake it until I could make it. But, in the end, who wouldn’t choose happiness for themselves and those around them. It’s all in how you pick something up and look at it. There is something positive to be gained from every situation, even the bleakest ones. And mine was pretty bleak.

I’m certain there will be more days when the bed seems like the best place to be. When just getting a cup of coffee will be a chore, or when I need the tissues close to dry my tears. But, there will also be days of celebration. I’m on my way to Year Two and the next year will be bright and promising. Full of new discoveries and adventures. Of that I am quite sure.

This morning, the sun isn’t up yet. Today should be calm. A few days ago we had a blustery day on the high desert, with wind and dust warnings prevailing. Sand storms are no joke, with damage to windshields and paint jobs occurring in a flash. The nearby lake experienced 2-3 foot waves. The wind howled and Winterpast stood firm. Just another spring day in the desert.

Pollen alerts are rampant here. I thought people went to the high desert to avoid allergies. I guess not. The prominent culprits here are Mulberry. Ash, and Elm, with the levels being high right now. With the addition of the high winds, sneezing is on the rise. In this area, it really could just be seasonal allergies. The problem is, one doesn’t know, and so I remain in isolation.

More birds are moving into the gardens of Winterpast. There are little sparrows conversing with each other on the branches, while finches flit past, hurrying to new nests in the little bird houses. The robins have been out every morning pecking through the grass, while two doves walked about on the patio, having made note that I have no cats living with me. Last year, a brave little dove made a nest on the top of the ladder I had yet to put away in the barn. She made it through the entire ordeal, raising two new little doves in the process. The ladder sits there again, as I hope another dove might repeat the miracle.

The mustangs have been out and about, but new foals haven’t dropped yet. There’s nothing cuter than a wild mustang foal. Nothing more hardy, either. They are up and traveling with the herd in a matter of hours after birth. These herds travel miles and miles each day, never stopping for very long. You can pass a herd running an errand, and they will be long gone when you return. Happily, they are moving into the higher country now, leaving the streets and my neighborhood poop free for awhile. Wild horses do have their drawbacks.

Just a year ago, yesterday, VST and I traveled to town with K and T for his liver biopsy. There was no thought of baby birds, or springtime. VST slept on the way. The day’s procedure was the only way we’d know for sure what type of cancer he had. Without this information, we couldn’t be assigned an oncologist. With the beginning stages of Covid underway, only one person could go with VST into the hospital. It would be me that would keep him company until his procedure.

The strength and love T and K brought every visit was tonic for VST. For me, too. He would put on his best smiles for them, letting them know each time that he felt way too good to be really sick. He continued to tell us that until he no longer could speak.

Through all of this, VST had the strongest faith of anyone I’ve ever known. His belief in the miracles of spring and the powers of God gave him his strength. Watching him walk through cancer with such an uncertain and scary outcome was humbling and encouraging to me.

While T and K waited outside, VST endured yet another procedure. It was this test that would let us know what type of cancer he had in his very ill liver. In the end, the results of this procedure released VST from the need to complete any other tests. His cancer was in the end stage.

As I think of last year and the sadness that we all went through, I know now that VST was headed towards his new beginning. He never stopped celebrating life, even at his sickest. He never questioned his heavenly salvation or the hell that was his cancer. He simply lived every moment appreciating beauty in the smallest things. From that experience, I realize he knew a new beginning was just around the corner. Bright and sunny, on the wings of angels he would ride into the glory of the heavens.

Winter is past. Spring is here. April. This most beautiful month stole something precious from me, but gives back so much in return. At my lowest spot, bankrupt in many respects, I started on an amazing journey. Almost one year later, I am here, stronger and more resilient. With a deep faith in new beginnings, a second year starts. Life goes on that way.

Enjoy your beautiful spring day. Look for the smallest miracles. They surround us all. Look at the new life and rejoice! It’s spring!

Today is just a super day!!! I have so much good news I hardly know where to start!

I’m moving to Nepal!!!! YES!!!!! During some research about adopting a child from Nepal, I met a gentleman named Fravash. He owns a business in Kathmandu, and will come to visit me In-80 days!!!! I can’t tell you how happy we are, just hanging out doing nothing. He watches over his mother, who really doesn’t need much watching. She is spunky and happy, and they two of them make a great team.

Oliver just loves the thought and Fravash and I have decided that we need to start on our new journey together, so we are tying the knot on our planned mountain journey two weeks from now. Fravash and I are both fully vaccinated, and even more than that, we’ve already had Covid and are now totally immune. Yes. For Life. So, the Nepali trip will be amazing. Staying at his bungalow at the base of Mt. Everest , we plan to hike every day and eat way too much Momo, cooked by his staff of ten. Did I mention? He is Nepali royalty, so he inherited his estate and pays zero in taxes or dues. Even the help is free. 24/7, he has help with all his needs.

The staff has the exclusive on Kathmandu Katharoo Wine for the entire region. It’s all the rage. I wish I could try it, but, alcohol just doesn’t agree with me. His profits from the wine are outrageous. He just bought me a mink back pack! Can you imagine????

I’m in the midst of planting 35 trees in the gardens of Winterpast, in a variety of mountainous species. My new friend assured me that they will all grow in the high desert and they are arriving by boat next week. A staff of gardeners are accompanying the shipment to my high desert get away, and will plant them with the best Napali blessings they know how to give.

After the adoption is complete, we have lots of plans, one being to transform Winterpast into an interpretive center for those of Nepali descent. His mother and he are planning to move here after we return from our last planned ascent to base camp on April 24th. We are preparing a place for his pet monkeys, all 24 of them. He assures me they are not always as busy as they were when I first met them. I am surely hoping not.

I’ve also decided to go back to work teaching. I so miss the little rug rats and hope to teach Kindergarten this year. There is some enticing new Nevadan curriculum in which the American alphabet will be replaced with the Napali alphabet. So, with the interpretive center and all, it’s a time of great excitement. The Nevada governor called yesterday to discuss the plans further. I’m really excited about returning to the classroom.

I’ve trimmed 35 excess pounds and now taken up mountain biking, which is a hobby of Fravash’s. We regularly go for overnight rides through the mountains with mosquito netting, of course, my mink backpack. Just the way they do things in Nepal.

Along with all of this, I just sold my new book, “How to Marry a Rich Nepali Sherpa Dude in Ten Steps or Less.” Penguine Books snatched up the chance, after my blog reached 20,000 readers yesterday. With a hefty signing fee, I am off to look at new sports cars. Fravash refuses to ride in the little white Jeep anymore. Onward and Upward!!!!

With love in my heart, and a huge smile on my face, there is one more thing……………

April Fool!!!!!!!

Come back tomorrow for more of the REAL stories. J

Ice cream is a buzz word in our family. Growing up, summer ice cream was a staple at our house as Grandpa made the best vanilla ice cream known to human kind. With a slew of little kids around, he would simply mix up his secret recipe and then leave the rest to the grandkids. Each child would need to take 100 cranks at the icecream maker, counting loudly as they went along.

The process is what made the entire event so magical. In the first place, Grandpa would need to take a trip to a magical “Ice Machine’ in a dusty little village some minutes from his house. This was always a fun trip on which to accompany him. He, wearing his customary farmer overalls, would pile kids into the pickup. In those days, the excess kids might right along in the back. Yes. The open back of the pick-up. Funny, never I nor any friends ever blow out. We all made it to adult hood even without childhood seatbelts. Just amazing.

After we arrived at the “Ice Machine”, Grandpa would put a coin into a slot on the outside of this very rusty box, the size of a container. With a lot of noise and commotion, a tremendous block of ice would come shooting out. A big block of ice, 18″x18″x18″. I am talking a sizeable chunk of ice that Grandpa would hoist into the back of the truck with us. Back home we would roll.

In the shade of two huge mulberry trees, Grandpa would sit with an ice pick and chip away at the block. Sometimes he would use a hammer if we were getting to him a bit. But, in the end, the big block of ice was chipped into smaller pieces and we were ready to made ice cream.

VST knew, when the the chips are down, icecream can heal all wounds. It was in this frame of mind I remember him a year ago, today. VST was weary from all his procedures and lack of information about the source of his cancer. He continued to insist that he felt too good to be seriously ill, although the rest of us could see the toll the cancer was taking on our beloved VST. No longer the same in personality or looks, he was often confused, although always in a chipper mood. Our worrisome faces were something he couldn’t understand. We were all worry warts. We were asking him to go to the hospital for further testing. All he wanted was some ice cream.

We pleaded with him, asking him to find reason with our thinking.

He wanted Peanut Butter Chocolate.

We asked him to speak with his doctor.

Two scoops on a sugar cone.

We begged him to reconsider.

And sprinkles. End of story.

K and T took him for a quick trip to Carson City for Ice Cream that day. I stayed home in a bath of tears. Each day, he was slipping further and further away to a place I couldn’t go. Terrified, I cried and cried. But, in the final analysis, there was only one thing for sure, I was the one that got no ice cream.

I have my own ice cream maker now. There is no hand crank or need of many children to make it work. Plugging into the wall, it simply creates icecream in 40 minutes or less. It makes vanilla with a far simpler recipe than Grandpa’s. Although I can enjoy it under my Apricot tree, I am missing two magnificent Mulberry trees that still grow at the home place.

Ice cream. The food of champions. When life gets you down, have a cone, topped with whipped cream and sprinkles. One day later, it may be too late.

I LOVE getting comments from my readers! I am still pinching myself that my blog is read around the world. I wonder who in Sri Lanka awakes my posts, being one of my night readers. Who are the Portland readers? Do they know each other and discuss me? My biggest hope is that each day, someone feels better reading my blog. That would make my day.

Strangers are just friends that haven’t yet met. Soon, I’ll be RVing around the country, looking forward to meeting readers from coast to coast! So, send me comments! I’ll put you on our route!

This time of year is the perfect time to reflect on life and the strength we all have to find new beginnings. The renewal of our faith and spirit is reflected in the happiness of Spring. New life is everywhere, and we can all try again!

I’m finding happiness with my new friend. We’ve known each other for 7 weeks, each day finding new and interesting things we like about one another. There isn’t a time limit for seclusion after widowhood begins. I feel so lucky to be enjoying days with my guy friend. I’m truly blessed.

So, if you feel inclined, please send me a comment and let me know what I can do to make my blog even better. Portland, you have quite a few readers there. I am wondering just what goes on in Portland!!! For for my foreign readers….. You make blogging mysterious and real for me. Please send me a Hello and let me know what you think.

As your prepare thoughts for today, remember that kind words have a way of healing so many ills in our world. I thank all of you for reading my words and sending me your thoughts in my writing, I am humbled by your kindness.

Happy Easter!!

Hospice beds are the most atrocious, ugly, uncomfortable, and temporary pieces of furniture in existence. It seems so helpful that a hospital bed is offered at the beginning of the hospice experience. Something the average house doesn’t have or can’t afford, the offer of such a bed seems the one thing that is truly helpful. In our case, we should have been careful what we wanted. What showed up was not exactly great.

The bed entered our house in parts, chipped and well used. Exposed twin bed springs hooked to chipped and dented headboard and footboard, all rather loose and wobbly. The mattress was well used, which led to many thoughts of where it had just been and who had gone before. Lumpy and cardboard-like, it was wipeable. With Covid ramping up, it did make me wonder if the last occupant had been a victim of the new virus.

A masked delivery man cheerfully asked where the bed would be placed. All of this was going at such a fast rate of speed, I was glad VST could make this decision for himself. He went right to an Eastern facing window in our bedroom and smiled. Right there would be his spot. The bedroom, set above the garage, was suspended in air. From the window, there was 20 foot drop to the asphalt drive below. Looking out, Sugar Loaf Mountain stood in the middle of our 100 mile view to forever. The bedroom was surrounded in glass, with four big windows facing East and South and a glass door leading onto the suspended deck. It was the perfect spot for his bed because it was the one he chose. With just a little rearranging of furniture, his new bed was in position.

One thing that no one mentions is that these beds are delivered without sheets, especially in the age of Covid. Plastic coverings make for uncomfortable sleep. But, sleeping without sheets or blankets would make it impossible. Being alone on the mountain, I took Kingsize sheets and made them work. A light blanket become snuggly when folded in half. With a quilt on top, VST had a hospital bed.

Looking on, I wished he would stay in our bed, just inches from the new one. We’d decided we’d wait to purchase a new mattress until we made our move, so the old mattress stayed. In many ways, VST’s subpar hospital bed might just be more comfortable than the mattress I’d lay while watching over him. VST was not the clear and precise Dr. H I was used to conversing with. His thoughts were confused and clouded. But, one thing was certain. He was very happy about the placement of his hospital bed. It was one choice he could still make.

The view out the window would be a source of entertainment. Behind a half lowered shade, he could be covert in his observations of the daily activities of the neighbors and town. A tiny state highway was visible from the window, bustling with morning garbage trucks, or yellow school buses delivering children to school. St. Mary’s on the Mountain stood proudly next to the St. Paul the Prospector Episcopal Church. With the window open, the VC breezes would bring fresh air into the room. With the heating vent under the bed, VST would be warm on the chilly spring nights. The mountains, 100 miles away, stood like snow-capped ghosts. Somedays they were barely visible, on others, they disappeared. There was always something to look at from the windows of the Dunmovin house. Views that provoked deep, meditative thought, necessary and needed in the situation in which we found ourselves.

That night, I lay on his side of the bed to be closer to him, and he lay on his new bed, resting. It had been an exhausting day, both emotionally and physically. With the room rearranged to accommodate the new furniture, we were both tired. But, the body never stops and he had to get up to relieve himself. Without thinking, he grabbed the beautful, metal curtain stay we had chosen together when moving into our new home. With a tug, he was pulling himself up to stand.

“Hey, be careful. You could rip that out of the wall.”

Standing, he smiled.

“Impossible. I installed it.” It was one of the few statements that made him laugh the tiniest bit, and smile with pride.

I had to stop and ponder the truth in his statement. So true, VST. Anything you had a hand in building will be there long after we’re gone. Through the years, you found every stud in which to drill. You tightened every screw or bolt with the strength of 1,000 gorillas, as I used to tell you. No one would ever remove those curtain stays. At least not easily.

You prepared a beautiful home life for us, VST. You engineered the right construction with perfect angles, straight and true. You steered us on the best headings. You took my hand and made sure I stayed upright. Together, we were unstoppable, until you had to keep going alone, on a path of your own. I hope sleep on your heavenly bed is refreshing and peaceful these days. Wish you were here, but am at peace you are there.

Virginia City Hospice, Wild West Setting

City spirits know what the city is gettin’

The creme de la creme, in VST, stayin’

VC’s ghosts, on good fortune, a-bettin’

Time flies, doesn’t seem a minute

Since the Red Dog Saloon had us sittin’ in it.

All changed, now. Two scared people

Looking out the window. Prayin’ to the steeple.

Don’t you know, that when you lose

There’s nothing left, but the cryin’ to do?

Fresno. Biola. Coarsegold. This place.

Only memories now.

Hospice hits like mace.

Squarely in the face.

Nothin’ in his eyes.

Terror on my face.

One night in VC,

our world’s a disaster

Hospice bed sits

On a broken-legged caster.

VC’s gold nuggets ain’t free.

If you’re lucky, pack your things.

Grab your blessings, and flee

I can feel my angels movin’ away from me.

One town, very much like another,

When mourning the loss of a husband or father.

Tourists crowd this charade of a town

Right out our window, as we just look down.

VC’s here to witness hospice slavery,

The ultimate test of this girl’s bravery.

Death gripping me unlike any horror

I’ve ever seen.

One night in VC makes a hard woman humble.

Not much between despair and destiny.

One night in VC and the tough girl tumbles.

Can’t be too careful with your company.

I can feel the devil watching over me.

Dear God, I’m watching

Cancer

Control this scene.

This woman giving hospice just can’t be me.

Through the blackest night, I’m waiting.

Thoughts of my loss, devastatin’.

Giving Hospice to the sweet man I love.

Waiting for some comfort from the one above.

One night in VC made a hard girl humble

Not much between despair and destiny.

One night in VC made the tough girl tumble

Can’t be too careful with your company.

I felt the devil watching over me.

Angels now surround, I need no sympathy.

My Love True still lays next to me.

I can feel sweet Jesus watching over me.

(Joy Hurt –Hospice Night- Palm Sunday, April 5, 2020 )

(Inspired by “One Night in Bangkok” by Murray Head)

VST lay quietly on the bed, after hours and hours of struggling. His peaceful breathing was like that to which I had fallen asleep thousands of nights before, but different now. He was leaving on his heavenly journey alone, and very soon. Before the sun rose in our eastern-facing windows, this was my chance to wish him well on his journey. A time to quietly thank him for everything he’d done for me and our children from the moment he walked into my life on September 5th, 1987 until now.

Holding his hands in mine, I began to talk to VST, even though I knew he could no longer answer. Our eyes could no longer meet in all-knowing, non-verbal conversations. He could no longer pull me closer to give me a sweet kiss. The time had come to say Goodbye to the best friend a woman could’ve ever wanted. My VST was now slipping in a coma.

On April 1, while complaining of pain and needing meds, VST and I met with the Oncologist for our first and only time, receiving the devastating news. A cruel April Fool’s joke awaited us. Go Home. Live your BEST LIFE. No more doctor’s appointments. Hospice would be calling. Devastating cancer of the bile ducts. No effective treatments. Maybe two months left, at most. It was nice to meet us. Goodbye. Just like that, we were shuffled out the door, after filling out a ream of questions for the doctor in a hopeful state only minutes before. Nothing else to be done. No help to be found. No miracles. VST had already lived his best life.

Just weeks before that, we had made an offer on Winterpast, and accepted an offer on Dunmovin. Two months before, we had nursed each other through colds during our last Christmas together. Six months before that, we had been at the ocean, breathing in the fresh air and sniping at each other during silly spats. How I wish I could run the clock back and relive our days from the beginning. The further I went back through memories, more pulled me towards our beginning. I wanted to stay there, far from the last memories we were making now.

Speaking to VST in hushed tones, I poured out my heart and soul. Things needing to be said for years came tumbling out through my tears. At times, I was sure I felt slight pressure from his fingers held gently in mine. A slight movement from an eyebrow confirmed that he was listening intently. I appologized, lamented, complimented, remembered, memorialized, and pleaded. The two hours left me spent, empty, and exhausted. I had told VST everything left to share. My heart was torn open, and there was nothing left.

The minutes had raced through the second hour of my conversation with VST, as the sun finally peaked over Sugar Loaf Mountain. How many times sorrow had followed a sunrise just like that in Virginia City. Mining Accidents. Illnesses. Lost babies and mothers. Parents and grandparents. They all lay quietly at the cemetary, visible from our bedroom window. I could feel the comforting spirit of Virginia City, assuring me that VST would find peace. How I wished Virginia City wouldn’t be the one to keep my husband as I moved away from her beauty and into my own tomorrows.

VST and I had an intensely private and quiet relationship shared only with each other.
With whom would I share those deepest thoughts with now that he was leaving me? Who would understand with a simple look what I was feeling? Who would ever accept the complexities of a farm girl from the Central Valley of California? Difficult. Brazen. Foul mouth-ed at times. Brittle. Broken. Mourning so deeply for the death that would follow in mere hours.

With the sunrise complete, my tears subsided. There was truly nothing else to say or share with the man I had loved so completely for 32 years. He was free to go, and it was my job to make sure he knew he could do that at any time. Quietly, we sat together in our bedroom, as we had done on countless other mornings. Two people in love. Two people ready to start their day going in their own directions. Two people always returning to home and each other every night. Just two people. Soon to be one.

Later in the day, T and K arrived, shocked to find their dad in his deep sleep. There are no words for the sadness surrounding the three of us. There are no words for the comfort their presence brought to VST and me. Sometimes, at the gravest of moments, there are no words left, even for the best of writers.

With that being said, it means the world to me you followed me through this hell-ridden trail of grief. April 9th brings new focus to my blog. I’m now a gardener who has grieved. A woman first, one of thousands who experienced widowhood during Covid 2020. My blog needs to pick up and carry on, with focus on my days, rich with new stories and laughter. I hope you continue to tag along. The stories to come promise to be wonderful.

Thanks to everyone. Joy

Song by Demis Roussos

Hear the wind sing a sad, old song

It knows I’m leaving you today

Please don’t cry or my heart will break

When I go on my way

Goodbye, my love, goodbye

Goodbye and au revoir

As long as you remember me

I’ll never be too far.

Good bye, my love, goodbye,

I always will be true

So hold me in your dreams

‘Til I come back to you.

See the stars in the skies above,

They’ll shine wherever I might roam

I will pray every lonely night

That soon they’ll guide me home.

Good bye, my love, goodbye,

Goodbye and au revoir

As long as you remember me

I’ll never be too far.

Goodbye, my love, goodbye

I always will be true

So hold me in your dreams

‘Til I come back to you.

Today marks one year ago that we said our final Goodbye. I miss you and think of you every day. Enjoy heaven. Remember me, your Darlin’. Mrs. H

This is the first day of the rest of my life! What challenges and rewards await, I can only imagine. No one could have ever prepared me for the last 365 days. Now, I find myself on Day 1. The birds are singing in the trees of Winterpast. Temperatures are rising and will hover at the perfect 70 degrees for at least a week! This gardener is getting her game on and getting outside.

The first thing I’m tackling is the water system. Winterpast is draped with at least 25 miles of drip systems running off two controllers. That might be a small exaggeration, but there are drippers everywhere. Under normal circumstances would last for at least a year. But, in my situation, we have the small tornado named Oliver. He happens to find emitters as lovely as creamy caramel, and quietly removes a couple here and a couple there. I’ve been waiting for the perfect time to turn the water back on. I promise you, I will breathe deeply when I find the damage created by this little dog.

Winterizing the water system last fall fell to the able muscles of the gardener, but this year, I wanted to tackle it myself. I started at the end of the line, closing drains, just as I had observed. Finding success, I made it all the way to the main valve. Drat. Again, it is something I’m not strong enough to accomplish. Sometimes you just need to admit defeat and wait for someone with more muscles. Thankfully T will handle that one for me.

For the next few days, Oliver is finding company at Puppy Camp with his friends. With T and K visiting for a few days, and the celebration of VST’s heaven-er-sary, I thought it best for him to take a little break and go have some fun. He’ll be back next week.

Last week, I started planting my Peonies while Oliver was present. Devious and observant, he hangs back in the shadows watching the very things Mom-Oh shows interest in. Iris plants, peonies, rose bushes, solar lights, drip emitters. He just lays on the cool cement and watches. As soon as I go in for a refreshing drink he hits them like a shark. He sniffs every single thing I’ve touched and makes notes. He plots his attacks carefully and I can be sure some things will be his target.

Wine barrels, cut in half, have made their way to the back yard. Today, I’m planting strawberries, asparagus, potatoes, and rhubarb around the yard. T, K, and I will hit the garden center to find new additions, and Winterpast will have new color. There’s just nothing better than tending a yard. It brings peace and comfort to my soul.

If gardening is new to you, start with a big pot and try a geranium plant. They are pretty hard to ruin, and they come in beautiful pinks and reds. Geraniums remind me of Barstow Elementary School, where I attended Kindergarten through Fifth grade. Barstow was built long before I was born, making it ancient. The caretaker of the school lived on the property, making sure the lawn was watered and the leaves raked. One of the flowers planted around the playground were geraniums. One brush across the leaves reminds me of days of school polio vaccines and nuclear bomb drills in which we would all duck under our desks and hold on. Makes me smile.

The mustangs are heading to higher country now. The snow is melting, leaving spring wildflowers and tender grass. The foals should be showing up about now, with their fluffy little tails and tiny hooves. For me, the garden is calling. The breezes are sweet with blooming sage under the bluest of spring skies. More tomorrow!!!!

I

Forget fancy-schmancy department stores full of the newest spring fashions. No pinks and pale blues. Hold the fancy nail polish or just-so makeup. Give me the garden center every time. Jewelry? Not for this gal. Skirts and dresses? Not so much. Shorts, tees, a tan, and tall bottle of water. Spring is here.

Yesterday, I was out and about, enjoying Day 1. I had a blast. It had been so long since trotting over to the Garden Center to look at the 2021 blooms. Freshly delivered plants were waiting for me, with the most delicate little blooms already present. They leaped into my basket, filling it right away. Growing for this year, I bought new geraniums in pink and red, cherry tomato plants, and a variety of annual blooms. Six very large and heavy bags of soil came along for the ride. I am set to plant.

The sweetest young woman was my garden associate, scanning the little bar codes to give me my final total. She was different than most associates. Gently she picked up each plant, careful to protect the very tender leaves. Gingerly, she set them back down in the cart. I think she was a plant whisperer, reminding each young sprout to grow the most beautiful flowers for me. It was fascinating to watch her work, reminding me that flowers bring out the best in everyone. In fact, flowers are an essential part of life.

Crocus poke through the snow in the last days of winter, surprising us with color. Flowers are necessary at weddings and the union of two lives into one. They are necessary to celebrate the beginning of spring and long, lovely summer nights. With their healing qualities, they help those who are recovering. Fall flowers are surely necessary to say goodbye to summer fun. Flowers soothe a grieving heart when loss occurs. All in all, they are just plain magical.

With extra water being applied to the greening lawn, I feel at home in the safe back yard of Winterpast. It’s strange. A year ago, I was still living at the Dunmovin House in Virginia City in deep despair. This year, here I am. Happy, thriving, and focused on my garden. When I think of the journey so far, I smile. It’s taken a strong chick-a-dee to weather the storm. Strength that I didn’t know I had, but was glad that I found.

Hoisting the heavy bags of soil onto the dolly and rolling them into the back yard, life surrounded me. The breezes of the high desert whipped the American flag back and forth. T and K surprised me with a new flag pole the day of VST’s memorial. It is a lovely addition to my home, making me feel happy just to be an American.

The new tomatoes are snuggled in. There is nothing in this world as delicious as cherry tomatoes. I could eat a bowl of them for dinner every night. I hope the birds don’t find them as delicious as I do. I will be hovering over them until the first blooms produce my 2021 crop.

Have a wonderful day with whatever you decide to do. Choose happiness. Grab a little sunshine, increasing your natural levels of Vitamin D. Breathe some fresh air, and find something to smile about. Better yet, just laugh a little bit. It might become a habit!!!!

The garden of Winterpast are waking to spring. Yesterday was the first full day I found time to wander the gardens while pondering what new plants will thrive there. With the cherry tomatoes in place, and the three new 1/2 wine barrels looking sharp, it’s time now to address the drip system.

The amazing thing about gardening is that seeds and bulbs lie dormant for the winter. They are at the very least plain, and often, ugly. If you didn’t know what you were looking at, you would insist the bulbs might be a rotting piece of bark. And yet, they produce the most glorious blooms. Dahilias the size of dinner plates. Peonys, as you already know, come in the most beautiful shades of pink, from the most pale to bright pink. Even rose bushes look quite dismal in the winter. Just sticks with thorns.

I feel just like the peony tubers, ready to burst forth with new life. The possibilities for this year are endless, and I plan to explore all my opportunities while growing into my own skin more each day. I hadn’t realized how much I was dreading the one year anniversary of VST’s death. But at the same time, it became a milestone and marker of the growth I have made as a person. I am blooming in my life, with roots that have grown deep in the last year. I am thriving as a woman, which is the best feeling ever.

The springtime weather has brought sweet little leaves out of the thorny sticks. I spent part of the day grooming them by removing the dead wood. Wearing my heavy leather garden gloves, it felt nice to sit on the path and carefully trim off death. Giving them the proper nourishment of rose food, I can’t wait to enjoy their blooms.

Two doves reside in Winterpast’s massive apricot tree. The pruning over the years has left this tree resembling an island banyan tree. Last year, the crop was light. I would assume that will be the case this year, as the late snow covered the tree with its tender pink blossoms. The tree, itself, is lovely, even if barren. Last year, it surprised me with two dozen apricots, so tasty. I’m hoping for a late bloom, and a bigger crop this year.

As I worked in the gardens, I started evaluating the sprinkler system. It’s like diagnosing the circulatory system on an aging patient. When I moved in last year, the water was already on. With only seventeen days of widowhood under my belt, I really didn’t watch which trees were getting water and which were not. Now, I realize that some damage was done last year with my neglect. I have promised the angels of Winterpast that I will do better this year.

Being alone, it is a tedious task to turn on a watering station and find out to where the water is flowing. So far, I have found where Oliver has been a busy beaver. Like little fountains, emitters are missing here and there. Ollie and I will chat about this when he returns, and he’ll need to understand it’s not a good thing to mess with Mom-Oh’s emitters. For now, I just need to open the repair kit and get busy.

Water makes everything in life better. Living in the high desert, the precious stuff isn’t cheap. But, the green oasis of Winterpast is my retreat and holiday all rolled up into one. With a daily shot of water, anything grows here, although the season is shorter.

Tending the garden, I’m so grateful to the previous owners who had the vision to create this beautiful place. Drip emitters placed just so, water hasn’t been wasted on paths or areas covered with gravel. The plants that need water are receiving it and thriving. It took patience and love to create Winterpast. To tend to her needs is an easy task that I can accomplish.

Slowly, my yard art is coming out of the barn to be set around. Lawn furniture, placed inside to avoid the affects of the harsh winter, are outside now. Even the garden gnome is watching over the back of the house. Winterpast is at her finest in the spring and summer, when blooms and leaves adorn her.

May through September will be a time for friends, BBQ-ing, and soaking in the hot tub. For cool crisp mornings and starry nights. Winterpast, again, will host laughter and friendship. I hope that your yard gives you as much pleasure as I get from mine. Have you named it yet? Every good friend needs a name. Winterpast is the best kind of friend. Just sayin’.

Some days, I just need to enjoy new scenery. After working on the yard for hours, I decided a dinner out was just what I needed. The obvious choice of a dinner partner was Miss Firecracker, and after a quick text, we agreed I’d pick her up at 4 PM and we would head East to a bigger town down the road. Without really having a plan of where we would eat, we both decided a large-ish casino restaurant would have something to offer.

Spending time with Miss Firecracker is one of the things I enjoy most. As time has gone on, our friendship is one of my dearest. Her ideas and outlook on life are down-to-earth, and yet new and fresh. She has lived the fullest life, experiencing the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. I can always count on her for a true evaluation of any situation. As she is the only person that has known me longer than a year in this new town, her opinions on matters hold weight. She is trustworthy. Coming from me, that means a lot.

The days here haven’t been typical spring days. At least in my limited experience. The skies have a haze to them that reminds me of days in the Central Valley of California. Distressing, to say the least. The lack of rain and abundance of pollen have taken the brilliant blue hue of the sky and paled it. I wish we would have some great winter rains. “Gully Washers” as VST would have called them. The kind that wake you up and make you look out the window, leaving the sky a brilliant blue in the morning. Right now, we are all out of rain.

Shopping at WalMart, yesterday, I noticed that many items are gone from the shelf. There are other changes in our store. There is now an entire section on survival gear of all kinds. An interesting change in these days of uncertainty. Bags of survivalist food took up an entire shelf. Straws that purify water, and other crazy items now hang, ready for the next onslaught of customers wiping the shelves clean. People are very worried that soon, everything will be “All Out” as we have experienced already. Vendors are playing on our fears, big time.

When living in Virginia City, elevation 6200 ft., I learned early on that preparation for the unknown was essential. In the winter, it could mean your life. In the winter of 2017, snow-mageddon, left us with over 12 feet of snow behind our house. People living in the mountains above us were stranded for 10 days, with no help from the outside world. The National Guard came with bulldozers and dump trucks to remove the excess snow, pushing it over the cliffs. We were nestled in, with plenty in the cupboards to tide us over.

Prepping has been something I’ve always done, having lived in remote areas since 1990. Going to the store from the ranch involved a 30 minute drive. In the mountainside below Yosemite, the drive was 25 minutes. You learn it’s best not to forget things on your list, because they’ll need to wait until the next time. Winterpast is stocked for a two week quarantine for any reason. That’s the way I roll.

Getting back to last night, I was looking forward to a small salad. Dieting is in full swing and going well. The thought of going backwards and consuming carbohydrates is distressing. So, a plain salad was what I would order. A successful weight watcher plans these things in advance. So, I had it all in my mind. Salad and a cup of coffee. That would do nicely.

The first disappointment was that “Moo-ve It On Over Steakhouse” was closed. Many people were coming to the casino for Sunday night dinner. We we’d all be disappointed. The second choice, after our 30 minute drive East, was the casino coffee shop. Clean, it looked in disarray with chairs sitting atop tables that were out of use due to Covid. Our state isn’t 100% open yet. Every table that could have guests did.

With ice tea and coffee on our table, the waitress asked what we would like for dinner. Excited to enjoy a tasty salad, I ordered the BLT Salad. It fit Keto requirements perfectly and sounded yummy. It was then she burst my bubble.

“Sorry, We’re All Out.”

This is the same as saying we’ve no water, or condiments, or silverware.

No salad.

The shipment hadn’t come in. It might be there tomorrow. Maybe Tuesday. No tellin’ when the shipment would arrive. This led me to think of the condition of the greens when they DID arrive. Dismal.

After a 30 minute drive, I ordered two eggs and two strips of bacon, ala carte. A long way to drive for a very simple meal.

The was worth its weight in gold. Miss Firecracker and I stayed long after our food was gone. Chatting about life and the fact that she is moving away to be closer to family. We talked about Bailey’s and Creme, (her late husband),and VST. We talked about dating when we were young, and dating now that we aren’t. We talked and talked, the conversation delicious and something she and I will keep to ourselves because that’s what Bestie’s do.

So, if you see a head of lettuce today, you might pick it up and take it home. Ice berg lettuce, although having very little nutritional value, will at least give you the base for a salad if you desire one. It lasts in the fridge longer than some other kinds.

In fact, make a list and stock up. You just never know when you’ll hear those dreaded words, “Sorry, We’re All Out.”

Quiet moments of the night are sometimes deafening, especially when living alone. During the day, our visual, tactile, and olfactory senses rule our kingdom. Sounds are often drummed out by the stroke of the softest fur of our beloved pet, or the smell of a peony bloom. There are so many things bombarding us that very simple sounds lose their importance. At night, everything changes. In my world, with the advance of the hour hand, the night sounds rule my queen-dom.

Each place I have ever loved has sounds all its own. From the crashing waves of the Central Coast of California, to the silence during my very first snow storm in the foothills outside Yosemite. Late night sounds of RV’ers finding their spot for the night; big rigs rumbling and growling to a stop. Soft voices setting up camp. Loud voices still fighting from the trip. Some sounds are so strange, they bring me right up from the deepest sleep.

Night in the vineyard we farmed for 17 years was full of sound. Coyote pups yelping for their mom. Her distant reply resonating from the San Joaquin River. Sirens in the night, screaming their need to get somewhere to help. And fast. Cat’s scrapping and yowling during an act of unrequited love. Cattle and sheep talking when everyone else was asleep. VST, with his bass snore sleeping soundly next to me, in our little patch of heaven on earth.

Virginia City had sounds that were comforting as they came up the hill to the Dunmovin house, through the deck doors, and landing in our ears. St. Mary’s Cathedral bells chimed on the hour. The 12:00 noon siren atop City hall alerted us all that the day was half done. Visitors would often wonder about the purpose of the siren. But, VC has her own ways. The siren was one.

The V & T Railroad with her tracks leading into town sent a forlorn whistle up Mt. Davidson as she rolled in and out of town. The steam engine, the only one VST found worthy of riding, had a voice all its own. Rich and full of the blackest smoke, she reminded us of her comings and goings.

Booms of the fireworks on the 4th of July jolted our hearts. The fiercest winds rolled through the canyons, sounding like a brand new kind of freight train, as they sometimes reached 50 mph before striking the side of the house. Through all the night sounds, there’s always been comfort to be found.

After VST left, the sounds changed in my world. Sounds in the dark became more urgent. Some sounds needed the cloak of night to emerge. Sad, wailing sounds somewhat like a wolf’s wail, calling for her lost mate. The sleeping sounds of one lonely widow, breathing quietly and dreaming of days gone and love lost.

Winterpast has provided me with a new soundtrack in which to find new dreams. The California Zephyr Train whizzes through my town making clackety-clack-zoosh-zoosh-zoosh-ding-ding-ding sounds along the way. In the night, the sounds make the train seem like I could lie in wait and stow away. The rumbling of the freight trains seems to go on for hours, usually causing me to fall asleep far before the sounds stop.

Big rigs rumble along I-80, as I dream about the days that I, too, used the corridor to the East on which to journey. Wyoming is just a short 3 days by big rig. Wide open plains that stretch your mind and heart to the limit. A place so magical, my heart yearns to return there for a proper Goodbye.

Dogs talk during the night. If you really listen, you can almost understand the conversation. Some barks come with question marks, while others are an obvious reply. Once in a blue moon, the clip-clop of a lone mustang comes down my road. With a whinny, they look for their herd, usually just around the corner. The occasional owl is asking “Who” . In the earliest morning hours, before sunrise, the doves rise and clatter over the fireplace vent on the roof while singing, first two soft coo-oo’s, followed by three louder ones.

Roosters crow and garbage trucks rumble.

The nights that keep me awake are the ones in which my own heartbeat is the only sound heard. Just the rthymic thump of a woman alone. A woman aware. A woman awake. A woman at peace.

Night sounds are different for every place I’ve ever lived. A comfort I find in my new days of womanhood.

Writin’ my life to save my soul on a desert’s Nevada road,

A friendly stranger came around to share apple pie ala mode.

If you’re goin’ to stick around for awhile and keep me satisfied,

You can sit and listen while I write all about my sad old life.

He asked me if I had been alone long, in my house on dust and sand

And I replied I ‘d lots of friends, “I’m read everywhere across this land.”

I’m read everywhere, man.

I’m read everywhere, man.

Wrote in the desert’s bare, man.

Of troubles I’ve had my share, man.

I’ve cried in the mountain air, man,

Of troubles I’ve had my share man.

I’m read everywhere.

I’m read in

Belgium, Australia, Brazil, Czech Republic,Bangladesh, Canada, China, Indonesia, Bosnia, Egypt, Germany, Lithuania, Denmark, India, Ireland, Saudi Arabia, Finland, Hungary , Malaysia, Netherlands, United Kingdom, Virgin Islands, and France.
Fans, they’re readin’.

This new friend now listened, quiet, while country names raced off my lips.

Bushy eyebrows raised a tiny bit, while on me he quite transfixed.

With grief this gard’ner told my tale, death’s horror never rang truer.

He listened awhile, at him I gazed; his eyes, bluer and bluer.

I’m read everywhere, man,

I’m read everywhere, man,

I’ve cried in the mountain air, man.

Of troubles I’ve had my share, man.

I’m read everywhere.

I’m read in

France, Greece, Japan, Jordan, Hong Kong, Korea, Mauritius, Moldova, Morocco, North Macedonia, Pakistan, Peru, Philippines, Poland, Portugal, Russia, Romania,Serbia, Singapore, South Africa, Sri Lanka, Sweden, Taiwan, Turkey, Ukraine, United States, Uruguay, Vietnam. Everywhere, and there, the fan’s, they’re readin’.

I’m read everywhere, man. I’m read everywhere.

He started reading, he now hooked. I, on display, an open book.

Two months pass, friendship grows each day, two hearts liking each other’s ways,

The stories real with Winter past, new tales to write are coming fast.

For all my friends around the world, You mean so much to this old girl.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart to the 6900 readers that have taken time to support me in my writing. Your sweet comments have made me realize I AM a writer. This has made my life long dream come alive!!! If I have missed your country, please send me a comment and let me know.

I send my love to you and all your beautiful countries. Joy

A special tip of my gardener’s hat to Johnny Cash who inspired this piece.

Oliver is back home where he belongs. He had a great time at puppy camp, returning home a wee bit more sensible and a whole lot smellier. First order of business was a bath in Hawaiian Hibiscus Bubblicious Puppy Wash. Oliver loves his bath, so this was a real treat for both of us. I could tell the puppy camp smell was bothering him, too. Being the cutest dog in the world, he is even cuter when wet. His hair curls and he just loves being clean. His personality just makes me smile, unless he’s being destructive, and then, not so much. Since the soak and suds, he’s been sleeping . Puppy camp can be exhausting when working the entire time. He did lose some weight, so I know he had a blast running, jumping, and swimming. Next time, I will increase his daily meals, knowing he has lots of friends to play with. I remember his shy behavior when we picked him up from the parking lot of Atlantis Casino in the resort town near us. The breeder had been delivering another puppy on Christmas morning, and was kind enough to bring Oliver with him so we could make our decision. Such a timid and shy little guy he was at only 4.5 months old. He weighed 12 pounds and snuggled against me quickly. That decision took seconds to make. He was our puppy. Hard to believe that this bold, 25 pound dog is the same one. Looking at how he’s bloomed and changed, it reminds me of myself. Even down to the way I wear my hair, I’m no longer that 2020 version of a scared woman-child, shaking in my own boots. As I have grown stronger, so has Oliver. We are a team, the two of us. Whenever I go into the RV barn, Oliver is right by my side. I think he wonders when we’ll take the next trip. A trip like we used to go on. The long ones in the Winne-Bark-Oh. The one where we’d go to the beach and walk on the pee-ier. The one when Dad was still here. That kind of trip. This morning, in a fit of wistful thinking, I went to look at an RV lot in the next town over. I went inside a smaller version of what we used to own and wondered if it would be small enough for me to drive. Thirty feet of motor home is very intimidating, so I never drove ours. After VST died, I couldn’t even enter the the space without breaking out in hiccup-py tears. It was sold, complete with all our ghosts and memories. So, my RV barn is empty. How fun it would be to have a small rig for running to see CC or my other friends in the foothills of California. I could stay in the driveway of K or T like we did when VST drove. The fun I could have. The reality is there is no magic way to keep time in a bottle. No magic wand to erase the fact that I’m a 65 year old woman with zero mechanical skills. That the road between here and there will be tough enough to navigate in the Jeep without Oliver. Those beautiful days with VST are now great memories, but memories that happened long ago. There is the small fact that the motor home I looked at sported a price tag of $165,000. With that, I smiled and headed across the high desert back to Winterpast . Memories are a great thing. You can remember the good times. The laughs. The sighs. The sweet nights. And forget the normal parts of RV-ing with a husband. If you have been there and done that, you know to what I refer. I need not say more. Open your bottle of memories once in awhile and let time stand still. It feels great to know those wonderful things really happened. We were there. They happened to us.

Water at Winterpast equals life. And life is blooming right now. Or trying to, anyway. Fifty foot hoses are at the ready to deliver water to any struggling bushes or trees. Two, not one, automatic sprinkler stations watch the time for me, delivering much needed drinks to my yard. At least, one half of my yard.

Automatic sprinkler systems can lull you into a false sense of security that everything is getting a drink. You see the lawn getting water and smile. How lucky you are not to find it necessary to water each tree to the minute. Because, of course, the SYSTEM will do it for you.

Well, my SYSTEM has failed me on a few points. Today is the day of reckoning, as my new friend is on the scene to provide another person to find the source of the problem. Diagnosing problems is something he does very well. Me, not so much. Heck. There is only one problem right now. No water along the perimeter of my property with resident plants drooping as the hours of sunshine lengthen.

Peonies, with their front row seats next to my living room view are quite happy, although maybe a little too wet. Their alien sprouts are moving heavenward. These plants are the most odd I’ve ever grown. If you haven’t had the experience of growing them from a bulb, do so. From the emerging sprouts, to the tennis-ball-shaped buds, to the tissue-paper-flower like blooms with their beautiful fragrance, they are a flower not to be missed. Mine are right on time as they say “Hello” to 2021.

Yesterday was a day of reviewing the layout of the sprinkler system with an analytical person next to me. The main shut off, drains, solenoids, wires, and mother-ship-brains of the operation, the control panels all faced inspection. Winterpast has two very nice panels that control everything. One of them is a Bird-In-The-Rain brand. Very beautifully marked and easy to use. Right in the garage in plain sight. Easy to adjust and maintain.

The other, is NOT a Bird-In-The-Rain, but rather a Charging Bull Station. In the RV barn, it’s easy to forget, which I did last year with my perimeter plants taking a hit last year. Not being sure when the problem started, a problem there is and we we’ll be on the hunt for answers and fixes today.

My friend pointed out that one must look backwards sometime to find the source of a problem. Elimination of each possible cause must be examined and ruled out, until the problem can be solved. I really just want water and will be along for the ride. I’m a wonderful “Go-For” girl.

The quest involved opening up boxes in the earth holding numbered pipes, wires, and lots and lots of spiders. In one box, there is something large that used to be moldy. Neither my friend or I really want to investigate that, but, today, it must be removed. EWWWWWW.

To say that his presence is an overwhelming JOY is putting it mildly. So many days, I go to bed, immediately falling into deep sleep from sheer exhaustion. The cause? The constant demands of Winterpast, an unrelenting master. One half acre is equivalent to 21,780 square feet according to Google. Yes, I WAS a teacher. No, math WAS NOT my best subject. Hence, I write a daily blog and am not a up and coming scientist.

21,780 square feet is equivalent to taking care of 10 of my houses, in addition to the house I do take care of. Every inch can be covered with leaves, or weeds, or broken sprinklers, or any number of things. One space could have an invasion of toads, while another is gasping for water, while another is suffering under a pile of mustang poop. The jobs are endless around here, and multiplying every day.

As K pointed out while we were soaking in the spa, “There is so much to do. But, there is so much to do.”

Understanding that, one needs to understand that without the necessary care of Winterpast, by now, I would either have written my 20 novel, or be a very, very bored person. Gardening is second only to writing in my world. Gardening and writing represent life for me. Water is necessary for the life of my garden in the high desert.

Best-est Friend taking the lead, today will be a fun one. Budding fruit trees give the yard a fancy feel. The new bird house and watering can I found yesterday at the hardware store will find their Place in the yard. I have more plants to pot and more pots to plant. My garden is a happy place, ripe with possibilities for beauty.

Find a problem today and follow it to the source. Analytical thinking uses an important part of our brains, redirecting worry and sorrow into something productive. Enjoy spring!! Go water something!!!

Today is a day for reflecting. In light of the funeral of Prince Phillip, the recent shootings, and the trial of George Floyd, I need to pause and work in the garden.

If you have a need to read, take time and enjoy my past blogs.

I will return tomorrow. Do something a random act of kindness today. The world needs it.

Joy

Why, oh why, can’t I be an analytical thinker. Maybe, in some ways, I am and just don’t see it in the moment. But, for problem solving, I immediately go to the worst case scenario. In the case of Winterpast, that would be brown, barren soil with the remains of trees and plants void of green life. All water gone forever, the yard would become a headstone to former owners who knew what the hell they were doing when it came to gardening.

My front yard is almost in that state. I wonder what the neighbors think when they walk by the front and see the lack of plants. It’ll be planted again, I have just been fretting about the back. Specifically, the sprinkler system.

Then my analytical friend arrived on the scene.

It seems the controller for all emitters along the back perimeter had died a natural death over the winter. Sad but true. Nothing lasts forever, and this “Toro” bit the dust. It was interesting to watch testing of all electrical inputs and outputs, skillfully performed and analyzed. The first point of business was to purchase and install a new one. Done and done.

No Water, still.

I could see the plants dropping more. Trees that are blooming need extra water to assure a good fruit set. They struggled last summer, so this added stress wasn’t helpful. Cherry, apple, jujube, blueberries……. mournful under the high desert sun.

My friend then went into action. I’m sure the neighbors were laughing as they listened to our bantering. So natural, we just went into typical Man/Woman speak. Being great friends, some of the conversation was too the point, and less than polite. Both of us being thick skinned, it was all the more real, with a dose of attitude on both sides.

“Get the wrench.”

“Which wrench?”

“Not the crescent wrench.”

“The adjustable wrench?”

“No, the wrench.”

Finally producing a plumbers wrench, the next request.

“Get the screwdriver.”

“Phillips or flat?”

“A nut driver.”

The experience drove us both a little nuts, and I had to remember that politeness is still something I need to work on, especially if I intend to have any friends. I guess you could say it was a trying experience, that in the end, produced water.

It seems I have a broken valve that is buried deep in ground. Far deeper than my farm worn shovel could reach. I’ll need to call a plumber to fix that in the weeks to follow. But, the water crisis was averted with ingenuity that comes from analytical thinking.

I now have working water. Would I have been able to muddle through the process with the same outcome?

Absolutely not. That is a resounding NOOOOOOOO.

Would the process have cost hundreds of dollars? Affirmative.

As a woman alone, it’s hard for me to admit that I am not Superwoman with all powers necessary to allow me to reach tall buildings with a single bound. I’m just an un-analytical girl who isn’t very strong. Still cute, but quite bitchy at times. Grateful, but envious of someone that can fix a sprinkler system and make the plants happy.

My super powers lie elsewhere.

Going along this journey of life, we all need to remember to ask for a little help once in awhile.

Happy Gardening!

My town is quirky in a really wonderful way. Never knowing who you will run into, or what they may do, it is always fun to explore. In recent explorations, I’ve found some very interesting people indeed. Adding to the services in town, they also qualify as seasoned characters in a great novel. I’m taking notes and sharing a small bit with you today.

I’ll start with the ice cream man. Burt. He is the owner of Burt’s Butter Pecan. All the ice cream in his shop is handmade. He is very proud of this, as he should be. The town folk show up at his counter every evening after the dinner dishes are put away. He stays open until 9 PM, making sure that everyone who wants a scoop gets one.

Last year, the day VST and I put in the offer on Winterpast, VST wanted some ice cream, so we stopped. That day, the shop was empty except for Burt, who was happy to fill us in on the great points and short falls of our town. Burt came to our town more than a decade ago, and settled in this wide spot in the road. He sees all and knows all. His ice cream is the best I’ve ever tasted. Every scoop comes with a sweet memory of an old couple celebrating the purchase of their last home, Winterpast. With Burt’s New York City accent and blunt way of speaking, you just know your visit with him will be interesting.

Then, there is Movin’Dirt Douglas. He runs an excavation business, helping people move rocks here and there. In the high desert, you need someone with a tractor to move decorative rocks. Sand. Rocks. More sand. More rocks. One good thing is that there’s no shortage of landscaping material. Douglas also owns Dirty Douglas Pawn Shop. If you need to find a firearm or old saddle, his shop has these treasures and more. Douglas can show you whatever you may need, while replacing watch batteries, while telling you about the town. After all, he graduated from high school here and knows everyone.

Which is how Douglas became a City Councilman, helping to make major decisions for the town. Everyone wears many hats in a small place. Some just happen to be covered with blowing dust and desert skin tanned like leather.

My newest friend, I met last week when T and K were here to celebrate VST’s Heaven-er-sary. We had decided that to honor VST, we would buy a gun. But, they’re in short supply these days. The high desert is a good place to have them. You never know when you might be stranded and need a little self protection. To call this the Wild West is correct. One should never forget that people who want to disappear do so in the high desert. Protection is smart and necessary, as a policeman could be 30 minutes away. That is the fact when living somewhere remote.

There are plenty of fun places to target shoot safely, and target shooting is really fun. If you own a gun, you must know how to shoot it safely. A responsible gun owner has attended gun safety classes and obeys the rules. You also need to know how to care for it. If you’ve never been shooting, don’t judge. It is one of the most fun things I’ve ever done. Nothing dies. The only thing ending up with holes is paper targets.

As I was purchasing some ammunition at the hardware store, a gentleman told me of a new gun store in our little town. Make a right in front of CVS, go down to the bend in the road, turn right at the gravel road, go 1.2 miles past the growling dog and the “Eggs For Sale” sign, and on the left there would be a sign identifying the house. We did just that and met Craig, the Gun Guy.

Shy, reserved, and seasoned, Craig knows everything there is to know about every type of gun there is. His selection was wonderful, cleaned, and displayed on gun racks. There, he had two brand new target shooting guns. There is now an empty space where they sat. As Craig filled out the Federal background check and bill, we continued visiting.

It turns out Craig is the Baptist Minister for the little church next to the hardware store. I have passed the church many times always thinking I would like to visit this little country church. Now that I know the minister, I’ll do just that. Being a man of God, he gave us best wishes and prayers for a meaningful day of remembrance of our sweet guy.

As we were leaving, he reminded us that we were always welcome to come for fellowship. Yes, my town has the most fun type of people. Not stuck in one stereotype, people here are fluid types, because they need to be. In the desert, you need to have survival skills while being a bit of a Bad Ass. But, most of all, you need to be ready to meet and embrace new friends. Now, what will I wear next Sunday?

The neighbor walked by yesterday with his aging Schnauzer. He is a constant in the neighborhood, being the eyes of every detail around Rabbit Bush Range. I would suspect he is an ORIGINAL owner, which holds weight, as it should. Sixteen years of back-breaking work to develop a high desert lot into something beautiful should be applauded.

I love my ORIGINAL owner neighbors. They are respectful of their properties, keeping things in tip top shape. They know the history and order of which houses were built when the decade was brand new. They know the wind directions and historical weather patterns of the area. They have mature yards that they’ve nurtured and watched since they planted them almost two decades ago. With sadness, I realize that big changes will occur over the next five years, when beautifully quiet octogenarian neighbors are replaced with young families. I need to enjoy the quiet breezes now, before silence is shattered with newbies.

Respect for a culture and quiet settings is something that is lost on the young. People are amazed when visiting Winterpast. It’s so quiet you can hear the wind crossing the desert. Birds call to each other over long distances. There is the rumble of the train passing through town, and the Jake Brakes of the big rigs on 89A going right through town. Silence is a golden commodity in this day and age. A valuable commodity lost on most people.

This Original owner and neighbor has walked by Winterpast every day for a year with no more than a passing grunt. He’s a tall man in his late 70’s with snowy hair. He likes button shirts in plaid, and always wears shorts. He and his dog are very serious about their walks, seeming to be on a mission to get somewhere.

Yesterday, he heard me saying my Goodbye’s to my friend in the garage and looked our way. He waved and spoke right away.

“‘Hi, Joy! I haven’t seen you in a long while. I was worried about you with Covid around. You okay?”

“Sure! Doing great. Just been busy in the backyard. Have a nice day!”

Interesting that he did remember my name. I’m pretty bad with names of people that I’ve met one time a year ago. Awkward! Anyway, it was nice to know he is a friendly face that circles the neighborhood twice a day. It’s even better to know that he is someone that’s noticed that I’ve been absent. If if was yelling for help from the back yard, I’m pretty sure he would be the one to investigate.

It made me realize that everyone must think I died and mummified surrounded in the walls of Winterpast. Invisible, I have been cocooned inside during the winter months. The front yard is intimidating so I’ve been avoiding it. Whatever it becomes will be on me. I have some ideas about important features I’d like to see, but, the finished look hasn’t popped into my brain.

I’m considering something that will make every REAL gardener wince.

FAKE GRASS.

Yes. It’s true. I may move to the dark side and have fake lawn installed in the front yard only. In this day and age, fake lawn looks very realistic. It uses zero water and lasts for years. Just hose it off occasionally, and all is good. No mustangs eating up the greenery. No poop on the grass. Just a nice looking lawn that needs no care. I do have trees and bushes in the front yard that still need water. Winterpast needs some front yard greenery. Desperately. Stay tuned for the final decisions, yet to be made.

In the back yard, spring is busting out all over. My friend got the water running and plants that I never noticed last year are blooming. Tulips are almost finished. Dahlias are emerging. Iris are making a run at their show. The Peonies are all growing. The established plants are quite tall, while the newbies are a little more hesitant. But, they are all sprouting.

Blueberry buds are swelling. The new raspberry plant is going crazy. All the fruit trees are in bloom just in time for a spring rain that will fall today and tomorrow. The blackberry plant is unhappy. Today, I need to move it to another location.

I’d forgotten how much I love being outside. My skin is turning brown, healthy and glowing. Being out in the back yard is my happy place. Sunshine eliminates depression, and is necessary for our bodies to produce Vitamin D. Win. Win. If I never left the grounds of Winterpast again, I’d be quite happy. Without news from the outside world, I write and enjoy memories of my formerly frenzied life. My God Mother had it right when she told me to “Practice Lazy”. Although I’m not lazy in my actions, my mind is in a lazy trance of comfortable tranquility. The best kind of vacation you can take anywhere.

I must run. Spring cleaning may get put off until fall. But, there is a lawn to mow and hot tub in which to relax. Whatever you do today, make it lovely.

Weather is an interesting topic about which people enjoy conversing. Men, especially. At any coffee shop on any morning, men debate the ACTUAL rain fall amounts at great length. Who’s meters are more correct? What WILL the weather be? What are the HISTORICAL statistics? The amount of topics regarding weather go on and on. To men, this is delicious rhetoric. Not controversial, but informative.

I’ve always been the “WHO CARES?” kind of gal. It’s not like anyone can change the weather. I’m not planning a garden event, or travel through obscure mountain passes. I’m just hanging out at Winterpast. If it rains, I will go inside until it clears. If it snows, I will order my groceries online. If it is hot, it’s a good time for a nap in an air-conditioned house. The subject used to be vitally important when an entire raisin crop was on the ground. These days, it matters not. Period. End of Subject.

When farming, a September rain was often accompanied by squeals of delight from co-workers. A sign that fall was on the way after brutal Central Valley summers. To me, it met utter disaster. Period. Perhaps a total crop loss. I could never explain that to them, but during those 17 years of farming raisins, my fear of September rains was real and intense. A state of the art weather station was something needed on every farm.

A few years ago, my God Mother, sent me the most wonderful gift. It has traveled with me, and is now at its second and final resting spot, Winterpast. This little stick, made of balsam wood, is a barometer all on it’s own. “The stick bends down to foretell foul weather, or up for fair weather,” according to Maine Line Products, listing the stick barometer on Amazon for $11.25. It’s useful lifetime can be 9 years or older. Mine is 7 years and still predicting weather.

When weather is great, the stick goes up. Way up. When weather is inclimate, the stick goes down. Really, just like a person’s facial expressions. No one believes the stick is actually a working barometer. I can’t blame them. I didn’t really believe it until I owned one and made my own observations.

As I have stated, that is the extent to which I need to know meteorological information. A true barometer reading, I need not. Wind speed is nice, but if my trash cans blow over, I know it is crazy windy outside. If the flag is still, there is no wind. Pretty easy.

My new friend mentioned that a weather station is a really cool thing to have. So, now I have one, perfectly installed by him upon my patio cover. Wirelessly, it communicates with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. One must wait for the device to “learn” about its surroundings, and then, information starts pouring in on a little screen that now sits in my kitchen.

At this time, the outdoor temperature is 65 degrees, with a humidity of 16%. Partly cloudy with a rainfall amount of zero for the day and year. The wind speed is 2 mph. The indoor temperature is a balmy 71, with 25% humidity. Just perfect.

The thing is, in my world, the day is perfect already, whether the wind was 2 mph or 10 mph. I really don’t see any clouds in the sky, yet. Perhaps they are coming soon. I love 71 degrees, and feel most comfortable when my house is at that temperature. Not to hot, not too cold. So, I could have guessed that one. The humidity is higher today. I knew that because my hair isn’t frizzled.

I suppose it is just another way to remove our senses and abilities to tell time without a clock, or judge the direction of N, S, E, or W by the position of the sun and stars. Another way to make us depend on the government (NOAA), internet, and gadgets. Another way to discount my stick, which at the moment says the weather is perfectly UP outside.

I better hurry to get my daily gardening fix in. Who knows when the torrential rainstorm and blackened skies are coming. With a wind speed of 1 mph now, I don’t need to worry about my hair blowing into a giant rat’s nest of tangles. At 66 degrees, I can leave my sweatshirt inside and go make some Vitamin D. Happy Gardening!!!!

Living in Virginia City was an experience on which I will reflect on for the rest of my life. It isn’t the normal kind of place one expects to live as a retired school teacher in her early 60’s. Not a place easily described or lost among other memories. Virginia City chooses you and also chooses whether or not to let you leave. She made her choice and kept VST, my better half. VC is a powerful entity that calls the shots on her own terms.

In this place, throughout the years we lived there, lived the strangest little man. His real name was Danny Eugene Beason, and beyond that I don’t know much about him. He was known to locals and tourists as Stink-E. The story is that he didn’t spell well, and chose this name for himself, adding a single E to the end. Some years before VST and I arrived on the scene, Stink-E acquired his burro, Burnadeen, from the Bureau of Land Management (the original BLM, by the way). Thousands of excess burros and horses are up for adoption, so if you are in the market, check that out.

Formally wild Burnadeen had to learn about people, and he would fill her in on who to trust or avoid. it appeared that Stink-E had learned a lot about people in his tattered and torn life. Born in Roswell, New Mexico, his life had been a complicated one. Rumors flew around local snooty-snoots like zephyr winds. Stink-E had personal problems that had gotten worse with age. Regardless of his hardships, almost every single day, Burnadeen and he roamed up and down “C” Street, selling the chance to feed a wild burro a carrot. $1.00 for the chance of a life time, just watch your fingers.

Burnadeen didn’t much care for me. Once, early on, I had crossed the street to visit this odd pair. She turned her tail to me when I approached. Believe me when I tell you I never knew so much could come out of a burro. It was the only time I saw her relieve herself while working. I never made an attempt to stand by her side again. Luckily, no clothes were soiled in my one failed attempt to say, “Hey”.

I never once spoke to Stink-E, as he lived up to his name. Some days, he wore old time one-piece, red, button-up pajamas that hadn’t been washed in some time. That paired with worn-out boots and a crumpled, smelly hat made him a sight to behold. Stink-E made sure he cared for his burro, as she might’ve been his only true friend. She knows all his secrets and at this point, she isn’t talking.

Just by chance, I was looking at random news clips when I found out that Stink-E died in early spring at the age of 70. His daughter reported that he suffered from dementia. A terrible hand was dealt to him. Burnadeen is left to carry on his legacy under the care of family members.

Being intrigued by the news, I dug a little deeper and found something that captured the love of Virginia City for her own. The townspeople had a funeral for the old man. A fine turn-out it was. If you look on YouTube under Stink-E’s Funeral, you can watch as he was laid to rest on a snowy March morning. As I watched the funeral, I saw faces that I used to know. Old acquaintances that may or may not have even noticed that I left. But more than that, I sensed the spirit of VC and realized I miss her. For six years, she was my home. The high mountain winds and snow will be in my heart forever. It was there I shared the last of VST’s forever.

The owner of the Silver Queen was there, hidden in the crowd. All the re-enactment actors and actresses had worn their finest outfits to say “Goodbye”. With a mule draw wagon, laying in a pine box, Stink-E made one last pass down “C” Street, with the town walking slowly behind. The procession made it’s way to the Virginia City Cemetary, where Stink-E has a place of honor. A mournful guitar played the song, “God Speed, Sweet Dreams”, through a young singer’s tears. I listened through mine. The song was beautifully sung and appropriate for the Stink-E with I shared Virginia City.

The service itself was perfectly VC. Simple. Heart Felt. Snow Covered. Wild. Western Wild. Just like the legendary Stink-E and Burnadeen themselves.

Now that I know he came from Roswell, there would have been many questions I might have asked him. Was he in Roswell when….? Had he seen anything? What troubled this man so that the demon alcohol often won his battles. How had Burnadeen changed his life? Had she at all? What did I miss by being my own stuffy version of a local snooty-snoot? I think a lot.

There is an absence on “C” Street that you wouldn’t know unless I’d told you. There’s another, younger version of Stink-E walking Burnadeen along to the delight of children and adults alike. I suppose Burnadeen will need to teach this new Stink-E the perils of meeting strangers. Burnadeen knows the ropes now, no longer free to roam the high desert plains from which she was snatched. So many victims in the sad story of Stink-E and Burnadeen. I hope he has found peace in a place called Heaven.

God Speed — sung by The Dixie Chicks

Dragon tales and the water is wide

Pirate’s sail and lost boys fly

Fish bite moonbeams every night

And I love you.

Godspeed, little man

Sweet dreams, little man

Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels wings

Godspeed

Sweet dreams.

The rocket racer’s all tuckered out

Superman’s in pajamas on the couch

Goodnight moon, we’ll find the mouse

And I love you.

Godspeed, little man

Sweet dreams, little man

Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels wings

Godspeed

Sweet dreams

God bless mommy and match box cars

God bless dad and thanks for the stars

God hears “Amen”, wherever you are

And I love you

God speed, little man

Sweet dreams, little man

Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels wings

God speed

Sweet dreams.

RIP Stink-E. RIP.

Spring is the perfect time for new beginnings and a fresh start! I’m living proof of that. Just a year ago, on this very date, April 23, 2020, as a ravaged and tired widow, I turned the key and walked into my new life. Winterpast became my home, rented for one week before the deal closed and she became mine.

For those of you that are new readers, my home is named Winterpast for very important reasons. This name was taken from the bible, Song of Solomon, 10-14. It needs no more explanation that that, because, she always has been Winterpast. No one knew it before, even though it was obvious.

Winterpast was glowing as I entered. Her grieving sellers had put all the love they had into her appearance. Everything worked like it should and was waiting for me on that morning, bright and early. I’d driven off the mountain and across the high desert to her waiting walls. Nervous and scared, as I walked in, I was in a heavy widow’s fog. It had been less than a month since VST’s passing, and I was wrecked emotionally, physically, mentally, and spiritually. A fragile and haggered woman I was as I entered the front door.

I felt her hug around me, like a favorite sweater. Her comfort whispered, “I will keep you safe, warm, and dry. You can cry here. You can rejoice here. Your roots can grow in my soil. I am your forever home.”

I never felt that a home possessed a personality before, but she does. She is enough all by herself. Confident and strong, she knows that she isn’t the most expensive home in the world, or the most glamorous. She is who she is and she stands proud.

In the Jeep, I’d brought everything from my Virginia City Pantry. Winterpast had her glass doored pantry waiting to accept what I brought. As I put down new shelf paper with soft blue squares each filled with one tiny rose, I remembered buying this for the ranch. For two decades I’d carried around the last roll, thinking that some day it would have a use. Such a sweet little pattern. Once the pantry was stocked, I felt anchored. There was not a bed, or chair yet, but she was mine. Neat little cans of Cambell’s and a fresh loaf of bread said it was so.

Over the last year, she has welcomed new and old friends. She craddled me as I said “Goodbye” to VST at his summer memorial. She let me scar her front yard, removing old plants, while patiently waiting for me to make up my mind on the new ones. She has revealed her age slowly, in a way that is normal. She wears her cracks proudly as I wear my wrinkles. She has watched Miss Firecracker and I share laughter and tears on very special days. She has welcomed Ninja Neighbor, and strangers that became dear friends. Winterpast knows all there is to know, and a little more.

Her RV barn, although empty now, will someday hold more dreams. For now, it is an extra space for me to place things too dear to throw away, but too painful to look at every day. She holds everything that would make my real garage cluttered. She is the dream of every man that has come to visit or work. It was the RV barn that VST and I fell in love when we first came to see her, knowing that our rig would nestle there waiting for spontaneous outings. Little did we know vicious storms of cancer were ahead.

This last year has been one of growth. I hope Winterpast loves me as much as I love her. This year will be one of paint and decorating. One of happy holidays filled with decorations and laughter. One of pride of ownership and a new front yard.

I hope your home is a place that you feel the safest. I hope it has a personality that works with yours. Homes hold our hearts carefully.

To Winterpast, I say,

Of all the roads

Both East and West,

The one that leads to home

Is BEST.

Happy Anniversary, Winterpast!! I hope we have years and years to enjoy one another.

Some days, I just wish I could jump into a time machine and go back to my younger life. Times when I knew those to trust and those to avoid. Times when right and wrong were a little bit more black and white, at least in my experience. Times when I knew the dentist that would be fixing my teeth and the doctor would be giving medical advice tailored for me because we had a 25 year friendship. Those days when everything wasn’t new and strange.

Earlier in the week, I went to my new eye doctor. Such a great guy, he fixed me up in fine order with contacts and eyeglasses. The best part is the proximity to Winterpast. Just around the corner. Next Monday, I’ll try out a new dentist, and the week after that, it’ll be time to try out a new doctor. Everything unknown. Everyone untried. I’n pretty sure they’ll have medical agendas that do not line up with my personal preferences. If that becomes the case, I’ll keep looking until I find the medical minimalists that fit my personal beliefs and medical needs. The search and unknown are what I find exhausting.

I’m on this island of new. Everything around me is untested and mysterious, as I find myself in the high desert all alone. I’m starting to accept that this is not something easy or convenient, but damn hard. A lonely journey that will take time, as I find my way.

Last night, Miss Firecracker and I found another “new” in the vast acres of sand and tumbleweeds. We found “Five Ladies On A Stump Steakhouse”. With reservations at 4, Miss Firecracker drove us East, as we passed the time chatting, as we always do. She knows right away what questions to ask, because I wear my worries like laundry on a clothesline. Very apparent.

By the time we got to the restaurant, we had covered so many topics. The waitresses were waiting for us, as we had reservations and we entered. The first thing that was so adorable about the place was a wall of hanging cowboy hats. Straw and all the same, they acted as a room divider, hanging in long strings, tied brim to brim. Cost effective and appropriate for the clientele. This is in the heart of Nevada Cattle Country, with two major feed lots on either side of time.

The next big surprise was on us when we opened the menu. Now, this was something. The menus were back lit. Heavy, like my iPad and cover, when opened, the paper menus had been inserted between the cover and glass. The lighting from behind made the paper glow and instantly easy to read. We both giggled with delight, opening and closing our menus. Never have I ever!

From the starched linens to the sparkling water glasses, this place was the nicest restaurant I have been to in some time. The waitress pampered us as we continued our conversations and laughter.

I couldn’t help to notice the three-some that came in to dine. The men were very clean, wearing bibbed-overalls. Not new bibbed-overalls. The kind that had been dealing with cows and calves the day before, but luckily, had found their way through a cycle in the washing machine. Only here, in the high desert, would this happen in an upscale steak house. I so love where I live.

When I moved to Fernley, I knew one couple. Miss Firecracker and her sweet husband, Baily’s and Cream. We’d met years before, immediately developing a friendship of the sweetest kind. It’s rare that two couples blend into four people that really like one another, but such was the case. We’ve dressed up and attended fancy balls together, and sat under star-lit skies by the campfire, laughing until we cried. We’ve discussed about every subject possible, from electrical engineering to psychological issues, with never enough time to tire from the delightful company.

VST and Baily’s and Cream needed to leave this world a little before us women-folk, their “forevers” being shorter than ours. Abruptly they said their Goodbye’s and left with barely a sound, either one. They left us with gaping mouths and tear-streamed faces wondering where the other half of went. Miss Firecracker and I knew these two guys well, and we loved them both. Together, she and I have found comfort in easy discussions about these extraordinary men with human problems and shortcomings. We discuss those things privately, because we have the right as their widows and friends.

Through the months of Covid, Miss Firecracker and I have supported each other through some dark days. She has always been my go-to Girlfriend for a friendly dinner at the Tee-Pee Diner. Always been the voice I could trust, because between us, there is only truth. Even when it is tough to hear.

I spent my first widowed holidays with Miss Firecracker. She brought me an ace bandage when I sprained my ankle around Christmas, along with a darling stuffed Santa to lay on the empty pillow next to mine. Her laughter and bright attitude has been there on days when my heart was still bruised, but healing. She is brave, and has been an example of Grace Under Fire. Such good examples for me to reflect upon, on days when I want to put my cart before my horse.

She is the one that showed me the mustang on the mountain just outside of our town. Just an image on the mountain, it is surely a mustang that I see every time I drive East. I will always think of the fun day we shared when she first showed it to me. She is the one that told me this little town had been a fine choice for her home. So right she was, as I grow my roots into the fertile soil of Winterpast.

Now, Miss Firecracker needs to move on in life and out of our little town. To say my heart is breaking sounds melodramatic, but, it is. It will be forever and a day before I meet someone like her that stole my heart at her first “Hello”. I don’t know how I can ever say “Goodbye” when the day comes that she needs to drive West, but, life is that way. There is a time and place for everything. How well I’ve learned that lesson.

Ooze-ing Goodbye’s aren’t something I’m good at. I would rather cruise down main street with a smile, then end up in a heap of tears. So, we’ll be stoic women, the two of us, promising to talk often and laugh loudly at all the adventures that await us.

Her Goodbye reminds me that while Winterpast is my cocoon right now, one day the time will arrive when age will win, and it will be my time to leave. Until then, I have so much gardening to do while reflecting on the great life that the high desert has provided me.

There’ll never be as sweet or funny a campfire as the one in which we all played “Head Bandz” and Miss Firecracker’s chair slowly went over. Or the stories she shared about her Red Hat girlfriends and their escapades. She knows, very well, my favorite story. I will leave it for her to share if you are lucky enough to meet her someday. Just look for the trim and zesty woman with the most sparkly eyes. Ask her about THE story. It’s the best.

Love dearly those friends you hold close. Call them often. Share coffee and stories while enjoying friendship’s special gifts. You never know when a day may come in which they aren’t there to laugh or cry or hold you close. Girlfriends are gifts from God. Cherish them.

I love you to the moon and back, Miss Firecracker.

Don’t get me started with the waterworks, Girlfriend.

Today is a fine day to assess the me I am right now while checking for needed adjustments to my course. So far, my life has been full of all kinds of labels. I’ve been daughter, sister, aunt, and cousin. Mother and Grandmother. Daughter-in-law and daughter-in love. I’ve been clueless, and a self-assured and ruthless bitch, sometimes concurrently. I’ve been a fiance, a bride, and now, a widow. Through all of that, there have been many times in my life, I couldn’t or wouldn’t choose to be me. Today is a fine day to think about where I stand now.

Outside, the dark clouds and winter storm warning make me think Mother Earth has days when she can’t decide who she is, as well. Last night, the winds howled through the darkness, while the creaks and groans of Winterpast put me on edge. I’ve never been one to be afraid of the dark, but last night, even that confidence was challenged a little bit. Oliver slept soundly in his little bed, sweet puppy dreams comforting him. If he slept, the noises would just be household complaints whispered while homeowners dream.

My physical balance has always been an issue, teetering this way or tottering that way. Never really sure of my footing, exaggerated when I started this journey as a widow last year. There was no room for major mistakes, as the results would have been catastrophic. I needed to be present, even when I was quite sure I was losing my mind with grief. Just one foot in front of the other, carrying so many responsibilities, I didn’t have a hand to carry a cane. I found my balance, even if it looked different than I was expecting. Even if I chose stepping stones that made others cringe.

My spirit, although tested in the last year, has remained strong. Faith, hope, love, and a strong belief in the goodness of the day have gotten me through. My heart quietly repaired, as I tended to my body, making sure it got the right food and plenty of rest. Slowly, I became accustomed to a new normal, hand-picking every color and texture. I’m beginning to like the resulting tapestry. There is still so much more to weave into my reality. I am becoming the HER I want to be.

The high desert is a great place to plan a life. Quietly serene, I find myself the most creative when I am working the soil of Winterpast. Desert dirt is a funny thing. If left alone, it becomes rigid and stone-like. Without the addition of water, mulch, or nutrients, Winterpast would return to her desolate state, with everything dead. The same would’ve happened to me without the spiritual or emotional nourishment I’ve found along the way. With new friendships and love in my life, my roots are growing deeper and my heart is blooming with possibilities. I have found a happiness that is new and fragile, but growing every day.

Adventures are just around the bend. Last week, I made reservations for the International Pyrotechnic Convention to be held in Fargo, North Dakota in August. Many nights will be filled with competitive fireworks displays put on by major companies. For almost an hour each night, the skies will explode with beauty set to music. I can hardly wait. This year, my life is exploding with beauty just like the fireworks I’m expecting to see. With reservations for two, the anticipation of “+Fun” adventures is a delightful feeling.

Writing’s always been a deep love of mine. It came easily as I was growing up, with stories stacked neatly in my heart, just waiting to be told. Now that I’ve the time and means to tell them, the words jump out of my fingers and through the keyboard to my readers each day. I’m finding my voice, while experimenting with tone, topic, and tempo. The HER I want to bring to life is a full fledged writer. A published writer who is read by thousands of people in many countries around the world. I am on the way to that woman, but not HER all the way.

The woman I’m looking forward to being is fierce and a force to be reckoned with. She is grounded and sure of her steps towards her goals. She is smart. Tenacious. Courageous enough to let her friends be strong for her once in awhile. Tender enough to cry or wipe away the tears of another. Street wise, but still ready to believe the best in people. A life mate that is worthy of sharing forever with another human being. That woman.

The deserts winds continue to blow today under grey and solemn clouds. Over and over, they cross the plains towards Winterpast and hit her hard. I expect the winds of life will continue to do the same to me. Goodbye’s and Hello’s. Losses and finds. Wins and defeats. But always, encouraging me to march towards the goal of being my best self.

As a new week begins today, I hope that you are finding the person you were meant to be in this crazy world. You, your own captain, follow the things that make you happy and strong. It isn’t something anyone can be told how to do, or imitate. Personal and private answers lie within our hearts, each truth as different as a fingerprint. Go, find your version of HER. She’s waiting for you.

Yesterday, I made a bold decision. Deciding it had been long enough that I’d thought about trying one of the many churches in my little dusty town, it was time to dust of my Sunday-Go-To Meeting clothes, hop in the Jeep, and try one. Having met the preacher for the local Baptist Church earlier in the month, I decided it would be first on the list. Realizing I had little choice in what to wear, I chose new jeans, a black and white blouse, covered with my black cashmere sweater. After a quick shower, a blow dry, and a quick glance in the mirror, I was off.

Main Baptist is on a busy street that trails through town. It used to be the historical Highway 40, according to my new friend. The street sees everything from trucks full of steers going to or coming from a summer in the high country, to supplies for the local Lowe’s. I’ve sat next to this street eating the best hamburgers in the universe on a picnic table. I’ve also met many new friends among the Black Bears further down the road. Yesterday, I was going to have a chat with God in a sweet little country church.

I never understood the words “Country Church”. I guess that’s because I went to a country church as a girl, and never went to a “City Church”. I feel uncomfortable between starched white shirts and expensive high heels. A country church has an inviting nature that is all its own. It welcomes everyone, as long as you are the type of everyone that doesn’t mind the truth of the area being spoken loud and clear. There’s nothing wrong with being among people of like mind in a place where you want to feel safe and comforted. This was that place for me.

A “Country Church” congregation is full of people that come physically tired. Ranchers, farmers, miners, and a stray gardener or two. Wifely homemakers that want to share their latest carrot cake recipe. Children that were home-school-ed before it became the norm for our country. Parents and children who have no misunderstanding about the proper behavior in a House of God, and just WHO makes the rules in their family. Men and Women that are gender specific and assured. A slice of the community I love so much for its original qualities. One that ignores New York City political correctness, while being secure enough to hold original beliefs that fit our high desert red neck life.

Church starts early in this little building, with 9:30 bible study. From the outside, you wouldn’t know much is going on at all. Just a tiny little building that used to be white before the many sand storms took the new off the paint job. Trimmed in blue, there are plenty of hand made touches that add to the charm. Inside there are red padded chairs that are church-close. There are no masks or social distancing, because, people need hugs when they are in the presence of God. I sure did.

It was refreshing to meet new friends right away. Some of the nicest people rushed to introduce themselves and welcome me. They all chatted about the Bible studies that were offered throughout the week, and hugged and laughed with each other and me. In this high desert plain, I was offered what I’ve yet to find. A sense of community and love. It was the most beautiful part of my new town that I have found yet.

So, what makes a country church a country church? Adorable country people that are real. A little band that is made of six parishiners. A preacher that wheres a little gold shotgun across his tie. Women in beautiful hand made dresses and shiny shoes, because they love to dress up on Sunday. Friendly kids, one who made my day by coming to welcome me to their service. Around 40 locals all ready to pray together for comfort and peace. For love and understanding. To God.

The service was a little different than I was used to, but the message was the same. If we allow God to disappear from our lives, despair will result. Having faith in faith is really believing in a word. There needs to be a heartfelt knowing of Spirit.

I plan to return to this little Country Church with my new friend next week. I plan to visit others in the area, as well, to find the one that fits my soul and spirit perfectly. Sometimes, we all need to stretch our comfort zones and go find a seat in the back row. It was nice to let go and let God for an hour in a little Country Church on Main.

There are all kinds of angels and heroes in this world. While waiting for angels to come down from heaven in white robes, they might be standing right in front of you, smudged with a bit of grease and a smile. Such is the case in my world of automobiles. I’m fortunate enough to own two very nice vehicles. Some days I want to sell them both and buy an apple red sports car, fiery like my spirit. But, mine are practical vehicles for my lifestyle. A Jeep Wrangler and a Dodge Ram pickup, not feminine, but then, neither am I. From the beginning of time, automobile worries weren’t something I needed to worry about. With my dad’s shop at the ready, including gas any time I needed it, the brand new car was a place to race from here to there. Never did I do a proper cost analysis of the privilege of owning a car, because for me, the cost was zero. This continued on, as I grew older and married VST. Before earning is doctorate, VST was a professional master mechanic, perfectionist in all he repaired. Knowing all the tricks of the trade, he kept our vehicles perfectly serviced and repaired. And, then……. He died. These days, I drive very little. VST always loved to drive, being a perfect fit for me. Although a good driver, I don’t find it fun. It is a means to an end, and if I can be a passenger, I’m much happier. I would rather write, shop online, and have my groceries delivered. More time to sit in the hot tub. One of the last bits of information VST told me about the vehicles was important. Just a week before dying, he told me to always respect the fix-it lights on the car. When it says to change the oil, do it. If the tires are low, air them. If it says, “Check Engine”, get to the shop. Good advice for someone who had to go to YouTube just to learn how to open the hood on the Dodge Ram. As things do, my tires on the Jeep were worn down. Please. Check your tires today. There is a white line that goes across the tire tread. If you start to see that, it is time to replace the tires. Mine were wearing unevenly, and needed attention. In the high desert, good tires are a must. Either you’re fighting with sand or snow. Possibly a torrential downpour. So, a tire rotation every 5,000 miles is not just something to think about doing. It’s important to do it. Now, in the autumn of my life, when I was dreading car maintenance and the learning curve for a new skill, an Automotive Shop owner drove right into my life. When visiting his shop for the first time, he was quite bold and very assertive. With a few maneuvers, he hoisted my Jeep up on his handy-dandy car lift. Does your friend have one of those? As we walked under the Jeep inspecting the new tires that had just been installed through a business acquaintance of his, he was pulling on this and tugging on that. A worried look came over his face. He gave me the sad news. “Your tie-rods are loose.” Oh, my goodness. I was crest fallen when the dentist first told me my gums were flabby. Deflated when my arms started to flap like wings in the breeze when wearing a swim suit. Saddened beyond the beyond when my knees no longer looked so good in shorts. But, this was too much. Loose Tie Rods. Worse than that, they were connected to a Steering Dampener, which had been installed as an early recall and fix for a situation called the “Death Wobble”. This has happened to the Jeep on three occasions that I can identify, and it’s very, very scary. In rough road, you can lose control of the car. It can literally cause you to crash, or worse, drive off a cliff. The recall had been done by the dealership and a professional mechanic. There was no reason to believe it was anything but life-saving and correctly installed. This was a inspection and repair my friend advised would be better off handled by the dealership. A beautiful Jeep dealership sits in the middle of my little town. Yesterday was the day I went to see them. After waiting and waiting, while my little Jeep was up in the air the verdict was in. The recalled part, the Steering Dampener”, was put in BACKWARDS at the Jeep dealership in my old town. Yes. Backwards. Yes. A recalled fix for a situation that could cause death. My head was swimming. In the three years I’VE owned the Jeep, two Master Mechanics looked at this part and neither knew it was on backwards. The professional that I trusted, put in on that way. UN-BE-LIEV-A-BLE!!!!!! We are not talking about a sticker telling me when I need to next service the car. This was a fix to prevent the DEATH WOBBLE. It seems that the part is directional, but there is no arrow showing the mechanic which way this part should go. This way? That way???? Who cares. Slap it in and she’s good to go. Except, this part could have cost me my life. On Interstate 80. You know. The one that goes over Donner Pass, with sheer cliffs for careening. Or Geigher Grade going into Virginia City. The one with snow covered roads when a wife was driving her sick husband home during a snow storm? Also with sheer cliffs? Yes. Those treacherous roads, in which this RECALL FIX was put on backwards by some unknowing or uncaring mechanic at a dealership I used to know. My new dealership, heroes all, reversed it, making the Tie Rods again sturdy and firm. With aligned tires, I’m ready for the world now. Be careful when automobile repairs fall on your shoulders. Go to a quality place with a good reputation. Go on time. Ask for the used parts back. Ask for pictures. Ask for them to use their brains and FOCUS on something as important as your car. It could cost you your life if you dont’, and at the very least, ruin a perfectly good day. A special Thank You to the professionals at my new Jeep dealership. And a big, heartfelt thank you to my friend with the handy-dandy lift. You steered me right on that one.

Retired people like me have a lot of time on our hands. It’s true. Maybe a little too much, in my case. As I sit here writing to you, I’ve been focusing on the tree in my front yard. I must admit, I haven’t given her a once-over since I had all the ugly junipers ripped out last fall. She sits here begging to be noticed, as her roots really don’t allow her to get up and move to a house in which she might find better care. She doesn’t have a name. I’m not even sure what kind she is. She’s just a leafy tree in my brown front yard.

As I started to really examine her, I noticed she’s trying to bloom. Being in the path of severe winds, she isn’t having much luck. Her green leaves are rather sparse, which reminds me that I haven’t checked to make sure she is getting enough water. Plants have it rough sometimes.

So this tree, which I shall now name Cheryl, is old. Her bark is weathered and split, and her trunk makes me guess she was planted when the house was new. As trees go, she isn’t all that tall, maybe being 15′ at the most. She has an attractive shape, as tree shapes go. At her widest she is 10′ across. In function, she doesn’t do much for Winterpast, except to exclaim that she has grown here for sometime to those neighbors walking by. She doesn’t block sun, as it rises to the East and she is planted to the South of the house. She doesn’t give fruit, and therefore, isn’t one of my favorites.

As I look closer into her world, I realize there is an universe that I’ve ignored. A fascinating world of plants and animals that have taken up residence in her own little world. There are ants that run up and down her trunk, looking for tasty morsels, or sweet sap from the aphid families that drink her sap. Beattles hide under her bark, nesting, while creating more beetles. Butterflies stop at her little blooms and take a drink. All while she watches quietly.

Birds of all varieties stop off to take a rest in her branches. They exchange the daily gossip and news, fluffing their feathers when one has an opinion not popular to the others. There are budding love affairs among the branches, when the boy birds become silly while the girl birds become aloof. Her bend-y limbs provide a place to hold twigs and weeds, forming a nursery, where lovey-dovey birdy types become parents to demanding hatchlings.

All this activity goes on day after day, until the fall, when she quietly goes to sleep for another winter of ice and snow. Her dreams must be sweet and full, after witnessing all that occurs in her universe.

Retired people sometimes have too much time on their hands. Empty minutes and hours in which to capture and document all kinds of miniature miracles occuring in life every day. Trees. Wind. Mustangs. Jack Rabbits. Microcosms of life. All fascinating, and just enough to fill this retired writer’s quiet spring morning here in the Northern Nevada desert.

Do you ever put off the dentist? There are really so many more pleasant things to do than sit with a pair of hands in your mouth, while their owner asks questions that require a lengthy answer. Annoying. But, necessary to stay happy and well.

As a child, I was dentally abused. Badly. Nightmarish and ghoulish. The perpetrator was an middle eastern chap with very hairy fingers. Long black curly finger hair on very dark skin. Freakishly big hands. He enjoyed tormenting little girls, and I thought I was the only one. I needed to reach college age before a group of friends were discussing feeling about dentists and his name came up. Funny, we all had the very same abuse and nightmarish experiences under his care. The saddest thing was that when I left the Central Valley, he was still dealing with children at the hospital there. Chilling.

He enjoyed putting the needle right in front of our eyes, while pushing the syringe, releasing a tiny drop of evil fluid to land on our noses. In fact, so close that I ‘m sure we were cross-eyed as we looked up at the dentist we were told to trust. He enjoyed the pain he caused us, we all agreed.

After many years of abuse at his hands, my parents finally changed dentists. At least this dentist was not into torturing children. However, it turned out the dentist before had left decay under all my mercury fillings, so we began again. One tooth at a time. At least that guy gave a prize when were were done. He also had no finger hair.

So, going to the dentist has never been my favorite thing.

With my teaching career came the most wonderful dental insurance. I must say, I didn’t appreciate it as much as I should have. For most of my adult life, my family and I were fully covered, and never missed our six month cleanings and maintenance. My crowns were replaced every 5 years right on schedule, and so, my dental life was good, until it wasn’t.

Thanks to my God Mother, TJ, I had the cutest dentist in the world. A past tennis pro, he was a visual delight, being just as sweet as adorably handsome. He and I watched our kids grow up and move out of the house. After two decades, he announced one day that he was leaving to devote time to retirement, tennis, and golf in Monterey. And just like that, the one dentist that had finally earned my trust was gone. Replacing that relationship would be impossible, for sure. Even coming close has been a chore kept on the back burner.

Last week, I made an appointment for a check up with the dental office here in my little dusty part of Nevada. There are always cars out front, this practice being a busy one. The office staff is genuinely nice, and the dentist, whom I met yesterday, is dentist-y in a good way. Being young, I’ll die far before him, which means he may be the last dentist I need to form a relationship with. All to the good.

After my exam, we decided on two troublesome crowns that need replacement. Then came the bill. It wasn’t as bad as I had expected, but not as good as I had wished. Crowns are expensive.

So, I asked a question.

“Do you give discounts for cash?”

After a conversation with the front office, it turns out that cash patients receive a 20% discount right up front. On Everything. It pays to ask. When two crowns are the topic of discussion, this adds up to quite a savings.

My appointment with my new dental friends will be in July. They promised they would call earlier if there is a cancellation. I fully expect that I’ll have my crowns long before then. I expect they’ll be of average quality and last me the rest of my life, because that’s just the stage of life I’m in.

Living in a small town has so many benefits. My eye doctor’s office called and my contacts are in. My glasses will be here next week. I am looking forward to Bible study with the friends at my new church, and my special friend is coming for dinner tonight. Life is funny. Just when you think you are all alone, new friendships bloom and happiness feeds your soul.

Don’t forget about your dental health, even though it is not the most pleasant thing in the world. It’s always nice to have pearly whites to flash. Smile! It increases your face value.

I don’t consider myself good at waiting, but it seems that these days, patience is a virtue we all need. Waiting at the Service Department of the Jeep dealership the other day, I found so many things to observe. In this day of Covid and slow business, the things I observed were interesting. It made me think that professional waiting should be a career choice, because so many things can be discovered when one sits and waits.

The dealership was asleep when I arrived, while the Service Department woke up first. At first glance, the gleaming floors and windows were quite astonishing, considering they deal with cars. All the counters were cleared of clutter and sparkling for Customer #1, me. After taking my information, I was led into the main car showroom to wait.

There was one major thing missing in the showroom. Cars. I used to love looking at the spiffed up cars that were lucky enough to be on the showroom floor. Always the most expensive and heavily loaded with the extra bells and whistles. I’m sure their absence had to do with Covid. Doesn’t everything???????? For whatever reason, this left me, alone in the dealership showroom, to look over everything else.

The first thing I noticed was that the ceiling airconditioner vents were hairy with dirt. I found this hilarious, as everything else was so clean. However, the source of cool, fresh air had grown lint and dust to the point that they looked fuzzy. Visualizing the Covid virus with their stickiness hanging up there made me adjust my mask a little tighter.

As my eyes moved downward, I noticed the office, shared by two men. Now, I have a question for you. Does your man hide cords, or leave them looped here and there, like a mess of spaghetti. VST and I had long discussions about the maze of cords in his office. The was no limit to the number of cords that snaked behind this and that. I really think some of them weren’t hooked to anything, but there just to add to the sheer volume of cords.

In this shared office, the cords were everywhere. It struck me odd that for a dealership in which one vehicle might cost more than a person’s yearly salary, attention to detail was absent. Even with the shiny windows looking into this office, the cords were random and numorous, snaking this way and that in a heap on the floor. Sticky notes covered the wall, and a general feeling of disarray and disorganization filled this little glass office for two. The office furniture spoke to a sleek design made for minimal clutter. Add two men, and the situation is nit quite showroom perfect.

The more I watched the operations, as the dealership came to life, the more I realized there is so much to observe in life. By noting the little details in life, we can better choose businesses and eateries that we might want to try. Just by having a cup of coffee and waiting, there is much to be learned.

I did learn that the dealership is run by people who are friends. Little local businesses are like that. I learned that I would like to do more business with these people, even if their building could use a little closer attention to detail when it comes to house keeping. I learned that even in a car dealership showroom, things that used to be are no more. Customers going in to buy their first cars won’t have the delightful experience to look at the one they can’t afford THIS time, but would dream about in the future. The one with all the bells and whistles in the center of the showroom floor, washed and waxed to a blinding shine.

Waiting can create a quiet space in which to think and evaluate the surroundings. It can quiet your pulse if you just let it surround you and find something interesting to watch. It IS an art. Try it.

With a magical fun in the rear view mirror, this is the week Miss Firecracker will start her new life in California and the day Ace returns to his. With Donner Pass between me and the family and friends I love, this “sage-brush-ed” desert girl needs to suck it up and carry on. Both would expect no less. Yesterday, Miss Firecracker and I went to a craft fair! Decadent!!! Outlandish!!! Wreckless!!! Absolutely the best time ever!!! The town we visited is a very tiny oasis of a farming town nestled between mountain peaks. I used to go there for business, as it is the county headquarters. DMV. Business Licenses. School District Headquarters. Small functional airport for private planes. It is the hub of my county. Above the little town sits a run down former mine site, home to Super-Fund-Clean-Up-Personnel. Tumble Weed Heights. This little town was a copper mine from the 1950’s-1970. Nestled in some beautiful scenery, there is abandoned miniature golf, an empty community swimming pool, an RV park, and about 75 little company houses that used to own the miners. This town is a place I like to go to think. With the rich array of decay all around, the stories they scream are mind tingling. Yes, I have camped at the RV park with Miss Firecracker. Yes, the memories came back to us both, as we thought of VST, puppy Oliver, Bailey’s and Cream and the fun we had there. Outrageous. We  walked to look at the pit far below the look out. Surrounded by rusted wire cage, we looked down. The pit itself is 800 feet deep, with the water in the pit at around 450 feet. The water glows a beautiful blueish green, rather like a beach in Bali. Eerily inviting. I bet skin would fall of the bone of any unsuspecting swimmer taking a chance on a quarry dive. After taking in the sites of Tumble Weed Heights, we made the short trip into the town below. Past the gas station, hardware store, BBQ place, with a right turn at Main Street. Every little town has a Main Street, right? The craft show had no more than 10 booths. There, a handful of customers milled about, looking at this and that. I bought artichoke spread, Strawberry Tangerine Marmalade, and Seething-Smoking-Hot-Burn-Your-Lips-Off Cherry Jelly, (Ace’s idea). Walking into a very small, local casino, I felt as if I’d entered a time machine. I’ve met the local owners a time or two. They run the town, and are good decent men. Manly-men. No non-sense men that are sure of their gender and role in the community. In fact, that town is made of manly-men and girly-girls that farm, mine, or raise children just like themselves. For me, its comforting to go there once in awhile to soak in the normal that so many of us boomers were raised with. The local diner sits in the back of this place. Donny Boy’s Diner. There, the most wonderful food I’ve seen in a very long time was being cooked by a chef that knew what the heck he was doing. A seasoned staff was efficient and precise, delivering plates overflowing with goodness to a packed house. Every table was full, with people waiting. Just like it used to be on a Saturday morning in anywhere USA. The experience made me want to return often. I have really been trying to diet. REALLY. Keto is the best diet in which I feel wonderful. I lose weight quickly and have tons of energy. It’s the CARB thing. Ruins my plans every time. Yesterday, the biscuits and gravy called to me, and I was not disappointed. Fresh biscuits so flaky and light, swimming in REAL homemade gravy. Bacon cooked just so. Eggs on the side. A great meal for a cow hand getting ready to ride the range. For a retired school teacher, might as well glue those biscuits right on my saddle bags. But, it was worth every morsel. In the last week, I have finished so many projects in the yard. The sprinkler system will remain a project for another day. Oliver has a new dog house now. Asparagus and rhubarb are sprouting. The peonies are straining with a heavy crop of growing blooms. Today, my book needs my attention, and life needs to return to quiet mode for a time. Miss Firecracker is making the rounds, saying her last goodbye’s before the moving truck rolls out of town at the end of the week. The thing about friendships and Good Bye is this. The next word is a glorious “Hello”. In short order, Miss Firecracker and her posse can expect a fun visit from me, just  west of Donner Pass. Life holds lots of happiness, appearing in different forms at different times. We all have responsibilities that sometimes require separation and focus. Just a fact of life. Relish your Hello’s and try not to ooze too much with Good Bye’s. As Joni would say, “And, the seasons, they go round and round, and the painted ponies go up and down. We’re traveling on a carousel of time.” Until tomorrow, enjoy today!!!

Last September, being inspired by Mr. Mud Duck and his daily podcast, I decided to try blogging. For decades, I’d lost my voice through layers of censuring. Subjects weren’t to be broached, let alone written about for the world to read. Tethered, my imagination strained on a very tight chain. Writing wasn’t fun, pondering all grammar and punctuation and finally settled on a few approved subjects. By time I wrote the first word, I was exhausted and any good ideas had left the building. Stifling.

This creative void was of my own doing. Living with a Dr. of Psychology is intimidating. Two competitive perfectionists make for lively conversations, each reaching for the college word of the day. Deep meaning can be lost in those outer branches of academia. Sadly, some days were decorated with dangling participles with not an creative thought in the bunch.

As a young writer, titles escaped me. Now, they are fluid, flying like long, string-y banners in my brain, each one on a flagpole rich with ideas. I attribute this creativity to a lifetime of teaching, writing, and reading. To release them every day is a delicious activity that starts my day with a thrill that’s un-explainable. A desire to create is the first thing a successful blogger needs.

A wealth of information awaits anyone with time, a computer, and a curious mind. There are helpful and free webinars on Kindle Direct Publishing. Inspirational writers host free talks in which they tell their stories of success. To find success, it helps to visualize what it looks like. A favorite children’s author of mine is Kate DiCamillo. She has a delightful interview in which she talks about going into her studio with her coffee in the morning to write. Now, that’s me!

I googled “Writing Blogs”, and immediately, came up with a top ten list for sights. I picked the number one company at the time and started. Bluehost and WordPress have been wonderful and free. The little succulent on black was a fitting pre-made template for a new widow. Yes, there is a sandwich in there somewhere, it came with the page and couldn’t be removed. I like an occasional sandwich, so it remained. There were boxes in which to put my name and I filled in the blanks. Within a few hours, the page was complete and I started writing.

Find a time when you are creative. For me, it is 3 AM. Not conducive to a family life, but perfect for me. I keep a journal handy at all times to write down random topics and ideas for the days when only Cheryl, the tree is an available topic. I write when the words are itching to spring from my fingers. Mid-day, the fingers are deep in soil, and can’t be bothered with something like typing. Then, choose a schedule. Not every writer writes every single day. You may binge write and then take two days off. Whatever works, you need a schedule that you stick to. Goals on which to plant your flag.

I write poetry in long hand only. Fluid QWERTY typing allows me to have a stream of thoughts that race onto the computer screen. I write on a desktop, finding the keyboard on my iPad to small for the Germanic fingers. The phone is not even an option for this blind woman. I need backlit paragraphs, and even then, I fail at proofreading most days. A healing from the formally stuffy perfectionist correcting everything in red pen.

I’ve dabbled with Google Analytics, purchasing some extra programs totaling under $300. Everything that I’ve done has been simple, just taking a little time to learn the system. I’ve focused on the creative side, and not so much on the nuts and bolts of what I could do to monetize. Marketing will be my next step as I go along this journey. Social media is something I’ve avoided my entire life, but I may need to develop a presence. A monthly newsletter is another necessary project.

The payoff for me is getting sweet comments from readers telling me that I said something meaningful to them on a certain day. I enjoy looking up reader locations and finding that I have some faithful readers in Fernley, Carson City, Provo, Boydton, Port Angeles, and Cambria, just to name a few. Knowing that people are finding this the least bit interesting makes writing all the more fulfilling and fun for me.

For a time, it didn’t seem that I’d ever write anything again. I allowed that to happen. Now, I could write a novel about the phone book and it wouldn’t be half-bad. As I find more expressive courage each day, my daily observations have more meaning, while my writing gets richer. There’s just nothing better than that.

Writing is a friend when my house is quiet. It’s a voice when I need someone to speak to. My words will remain long after I have gone, showcasing a complicated woman that could be quite difficult at times. Some words will be too racy for paper. Other’s a bit mundane. But, words will keep coming. Stay tuned.

A thing here, a thing there, everywhere things and things and things. I’ve never considered myself a saver of mementos. But, now that I look in my cupboards, I realize I’m just that. A pack rat, just shy of a hoarder. A neat and tidy pack rat, I would add.

The thought goes through my mind of the little turtle. Gets along just fine with his little shell. Not 13 fancy china tea cups, or two sets of silver. Just a shell. Moving from here to there, nothing strapped on the top. No extra baggage. I need to emulate the turtle and begin purging.

There is little chance that the kids, (who are adults), want most of what I find precious and endearing. The significance of most of my memorabilia is not obvious and significant only to VST and me. Deciding the fate of these things I’ve held dear for decades, I’ve decided I need to release them. You can’t hold an angel in a pair of worn bluejeans or a single rose given so long ago.

For the first year of widowhood, a solemn and tearful balloon release occured on the 8th of every month. Each month, the number of balloons increased by one, until 12 biodegradable green and yellow balloons flew away on April 8, 2021. Here I am, saying goodbye to month 13, without some sort of ceremony fitting for the second year. Last night one came to me just before dreams swept me away.

There are some precious things that need a proper goodbye. Since 1987, I’ve saved the clothes worn at our Class Reunion dinner and dance on the night I met VST. His jeans. His shirt. My skirt. My scarf. Taking them out from time to time, I’m whisked back to that night. September 5th, 1987. The late summer California breezes. The lights in the trees. Twinkly stars. My classmates collectively traveling back to 1972-73, when life was simpler for us all. The clothes were worn only then, and saved all these years. To anyone not in the know, they would be a mysterious possession, out of date and for people lean and lanky.

These clothes can’t go to Hanna’s Thrift or, worse, the dump. They can’t be repurposed or worn by someone else. These were the things we wore the night our story started. After a quick photograph, they need a fitting Goodbye.

A couple months ago, I bought a fire pit. Not a gas one, which I bought earlier, but a real fire pit. It will be there that on the 8th of every month, things and things and things will rest until they turn to ash. As the ashes mix with the soils of Winterpast, sweet memories will remain. Releasing these things, my heart will continue to mend with soft Goodbyes. The 8th will be a time to glance back at yesterday, while being grounded in today.

Ceremonies help to heal me from the unthinkable tragedy of cancer. Through ceremonies, I honor the memory of VST and the wonderful life that we shared. I also honor the woman of strength and courage I have become. Weathered and wind blown, life is blooming out of death, rather like a meadow coming to life after a devastating wild fire. Ceremonies help me find peace and comfort my soul.

Don’t get me wrong. There is plenty of stuff that needs to hit the landfill. Half used balls of yarn. Extra fabric that I MIGHT find a use for. Old craft books. Broken tools. This turtle needs to lighten the load, until the final downsize comes my way. A shroud has no pockets, eh?

I’m off to investigate shelves full of things and things and things. More tomorrow.

What a lovely thing, the Hot Tub. Or Jacuzzi. Or Whirl Pool. What the name you choose, my big vat of steamy water in the back yard under the desert sky. The perfect place for laziness training. In the last week, I’ve spent hours there, observing the clouds, winds, blooming yard, and life. I can think of no better way to develop a true passion for laziness than the Hot Tub. Delicious in every way.

Purchased in December at a convention center show, my hot tub came 1/2 way across the country from Minnesota to me. There was high drama about the lack of a top, which finally arrived weeks later. There was talk of how hot is too hot. There was the immediate spike to my power bill. And then, there was unlimited soaking time. Trying the tub out at different times of the day gave me perspective on the yard shadows and how they change. I know the feeding times of the different birds. Oliver forgets I am outside watching, earning timely corrections when he decides to forget the rules.

With two waterfalls, and lights that change from red to purple to blue to green and so on, this Hot Tub is one to behold. There has been a learning curve as to which types of chlorine are the best, and what additives help with the hard desert water. After trial and error, the water is now consistently clear. A temperature of 102 seems to be the best for my age.

I was lucky enough to get my first spa in 1979. It was used, being one that needed to be placed in the ground. Such an early prototype, it had limited jets which were either on or off. We had no cover, but used it so often, that really didn’t matter. I received an unwanted grope by the husband of a close friend in that hot tub, as she chatted about diaper choices. One of my first adult glimpses that the world wouldn’t always be a safe place, especially under water.

Since then, having numerous hot tubs through the years, I conclude the one I have now is the most wonderful I could’ve purchased. In an empty version, I did try out the seats in the showroom, as many lounges are not made for a short, Germanic woman. This one is perfect. There are jets all around the tub, with a circular foot massage-er in the bottom. Just right after a long day of yard work.

No doubt, a hot tub is a luxury. In this the day of Covid-19 and home quarantine, it seems everyone decided to buy one at once. It took 8 weeks for delivery of mine. Since then, necessary chemicals are in high demand. I’ve been ordering on Amazon, as the local hardware store has been out of everything needed. My tub claimed chlorine wasn’t necessary, but that wasn’t true. With a testing strip every morning, the water remains balanced. Lots of things can complicate aquatic balance, starting with the chemical composition of your local water.

Mental teleportation is another benefit to spa life. K gave me a small bottle of Hawaiian Happiness elixer. It’s necessary to add the appropriate fragrance in the water, allow it to bubble awhile, and then breathe deeply with eyes closed. Just like that, it’s Waikiki Beach 2013, under a cabana in front of the Moana Surfrider Hotel. In this age of viral uncertainty, a teleportation contraption right outside my laundry room door is the answer for me.

Morning soaking is a delightful place to plan the activities of the day, one cup of coffee at a time. So many lists form in my head, from the need to fix a leaking emitter, to the mowing of the lawn. Item by item, my list gets longer and longer.

Before I know it, it’s almost lunch time.

After lunch, the afternoon soak is a great time to think of dinner options for one. Any recipe can be altered to give one or two servings. It just depends on what a person feels like eating. As the sun tracks across the sky, wispy, feathery cirrus clouds tell of weather aloft. Ground level winds chill wet tanning legs, causing me to slink back under the water. All the while, the jets bubble on.

Well, after dinner, one needs to check on the stars and plan for the next day. It matters not that all the plans for the day went to the wayside due to laziness . That is just the modus operandi of the retired teacher. And so it goes.

After days of laziness practice, I’ve come to the conclusion I should’ve started this long ago. There are plenty of days for chores that need doing. Trips to the store can wait. Groceries can always be delivered tomorrow. The thing that can’t be interrupted is quality hot tub time. Try it. You’ll agree.

Canine conservator-ship is a complicated task in this the year of 2021. At my house, I’ve been wondering when this little Tasmanian devil will calm down and be a reasonable pet. I guess others have been wondering that, too. Everyone needs to understand the job that Oliver has been trained to do. So many tasks he does so well, but, meeting others is not his strong suit. He is not happy with those that intrude on his solitary little life.

Oliver is a standard, chocolate, cream based, tan piebald wire-haired dachshund. No. He isn’t a 12 pound red or black and tan smooth doxie that everyone sees. Oliver weighs 25 pounds. He is as strong as a lab with short legs. He’s as stubborn as they come. Fierce and crazy at times. He’s not been an easy dog to raise. Trust me. We have been together 2 1/2 years. Of all the dogs I have raised, included my English mastiffs, Oliver has been the toughest of all. He is extremely smart, and the off-putting green human-ish eyes don’t help.

Most days, Oliver is just as cute as they come. Just like the puppy picture of him at 8 weeks. He wakes and wants potty time and breakfast within a short window of time. Don’t we all? He expects two treats. Not one or three. He has a hard time being still while I get those and can jump higher than the kitchen counter to check out what could possibly take so long. Ace suggested that Oliver needs to learn the word “Sit”, or otherwise be considered untrained. I think differently on that. However, Oliver is learning “Sit”, slowly, as hard as it is for him.

Oliver knows at least 100 words or phrases. He is constantly watching and listening to things I ask him to do. In the morning, after breakfast, he knows we work for at least an hour at the computer. Not wanting to face boredom, he brings a bone with him and leads the way to the studio, where he chews for awhile and then sleeps. He is my writing muse in doggie form, laying at my feet while I type word after word. The minute I reach for the power button when finished, he knows our work is done for the morning. With that, he is ready for a puppy time out in his crate while I make my own breakfast and get ready for my day.

Oliver knows me. He knows what things will get under my skin and periodically likes to mess with me. He knows when I am sad or not feeling well. He also knows when I am ready to leave on a short or long trip, or when company is coming. He knows our routine. He knows when I need a good laugh, or when I need a little irritation to get my blood pressure up.

Thievery is in his blood. He steals socks. Papers. Glasses. Shoes. Slippers. Anything on the floor. Dropped coins. Pens. Pencils. Well, you get the idea. He sits and waits for the opportune time and then, he strikes. Like the wind, he is gone, laughing his little doggy laugh as he chews and runs at the same time. Devious little thief.

In our living situation, there hasn’t been a need for the words “down”, “sit”, “stay”, or “come”, because there are other words he knows for these actions. “Bed”, “Wait”, and “Gentle” are some he’s really good with. He is a silly, silly little boy dog who has a very independent and strong will. Funny, a reflection of me in numerous ways.

The thing that doesn’t get better with time is the hatred of the doorbell, or misunderstanding of his place when company is involved. I don’t have people coming over on a daily basis. When they do come, it is sheer puppy-pandemonium. As a tiny puppy, he didn’t like strangers one bit. He would hide in the corner and often soil himself, becoming so scared. Being so adorable, everyone wants to swoop down on him, instead of just ignoring him until he can give a sniff and calm down. So, it’s a mixture of problems all rolled into one.

Oliver loves to travel. He loves RV-ing. He loves his people and he does like being good. He is just devious when others are around. Like a two year old.

Many people disagree with crate training. However, consider the following. Would you allow your two year old to run around the house when they didn’t have your full attention? Or in the case of the leash, would you allow the child to run into the street on a whim? Perhaps some puppy parents are relaxed about those things, I’m not. Oliver eats everything that is not nailed down. There are plenty of dangerous things in the house that would land us in the Vet Emergency Room. Crates and leashes are important when you have a dog that hasn’t fully matured mentally. In Oliver’s case, he may never mature fully. Lucky me.

We’ve been spending quality time outside, and I do notice subtle changes. He likes to settle next to me when I am pulling weeds or fixing an emitter. He likes to see me when I’m in the hot tub, just to be sure I’m okay. He likes to sleep next to me when I write, and spends less and less time chewing on the bones he loves so much. He really likes watching everything I do, and I swear, if he only had thumbs, he would do most better than me.

Oliver may never get used to intruders. Come to think of it, I’m happy with my own quarantine status. He may never understand strange words that others insist all dogs should know. He knows how to communicate with me, and that works in our little world. He speaks the same language as T & K, the ladies at Doggy Camp, and Sam, his beloved groomer. Adding in Ace, his little world of people is complete. For Oliver, that’s the amount of people he can handle.

Do I worry about his antics? Every day. Do I try new training techniques??? Multiple times a day. Are things getting better???? Ever so slowly they are, but, with Oliver, he’ll follow his own path, and allow me to come along for the ride. In this situation, it’s not possible to dominate this huge little dog, and besides, his antics keep me on my toes.

Every dog has special jobs to do. Some have jobs that don’t involve being a friend to everyone in the world or walking perfectly on a leash. Some have jobs that involve more words than “sit” or “stay”. Some have jobs that involve thinking on many levels, while problem solving. Whatever their job entails, God got it right when he gave us our best friends. Be gentle with their owners. We’re all doing the best we can.

Gamblin and Ramblin” are the main industries in my town. Being a truck stop on the road before the main tourist town, many odd places happen to offer One-Arm-Bandits. Slot machines are in grocery and liquor stores. Gas stations and Casinos. Everywhere you go, there are gaming machines. In the olden days, the machines had big gleaming handles to pull. Now, you can sit quietly and push the play button over and over. The ramblin’ part is helped by the fact that the gas prices in my county are .50 cents cheaper than the county 30 miles up the road. Slot machines once worked with one coin. Now, a penny machine can cost you 60 a pull, or more. No longer can you struggle with the heaviness of your nickel cup as you cash out. Everything is computerized an on redeemable script. Just a simple piece of paper shows your winnings. Find the change machine and cash out. Easy-peasy. I miss those big cups of nickles, ripe for a disastrous spill, an the look of envious gamblers as you made your way to the cage to exchange them for paper. $20 of nickles gives the impression of great luck. The other day, I went to have breakfast at the Pony Express Watering Hole. The food at casinos can be hit or miss, but this place is known for good eats. Even outside in the parking lot, music blares. Mostly 70’s and 80’s hits. It’s odd to think that music of my generation is now what I would refer to as elevator music. I wouldn’t want to live in neighborhoods near this place, with music drowning out the roar of the wind or tweets from the birds. The sign out front was blinking the word Bingo. The number of cars in the parking lot suggested that the locals were tired of sitting inside, cowering from evils of the lurking virus. Entering the casino, patrons were everywhere, enjoying the slots. A woman’s voice could be heard on the overhead speaker announcing letters and numbers. Not sure where actual Bingo was being played, we headed for the restaurant to get a late lunch. My thoughts on Gambling and Casinos are very simple. I would love to win hundreds of dollars with a single pull. Who wouldn’t? But, the chances of me doing that are slim to none. I have rules when I enter these places. I go there to enjoy a meal. I’ll play $5. If I win, then I can play a little longer. But, never more than $5. So many people get in way over their heads, having their lives turned upside down for just one more try. Relationships are lost over trips to the Casino. Gambling can become a life wrecking addition. I don’t understand hours wasted in a smoky, smelly establishment when I could be practicing laziness in the hot tub. The Casinos are wasting all the flashing bill boards on me. Now, Bingo? That might be a horse of a different color. Bingo takes me back to 3rd grade and fun days in which I could play Bingo with my class as a reward for good behavior or successful testing. The kids intently watched their cards as I called out letter and number, one after the other. Prizes came from the dollar store, with delighted winners getting to choose the one they wanted. There was never a dull moment during our Bingo games. There were also skills practiced. Patience. Attention to directions. Good Sportsmanship. Just plain fun. Those were the days when kids couldn’t wait to get to school. Teachers felt the same way. A team focused on learning, respect, and friendship that couldn’t be beat. Variations of Bingo can also be very fun. One of the most hilarious and outrageous games played by senior citizen friends was Body Part Bingo. The caller needed to use as many body parts as possible while calling the game. So hilarious when Knee was used for N. The “B” words could be a little racy. Laughter is so good for the soul. Anyone who takes themselves too serious to play Bingo should re-evaluate life just a little. Fueling my Ramblin’s will always pay off in exact amounts. Put in $3.29 a gallon and walk away with a full tank of gas every time. No gamblin’ skills needed there. Just a good attitude as the prices at the pump skyrocket. Last summer, $2.00 a gallon gas was the norm in my little town. It’s now $3.80 in the county next door. Living remotely has benefits. As my new life blooms with possibilities, you might find me sitting intently with a Bingo card, collecting great stories for a future blog post. Bingo and slots are always something I can do to fill my time. As my desert days roll by, I just might try my luck. Who knows? Maybe it’s improved. I won’t know unless I play.

Dear Miss Firecracker,

Today is the first day in a brand new chapter of life for you. It is just a little more than a year ago that I came to this dusty little spot in the road on your advice. For that, I will be eternally grateful, because, our little town is a gem. There is nothing more I could have asked for in my nest of healing. Perfect climate, great neighbors, playful winds, and happiness. Just far away enough from hectic city life, but just close enough to services needed.

I do have a little advice as you start on your way. Carry snacks and water. Stop along the way to rest, if necessary. Watch for pot holes and bouncing tractor/trailers that drive way too fast or way too slow. Be safe on your journey west over Donner Pass to the lowlands on the other side of here.

I will keep your presence with me as I dine alone at the Tee Pee Bar and Grill. We did a lot of healing as we shared our meals. Yes, I will continue to order the “Little Mo” with no sauce, cooked well done with sweet potato fries. I should just say, “The Usual” by now.

“Really??? Grocery Store” will continue to be my food supply source now, as I curse the day it stopped being “So Much Better Grocery Store”. Anything would have been better. The only thing that makes it doable is that the next town is 30 minutes away and ice cream can melt in that amount of time. I will think of you in the lap of shopping luxury with convenience and civilization at your finger tips. You and I both know that some days that won’t be enough to cover the loss of the wilds of the desert. But, each day that town will become more and more yours, as you return to city life.

You’ve taught me about so many things. The need for forgiveness, which I will work on. The need for laughter and memories. The humanness of tears in the middle of a sentence. The adoration and love of a mom for her daughter. The devotion of a daughter for her mom. The best kind of friendship that speaks the truth, even when it might not be what one wants to hear.

Thanksgiving and Christmas 2020 will always be the Widow’s Holidays to me. Cooking a turkey dinner for two to share was delightful because my +1 was you. The day perfect in every way. During Christmas, your flight deck observations were spot on, and something that only you could have put perfectly into difficult but truthful words. How glad I am that you said what you did when you did.

You were the one friend I could call when I really couldn’t drive to Walgreens myself. Tripping over the dog bed is something I’ll try to avoid in the future, as you will be just a little far to come to my rescue.

When I wear the beautiful fur next winter, I will think of all the parties it went to with you. The suede coat will remind me of the desert girl that I got to know so well over the years. The one with the sparkly blue eyes and the spunky stories. The one that could bring me to tears with laughter, but also with memories of the guys we love so much.

As promised, I’ll share periodic meals with Baily’s and Cream. I’ll make sure that no one messes with him, Just Because. Through to the wind, I feel him watching over me, too. I’m so blessed to have made memories with both of you through our years together. I’ll keep him company with occasional visits.

If I go before you, which could happen, I’ll be right there with the guys to greet you. If you go first, please keep an ear out when it’s my turn. Because, heaven wouldn’t quite be heaven without you close. Until then, give me an earthly call once in awhile to fill me in on your antics. Ace and I will have lots of stories to share whenever you call.

Your bags are packed. There’s gas in your car. Get out of here, city girl. You have new adventures to write. Don’t forget about this country girl that will be missing you. I’ll come around when I wash the soil off my hands and comb the sage brush out of my hair. I’ll think of you on the crystal clear desert nights and send love and happiness your way, always. Confucious says, “It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop.” So get going, girlfriend.

Goodbye’s are never easy. So, let’s just say, “Until….”. You never know when there’ll be a knock on your door.

I love you, Miss Firecracker,

Joy

Mother’s Day! What a sweet time to remember our Mom’s, Grandmother’s, Great-Grandmothers, God-Mothers, Aunts, Mother-In-Law’s, or any other women significant in our lives. A beautiful day to let those women know they are cherished and loved, while reflecting on those that have gone before us. A day of love.

On this special day, I am so blessed to have my God Mother, TJ in my life. In the big scheme of things, my parents got it right when they chose HER to watch over ME, because WE are two peas in a pod. Both being Sagittarians, we clicked from the get go. TJ had the most fun house. She was the most fun visitor to OUR house. The day cheered up immensely when she would drop by for coffee and a chat with my parents.

TJ is a free spirit. She is extremely intelligent, intuitive, and wise. She is outrageously funny with her wit and humor. She is loving and caring, being the best mom ever to my sweet Cousin, the Law Lass. TJ always has the best advice, which is usually given after hesitation because she doesn’t want to influence others with her opinions.

We have covered every subject known to man over hours of conversation during Coastal Capers. These were bi-annual visits in which pajamas were the required clothing. Over chocolate, (only milk chocolate please), and snacks we would discuss the insane politics of the day, or just plain gossip about nothing in particular. The subjects just needed to include lots of laughter. Which they always did. It was on one of these such visits we decided a new rule for heaven. No Bras. Followed by more uproarious laughter.

Since VST died, I have missed our monthly visits with TJ. Over the years, they changed from “Girls Only — No Boys Allowed”, to including VST. He adored TJ and our time with her. For a long while, we made monthly RV trips to the coast to visit, and those memories are beautiful. The last year has been one in which I am honing my driving skills to make it back there. At 7 or 8 hours, the drive is not for the faint of heart, winding through some of the most horrific traffic in the country, after making it over Donner Pass. I need not remind you that just the name Donner Pass conjures visions not pleasant. Crossing the Sierra Nevada’s takes skill and fortitude, both of which I am working on.

TJ has been there for every important moment in my life. She was always awake and involved in my life, celebrating milestones and supporting me through heartaches. She has been my rock through everything.

I hope today, she has a day filled with beauty and rest! Practice some laziness, TJ!!!!

As for me, I will be celebrating my own memorable motherhood of 5 wonderful kiddos. Through the years, they have brought me happiness on a silver platter. They are the bubbles to the champagne of my life, for sure. Sharing kids with VST made our life rich and balanced, and for the gifts of his children, I am eternally grateful, as he was for the gifts of mine.

With five beautiful professionals making their contributions in life, my pride overflows. Our legacy continues with 13 grandchildren, beautiful and strong, although becoming grown-up way too soon.

Enjoy your Mother’s Day!!!!! To those women that support me with your daily reads, I am so grateful. I wish a wonderful day for all.

Good Morning! My day always begins with coffee, a mini journal entry, and an hour spent blogging at the computer. When I look back at the growing number of posts, it makes my heart smile. I am a REAL writer. Plain and simple.

The journey to 300 reads a day has been a slow one requiring patience. In the beginning, I was happy if I had one reader. Now, reaching for 400 reads a day, I find new purpose in my writing. Embracing my humble beginnings, I celebrate my slow and steady growth.

I’m not a psychologist, although I was married to one. I’m not a philosopher or a counselor. I have no hidden agenda, other than the desire to have a book for sale later this year. That personal quest hasn’t been hidden from anyone. I learned my grammar, punctuation, and literary rules in the mid-1900’s and everyone knows those parameters change over the years. I choose to use the rules I grew up with, including proper pronouns of the day.

I’m just a widow who lost her husband in the year of Covid. Not BECAUSE of Covid, but under the cloaked quarantine of Covid. It seems deaths from any other disease didn’t occur in the last 13 months. 2020 Widows and Widowers know differently. VST was just one of such deaths. Cancer continues to take our loved ones every day. My loss is no more or less significant than anyone else’s. Writing helped me to heal. It seemed to help some others along the way, too.

I write in three places. All day long, making short entries in my personal journal, it’s a safe place for me to write about anything and everything. Ranting and Raving in long hand, somedays may be a little sloppy. The key is, every day there is something. I started recording my readership numbers while tracking the daily changes. This is a nice place to reflect on blog growth, even if it’s slower than I might like.

Poetry is recorded in a separate place, being a poet from a very young age. Many very old pieces speak beautifully to a young teenage (ME) who lost her first love to an unexpected heart attack, a 25 year old mom with two babies she adored, or the battered and broken divorcee, picking up the pieces and moving on. My heart written on “real time” pages, splattered with a touch of coffee or tears. The third place is, of course, here.

When I started writing the blog, self discovery was essential. First, I needed to find my time of peak creativity. In my perfect world, that is 3 AM, but, even I can’t get myself out of my warm, comfy bed at that time of day. By 5 AM, I’m up and carrying out a few necessary tasks before I get to the keyboard with a cup of coffee. By 7 AM, I’m done and on with my life here at Winterpast. In the beginning, it was every single day, without fail. Now, I try to write a few posts ahead, just in case I might choose not to rise at 5 AM to create something new. My point here is this. Find YOUR time of peak creativity, and write something EVERY day. Even if it’s just a few words. Try different settings and times to find those that enhance your creative spirit, and then, sit down and write.

I’ve often wondered if my posting time mattered. Then I missed a couple of days and found out. People who read daily wonder where the heck I am if I miss a day. Writing is a wonderful habit I’ve embraced. Like deep breathing, it brings peace and perspective into my life. It releases tears when they need to flow, and empties abscesses that have formed in unhealed pockets of bitterness. It reminds me that the present is the life I’ve created, walking the path of my past. I can fight this truth, or accept it wholeheartedly and find great things to love about it. Writing paints a current, literary picture of me, displaying the person I’m becoming.

Finding Bluehost and Word Press was my first step. Finding a template I liked was the second. After working for an afternoon, the new template-ized screen was staring back at me with the words “Add Post”. I began at “The Beginning”. The programs I use are like a maze. It’s necessary to look at the free options you have at your fingertips and start learning about them. There’s no reason to spend money if you know how to look up information on Google and YouTube. If you choose to spend a little, the options become more wonderful.

When starting, I didn’t know what an IP address was. Internet Protocol Address. That’s an ID number that is registered every time someone reads my blog. Some readers hide their identity, and their address is in code. But, many people don’t. These numbers are just a that. A string of numbers, representing a town in a region in a country in the world. I started to look them up and record their locations. It’s most fun to realize someone in Sri Lanka read what I had to say. Or someone in Brazil. My mind questions whether they were on the beach when they read, or maybe in a town under the beautiful statue of Jesus. I review the numbers every day, and now, my consistent reader’s numbers are like reading their names. I look to make sure Y’all are up and okay, just like you check in on my blog. No worries, I can’t see names. Just numbers representing towns.

Getting my blog routine established was the most important part of the experience for me. It provided a purposeful reason to get out of bed. Now, I think of the next step. When will it be enough that I can introduce myself to others by saying, “Hi there, I write for a living. I’m a REAL writer”? On which hill will I plant my own flag stating “I HAVE ARRIVED.”? Not being sure, I do know one thing. I’m not where I want to be yet.

Information on Google and the Internet are plentiful. Your blog should reflect you. If you are lucky enough to throw money at your project, you can design your own template with personal pictures and individualized fonts. For me, it’s about having a cheap place to practice my craft every day. So, this works.

If you have more questions, you can always email me. I love hearing from fans. It’s time for breakfast and the beginning of another beautiful spring day! Happy Writing!

The 101st thing on my long list of “Do Not Forget”-s involves automobile care. I must admit, I fall short in this category. To begin with, the rules keep changing. Long ago, the distance between oil changes was around 3,500 miles. I remember this, but never needed to open the hood. During those early days, my dad took care of every car need, even keeping my windshield sparkling clean. As any young coed in my neighborhood, we all knew how to drive hard and fast, but car care was a little beneath our little patent leathers. Now, with certain oils, it is 7,500 miles between oil changes. We all need to keep up with the specifics of our individual rides.

In my teen years, I did learn that there is oil in a car and knew it needed to be changed regularly. I knew the tires needed air in them. Beyond that, car stuff was never something I studied or cared about. Shame on me, because through my life, someone else has always worried about that stuff for me. Blessed with helpful angels in this area I’ve been. But, a self sufficient desert gal needs to know her automotive needs to be sure things run smoothly.

Speaking about oil filters and oil, one should be familar with the owner’s manual, if you have one. Yours might be online. Under specifications, there is a section on lubricants and the types needed for your vehicle. The needs of your car can depend on the climate in your area. The oil needed in the Central Valley of California might be different that that needed in the dead of winter in Viriginia City, Nevada. It’s important that you don’t scrimp on the quality lubricants, or you might pay a high price later. As your car ages, request the best oils you can buy. In my case, the truck takes synthetic oil. It’s all new information which I am noting as I jot down the mileage at which the service is done.

Be aware that many quick-y oil change businesses may use very cheap oils and filters. Damage may result to your car if the drain plug is not put back on correctly, or worse, stripped. The old saying, “You Get What You Pay For” applies to auto maintenance shops. Be sure that you find a reputable mechanic you can trust. Worth their weight in gold.

If your automotive specialist has your car in the shop, request a tire and brake inspection. Tires should be rotated every 5,000 miles. Don’t forget an occasional alignment. By caring for the tires, you can get extra miles out of a very expensive purchase. Be sure to inquire about the proper amount of air the tire holds and keep them properly inflated. Remember that they need to be checked once in awhile, especially when the temperatures change with the season.

If you live in a rainy area, don’t forget to replace your wipers when they start wear out. New wipers are pricey these days, so shop around. Automotive supply stores carry them and can help you find the right lengths for your vehicle.

Check out your air filter and see if you need to replace it. In the high desert and constant winds, air filters are replaced more frequently than in coastal areas that don’t have much dust. Keep an eye on them. Don’t forget to find out if your car has a cabin filter. They can be overlooked, causing damage.

Chips in your windshield? If you have glass insurance with your automobile policy, they are often repaired for free. If you need a new windshield, try your best to get a brand name replacement rather than a cheap imitation. Today’s windshields often have integrated systems within them. Be sure that you inquire as to the type of windshield that will be replacing your original. My Jeep is due for a new one, having been damaged in a sand storm and badly pitted. On my every expanding “To Do” list.

So, check that car twice. You can never be too careful. The Jeep is running well now, with all recall parts installed the correct way, fluids changed, filters new and shiny, and new tires in alignment. Time to find some great, public BLM roads (the real one, meaning Bureau of Land Management) to travel down. With my Jeep being “Trail-Rated” the spring is just the time to try out some 4-wheel’in.

Don’t forget the wash and wax!! The weather is fine. Get the hose and get busy!!!!

A while back I was talking with a widower about the loss of his wife. He and I shared things that we missed after suffering the loss of our spouses. Our answers were exactly the same as we went through the long list. The things not mentioned were materialistic things. Those that came up time and time again were simple in nature. Things money could never buy or replace.

Shared memories during a lifetime with a spouse is a loss that hits when you least expect it. You can be having a great day and run across a funny picture taken while sailing in the middle of Monterey Bay. The photographer, now in angel form, isn’t there to set you straight on what time of day the picture was taken, or how many times kisses occurred on the way to snapping that picture. The moment is stolen out of a complete story that no one else can tell now, except me. Sadly, it’s out of a story no one else wants to hear, frozen in a screen shot.

Since his death, I’ve been spared from the split second desire to go tell VST things. I hear many people talk about that experience and I’m so glad it never happened to me. Quite often, I DO talk to VST, explaining how life is going, and how happiness has come to roost over Winterpast. Like cumulous clouds on a spring afternoon, fun activities are now coming my way. Lunch and shopping trips to the mall with girlfriends eager to find out all my news. A comforting church visit. Time spent with a new friend. A garden in full bloom after a long winter’s rest. VST always has time to listen. I know he’s cheering me on in heaven. That’s just what best friends do.

In our retirement years, VST and I became excellent workmates as we restored two houses, while maintaining a third. For hours each day, we would plan and execute building projects. Windows were re-designed and replaced. Doors were jacked up to square, or re-hung altogether. Trips to the hardware store resulted in beauty through the projects we completed. The lumber section of Lowe’s is a place that I still can’t yet visit. The smell of freshly sawn wood takes me back to the projects within the walls of the DunMovin’ House in Virginia City or our little cabin by the lake. These projects involved discussions of every kind while we worked. Times together spent doing normal things. Simply that.

Some of the most special things I miss are basic in nature, but more valuable than a gold mine. Belly laughs. Heartfelt tears. Home cooked meals. Trips to the beach. Hugs. Smiles. Early morning coffee and Channel 2 News. The littlest of things that disappeared. Some days, the absence of these things is deafening. How blessed I am to have great family and friends to check on me while sending funny messages my way once in awhile.

On May 20, a very special milestone will occur, making me wish VST was here to cheer with me. Our oldest grandson is graduating from college. VST spent years in college, finally earning a Doctorate in Organizational Psychology. One of his proudest days ever. This accomplishment inspired many around him to continue their educations, including his children and grandchildren. I wish, for a moment, we could sit together and watch our first grandchild reach this special goal. I’ll just need to celebrate for the both of us, knowing that in heaven, VST has a way to know everything while applauding all our successes.

I’ve started planning my summer of new special moments. If I don’t create these, no one else will. I call this Summer Camp for Joy. It includes a little bowling, some boating on Lake Tahoe, time in the Sierra Nevada’s, and trips to favorite spots as I take mini-road trips. Some will include new friends, while some will simply be time I spend getting to know myself better. Special moments spent forging a new path are never wasted. Solitude can lead to epiphanies while we create our best life.

As the months role by, solitary holes in my routine aren’t so obvious. Replaced by new activities, comforting memories bring smiles and stories to share with those interested. There will always be special treasured moments that hold a place dear in our hearts. Now is the time to fill our lives with new adventures and love! Life is precious!

Life never ceases to amaze me. Just when I think boredom has hit a new, all time low, another spicy adventure awaits. Life is brimming with amazing people all having their own history, but this story is rather unique and specific to my interests. It all began at Papa’s Old Bar and Grill on a chilly high desert Saturday night. After saying a final Goodbye to Miss Firecracker in Papa’s parking lot, just two nights prior, I returned there looking for something different. Something mysterious and haunting, like the legendary ghosts that flow from this place. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but there I was again, expecting some kind of something.

Choosing to eat outside, I took the table covered with the least debris. In the lands of the desert winds, one cannot expect things to remain clean for very long. Even with the most diligent waitresses, dust and debris quickly cover tables and chairs. It appeared it had been quite awhile since the surfaces had been properly cleaned, but being outside made that okay. I was the only customer, and after a full and busy day, I settled down to look at my phone a bit.

It was then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw two HUGE men come outside to enjoy the fresh air. They were rough looking types that were bigger than life. At least 6’5″ and 300+ pounds each, they displayed massive arms of tattooed flesh. The younger of the two had gone a step further and tattooed his head and neck, as well. To say they were intimidating in appearance would be putting it mildly.

“My dad was a Navy Seal…….” was all it took. I had to look and smile, triggering a conversation with the younger of the two. He happened to be the one with the shaved and tattooed skull. As he approached our table, he grew larger and more intimidating, although his eyes said something different. There was a melancholy approachability in the way he looked at me. A gentle giant, although different than most with which I would strike up a conversation on a random Saturday night.

After a brief exchange, he asked if I’d seen the movie, “The Mustang”. He had my complete and undivided attention. In 2016, VST and I hadn’t been in the area that long, when it was announced there would be a movie filmed about the local prison and the Mustang and Inmate program there. Four times a year, there’s a sale at the prison. If you attend, you can’t wear blue jeans, as those are reserved attire for the inmates only. If you bring your horse trailer, you can buy a formally wild mustang, tamed and trained by an inmate. For years, I’ve wanted to go to a sale just to watch, being fascinated that the training occurs in 90 days. Hard to tell who needs gentling more, the horse or the inmate. These trained horses are purchased by all kinds of people, from law enforcement to ranchers. The bidding starts at $150. The proceeds support this valuable program.

Years ago, I’d begged VST. Really begged him to visit the prison on sale day. But, he was never in the mood to go sit in the sun and watch a horse sale. Maybe a little afraid that I might bid and become the owner of a mustang. So, we never went.

I’ve only met one trained mustang on a first name basis. His name was Rico and he was almost 28. It’s all in the eyes with me. Rico had given up his freedom to take a job settling trail horses that were not as sound as he. At 28, he was a stunning version of timeless beauty. As I said, it’s all in the eyes. This man standing before me had the eyes of a mustang. Until you look into those kind of eyes, there are not proper words to explain. Some wild things can be gentled, and some can’t. That goes for people, too.

Back to Papa’s that night, the mountain of a young man standing next to me said, “The movie was written about me. It’s my story. I had a part in the movie, but, the story is mine.”

My first thought was, “Sure it was. Sure you did.” How did he sense the huge interest I had in this project? And that it was on my list of movies to watch? And that I loved the entire thought of inmates settling these horses, while both benefited. How did he know? He could have been the subject of 100 movies. But, he wasn’t. He was the subject of “The Mustang”. The one that held my interest.

Quick as a cricket, he had out his phone and this man in front of me was talking on his phone screen at a Red Carpet interview in Hollywood on opening night. There he was, just as soft spoken and unassuming as he was in my presence. I was speechless as I listened to the interview.

He went on to show me pictures with Bruce Dern and some of the other cast members, while he kept talking about the story. He raised 26 horses while at the prison, each taking 90 days to gentle and finish. Three went to New Zealand, many went to police departments, and others just went to good homes. Polite, quiet, and reserved, the man who told his story had been through bad times and done terrible things. But, somehow, through the experience, life had forged him into someone new. The gift of time and the spirits of those 26 mustangs had taught him a thing or two about inner growth.

He talked of twenty acres he had just purchased in Oregon, just right for his new home. A prideful wild-fire fighter, he had returned to the area to visit friends. Through our conversation, gumption and determination shown through as he talked to me. Not anger. Not bitterness. Just a story told well about a young man that, in a split second, made a very terrible decision. His story.

If you want to watch a really good movie, see “The Mustang”. You’ll get a good visual of the Northwestern Nevada Desert in which I live. You’ll get a feel for the mustangs I’m so lucky to share the land with. You’ll see their magnificent power and their unnerving ability to understand the human condition. It may make you cry, while surely being interesting food for thought.

You just never know what stories people have to tell. With a quick Hello, someone can touch your life with quiet words and a well told tale. Every cover doesn’t tell the true story of the book waiting inside. I’m glad this was a safe and sane guy I was lucky enough to meet. I wish him all the best in his search for his own quiet paradise in Oregon.

Good morning readers. I will be back on Monday morning. Plan an adventure this weekend.

Joy

A good writer should be able to write a wonderful story about the phone book, if needed. Lately, my life is a little less interesting than the antiquated phone book, while plenty of great stories from my past adventures swirl around in my head. As I am the master of this blog, I’ll to share two of them with you. I assure you, they’re both harrowing and nail biting tales. They both happened to me as a very young bride in 1977 during a time called the Cold War. Very angry and dark times between the USSR and the USA. VST was the husband to another and the father of year old twins. As he tugged bolts in the hot San Joaquin Valley sun, I moved to Moldavia, USSR, for six months to begin my own life as a new bride.

Having lived in a communist country in which government controls every aspect of life, I truly understand what FREEDOM means. The gravity of losing freedom doesn’t become real until you are on a sidewalk with a bayonet in your face because you attempted to jay-walk across an empty street. Empty because no one could own a car. Patrolled and enforced, because you better bein lock-step with everyone in the town. Or. Else.

The summer of 1977. At 21, I looked 15. Hopeful for the future, I had married in March and promptly found myself following my husband to work in the tomato fields of Moldavia for an American company, to remain un-named. This company, along with others, had an agricultural business arrangement with the Russian government. Please remember, this was during the Cold War, when we were all taught to believe that enterprise was not occurring between the two countries. Not exactly the case. because there we were in the middle of the USSR, working for a US company.

In the town of Tiraspol, I was the only American woman to have ever visited, let alone, lived there. My cut off jeans, too short to really cover anything, and bra-less tank tops were the talk of the town. My every move was documented. My every phone conversation taped. Every letter I sent or received was opened before I did, with some of the messages carefully removed by razor blade, if it didn’t meet Soviet standards. My clothing, sent to be laundered, was often stolen, until I decided it was better to wash everything by hand. I lived in a communist fish bowl. Just one little golden fish, swimming ’round and ’round that bowl, day after day, wondering what in the heck I’d signed up for.

Each day was a version of the one before. I was ill-equipped for this experience, not understanding the Moldavian language or the Cyrillic alphabet. Alone for 16 hours a day to figure things out, I made many assumptions, because, there was no one to explain this crazy land in which I found myself. While my new husband had been hired to do a real job at the farm, 45 minutes from town by taxi, I was just a bride. Brought along for amusement. Left in town, all day, every day, for the entire time we were there.

At 21, my options for interesting activities were slim. I could sit down and read a complete novel each day, cover to cover. Which, I often did. I could go to the daily market and buy ingredients for anything I felt like spending all day cooking on my single burner hot plate. I could walk about the town observing, while I was observed more. And I could sleep. Boy could I sleep. Some days, 12 of the 16 daylight hours were spent in dreamland, walking up and down the aisles of my American Safeway. I was starved for protein and calories, along with all the other issues I was dealing with.

After a very long summer of hell, we’d been allowed to leave Moldavia for a one week vacation in Europe. At the end of the week, we’d meet with co-workers in Vienna and drive back to Tiraspol, through a countryside that few Americans would ever see. I was looking forward to the trip, even though it would be with three men, two of which I really didn’t like very much, one of those being my new husband. The juice would be worth the squeeze, and I’d suffer through the manly company just to travel by ground and experience something few Americans ever would.

The morning we were to leave, the four of us met for breakfast in a little Viennese café. The vacation had been one to remember with trinkets and memories of Austria and Italy. By train, taxi, and foot, we had taken in the sights and sounds of Vienna and Venice, with lots of places in between. The four of us now sat quietly, awaiting word from our exalted boss, about the plans for the next part of the journey. I wasn’t really prepared for his proposal.

Arten Max was a short little man who made up for that with bravado and sexual prowess. At least he tried to make up for his deficits. The more he tried, the more disgusting he became. The troublesome part of my relationship with Arten was that he was my new husband’s boss, and therefore controlled every aspect of our lives. Being a brazen womanizer, he often went into great details about the Moldavian women he had conquered during his decade long tenure in the country. Arten disgusted me with his comments on my attire and the need to wear a short dress, stockings, and bra when visiting the far. There were not words low enough for this man, and he earned every badge I’ve given him.

A physical description of Arten, a major player in this story, would help. Arten was a tight little muscular package of sinew. Without a drop of fat on his lean little body, he stood at about 5’6″, therefore, making us eye level. His crystal blue eyes darted this way and that as he would work a room, making sure all eyes were on the American. He had a typical farmers tan, but often took off his shirt to make sure the upper body glowed bronze, as well. Blonde hair and chiseled features led the Russians to believe he was straight off the beaches of Malibu, but then, we all were.

Arten had one major physical flaw that he used to his own benefit. He had suffered a terrible injury when a piece of heavy equipment had fallen on his calf, while he lay under the said equipment beating it with a pipe wrench. After spending days within the horrors of a Soviet hospital, Arten could simply take no more. He walked out, in the midst of a life threatening infection. The resulting leg was no more than a skin covered bone between the ankle and knee. Rather a peg-legged pirate affair. Fitting. He used this for sympathy with his stable. All the girls made over this poor, poor American. They should have remembered that the Diamond Back Rattler comes from the states, as well.

It was under Arten’s demand that we had not registered our position in the country with the American Embassy. Whether or not the embassy knew of our location was not the true point. It was his ability to make us BELIEVE the embassy couldn’t and wouldn’t be able to help us if we needed help. We would simply remain invisible in their eyes. As the weeks rolled by, controlled by communism, I was also smothered by the manipulations of a crazy American that should have been keeping us safe, instead of carrying on affairs with most of the eligible women in the town. At any rate, the next three days would be no different. There would be no American Embassy to which we could escape, providing no umbrella of safety for this little chick-a-dee.

It seemed that during Arten’s miscalculations of travel, in my opinion planned quite to his specifications, there was only room for three men on the return car trip to Tiraspol. A rather large piece of a tractor engine would take up the fourth seat. As I was only along for the ride anyway, with no useful purpose, it would be my seat that would be sacrificed on the journey. I was given an instant choice to make, as time was wasting. In a foreign country, with doubts about every decision I’d made to get me this far, I was faced with a very hard decision. I was given three scenarios for my destiny and told to pick one.

1. I would travel back to California alone. There was no apartment waiting for me, the new bride. Everything we owned was in storage. So, I would be setting up a solitary existence for an unknown length of time.
2. I would travel as far as Virginia and stay with my new husband’s extended family. All strangers in a strange land, to me. I would wait there, alone, for an unknown length of time.
3. I could take an adventure on The Orient Express, next stop Tiraspol, Moldavia. Winding my way through three days of lush countryside, I’d travel in my very own sleeping car. Yes. Sleeping car. Just like Joni’s song, “With the clouds and the star’s to read, dreaming of the pleasure I’m going to have watching your hairline recede, my vain darling.” What an amazing stroke of luck!!!!

Well, for a 21 year old girl, fresh out of college with her BA along with her MRS. degree, the choice was instant. Adventure #3. What an easy call. I would meet up with the men in three days. Three Glorious Days to find answers to questions that were burning holes in my brain. 72 hours to examine decisions that got me to the crossroads in which I found myself. My wild side spoke up and it was decided. The train left at 10 AM. It was 9:30 AM and the station wasn’t far. I needed to pack up, buy my ticket, and move out. I could hear that whistle blowing and almost feel the clickity clack under my feet.

With a flurry of activity, we arrived at the train station with 15 minutes to spare. I’d take my luggage with me, as there was no room in the car. With dollars in my pocket, I’d have enough money for daily meals. I had something to read and plenty to observe. I was ready to roll. Until a very important fact came into play.

While purchasing the ticket, we were informed that THIS version of the Orient Express had no dining car. No mahogany smoking cars with nefarious occupants sheltering devious eyes. No mysterious women with eyelids that shrouded intentions for evil. No men in tilted fedora’s, smoking expensive cigars while tapping their shiny wing-tips. No fine crystal holding finer liquors while being fingered by the finest of thieves. Save all that for a bed-time story.

The real passengers loaded the train. Plenty of zoot-suited men, out-date-ed with nothing but time to do very bad things. Fat women with heavy baskets of sustenance to maintain their womanly curvature. Fat women always cover their dietary needs. They knew already that no food of any kind could be purchased once aboard. Obviously, the most important fact was that this trip would be 72 very hungry hours unless I hustled up something quick.

The small, adorable kiosk, providing food for travelers, sat to one side in the station. Quick as a cricket, I was in front of empty bins. Yes, there had been sandwiches, bags of chips, fruit, and bread. There always was before the departure of the Orient Express. This, the three day trip, was one in which the vendor always sold out. With seven minutes to departure, there was no time to come up with Plan B. Arten hung back, snickering under his pompous mustache. He had been well aware of the train amenities and this wasn’t lost on me, as daggers flew out of my eyes, aimed right at his smug face. I purchased the remaining food from the vendor. Two bruised apples and two dried out rolls. A feast for three days.

With that, I kissed the only person I knew in Vienna “GoodBye”, boarding the Express Train to the hell that would consume me. eroding any confidence I had for the next three days. An American woman should never travel alone on the Orient Express. An American woman should glue her passport to one breast, and an alarm clock to the opposing butt cheek. Doing neither, a ding-dong American girl was about to have the ride of her life. All aboard!!!!

To be continued.

Kissing everyone I knew Good Bye from the threshold of the train was a bit eerie. Of course, I had no way of knowing what adventure and darkness would unfold as I started on my way. I had a ticket in my hand and hope in my heart. With a few steep stairs, I was aboard The Orient Express to begin a three day Odyssey.

With a very narrow and steep entrance, negotiating both a large Samsonite suitcase and a heavy back back was difficult. A conductor with his spiffy uniform, straight out of an Agatha Christie novel, helped me to my sleeping car after looking at my ticket. To the right and six doors down, I’d be shut away from the riffraff, alone to watch the countryside go by. In the worst case scenario, I would simply sleep the trip away. I was good at sleeping through difficult situations and this might become one.

Ushered into Sleeping Car 24, I examined every aspect of my tiny little home away from home. To the right, there were two bunks, one atop the other. Both had a nice view out the window which only opened about 2″, from the top down. There were ancient curtains, attached at the top and bottom, which when slid closed, would provide total darkness. To the left, there was a small water closet with a toilet/shower combo inside. Next to that, a sink and utility shelf. Completing the room, in the corner, sat a very comfortable but small leather recliner, also looking out the window. The entire compartment was maybe six feet square, plenty big for one. But there would be one little situation that arose before the train ever left the station.

Unexpectedly, there was a knock on the door. Thinking the conductor may have forgotten something, I cautiously opened it, as someone forcefully pushed towards me, shoving me back, almost to the window. In the doorway, a very tall, dark, hairy man stood, a gleam in his eye and smile on his lips.

“‘Eh-Lo”, he sneered in a very deep voice, as his eye gaze traveled slowly from the top of my pretty little head to the tips of my dainty little toes. Giving me the once over, his smirk intensified.

“Hello?” replying timidly, I realized I had no weapon or way to protect myself.

Without any introductions, he simply lifted his large leather suitcase up onto the top bunk and moved in.

“What are you doing? This is MY sleeping compartment!” came out of my mouth, sharp and decisive. He must remove himself now. The queen of this cabana had spoken. THIS was NOT acceptable. What could this mean? How could this be? This was MY sleeping compartment, paid for by an American Company for ME. Not to be shared with some unknown leering and jeering man of dubious means. Not such a large man that the two of us would have no personal space. Certainly not for three days. No. No. No. Wrong. This was not happening.

“NO. THIS is MINE, too.” With that declaration, a guttural and primal laugh emerged from his porcine lips.

With the moves of a ninja, I was out the door to retrieve that little conductor. This terrifying cabin poacher would be history. My receipt for a single room included No roommate or free-loader. This would be fixed in a flash. Now. As the conductor followed me back to the cabin, I’m quite sure I saw him roll his eyes. But, this communal situation wouldn’t be tolerated. Period.

Opening the door, cigar smoke billowed out of the cabin. Damn. A smoker, too. The worst. The conductor was at a loss as to why the two of us were sold the same cabin, but, it was decided the poacher would move to another. Disgruntled, he removed himself with one last horrible glance my way. I was left to deal with the second hand smoke and lingering body odor he left behind. Locking the door with three latches and my suitcase in front, it took a little while for my pulse to return to a normal rate.

With our cabin debacle taking more time than expected, we left the station 20 minutes later than scheduled. It would be three days until I arrived in Bucharest, Romania. Until then, I’d make the most of my time. I would only nibble on the bread or apples when I got very, very hungry. Until then, I would amuse myself however I could.

I decided to walk the length of the train, after we’d been traveling for about an hour. It would be refreshing to stand on the landings between the cars and smell the fresh country air as we rolled along. Perhaps someone would notice my gaunt cheeks and offer some nourishment from their fat baskets of yumminess. Alas, no one was passing out goodies, and soon, Day 1 was coming to an end. Returning to the safety of my sleeping compartment and climbing aboard the top bunk, (which was always going to be mine), I settled into the night rhythm of the train. Checking and rechecking the locks, I finally made sure one last time that I was secure and floated off to sleep.

Until.

I don’t like watches. If it’s dark, I’m probably thinking about sleeping. If it is getting light, it’s probably time to start waking up. Although I did carry a watch, it wasn’t on my wrist when I suddenly awoke. It WAS certainly very, very dark outside. The movement of the train had stopped, but noisy activity continued outside the train.

Looking through the window, I hardly believed my eyes. A crane had train-sized jaws around the sleeping car that had been attached to the same train while following along on this entire trip. It was lifting the car filled with sleeping people off of the original set of wheels and onto a set new wheels on tracks of a different width, running right along side the ones on which I had previous been traveling. We were entering the Hungarian Soviet Republic. The Hungarians obviously didn’t want to be invaded by rail. The European train wheels wouldn’t work on the Hungarian track. Plain and simple.

Terror struck me as I watched the crane hoist this huge rail car high into the night sky and carry it inches before setting it down again. Luckily, I’d been asleep when mine was moved. A few minutes after I’d opened my eyes to the dark unknown of night activities, there was a seriously determined knock on my door. Unwanted and untimely.

I’d prepared for a trip alone, and packed a matronly nightgown. I wasn’t going to get caught in a frilly negligee if something went amiss. So, in my long sleeved, full flannel nightgown with buttons at the neck and wrists (for added security), I shyly asked who was at my door.

“Who is it?”

“Po-Lee-Cee-ah. Open. Now.”

Blood running cold, I froze. Police? At my door? For being a witch to the guy that tried to steal my room? For walking up and down the train? Why? Why me?????? Why Now?????

“Po-Lee-Cee-ah! Open Door Now, or we will open it for you…..”

With that, I knew I must comply. In the little comfort that my flannel shroud provided, I slowly reached for the first lock, and prayed that this was all some very terrible misunderstanding…….

To Be Continued……

In the very narrow hallway, where two could barely pass without turning shoulders a bit, there stood a no-nonsense policeman. He had a sidearm, along with a look that told me this was no joke. Hungarians didn’t mess around.

“Pass-a-Port-ah, Pleeeezzzze.”

Hmm. A new dilemma. Traveling 101. Your passport is your only lifeline to America. Lose it, you are in very deep trouble. Thanks to Arten, the American Embassy had not idea where this little cupcake was traveling, making this rule all the more essential and valuable. I had the passport inside the sleeve of my nightgown for safe keeping, right above the two security buttons at my wrist. This National ID would not leave my side without a real fight.

I looked blankly into his eyes.

“I don’t understand.”

Agitation flooded this man’s face. He was not the warm and fuzzy kind of guy to be schmoozed by a maiden’s tear falling from the bluest of eyes.

In a louder voice, he boomed, “PASS-A-PORT-AH, PLLLLEEEEEEEZZZZZZEEEEEE.”

This wasn’t going well. I slowly unbuttoned the sleeve, revealing my ever-so-clever hiding spot, and produced the passport. Clenching the back half in a vice-grip, I showed him the page with my information. This clearly irritated him more.

“Give.”

“No.”

“GIVE NOW. OR ELSE.”

I’m not sure what overtook the thinking part of my brain, but the passport was magically sucked back into my sleeve. It was not leaving my possession. Period. Not for this crazy cop, or anyone else.

Traveling 101.

#1. Keep passport secure at all cost and at all times.

Done and done. My tear filled eyes would not leak, and I gave him a long steely glare-stare, crossing my arms to punctuate my answer. No.

Mr. Military type must have had a very long night, because he left. Just like that. I quickly locked the three locks and placed my suitcase in front of the door. I had just gotten back on the top bunk when the knocking began again, causing me to unlock my fortress a second time.

There were now TWO very large military types, one holding a bayonet-ed AK-47. Now THERE is a scary gun. Even scarier when pointed at your heart by a military soldier of a communist country. His eyes were void of anything except his focus, which was on making me comply.

“‘Eh-LO. You WILL give the pass-a-port-ah right now.”

Again, I produced the passport, holding it in a way they could see all necessary information, while gripping the back in a death hold.

It mattered not. Because, when two military types want to disarm you, disarm you they will. In a flash my passport was ripped away, and instantaneously my vocal chords were activated. Sounds I never knew I could produce came out of my mouth, as I started screaming, shrill and ear piercing. Frozen at my front door, each cabin swung open, and the occupants all leaned out at once to see the action, reminding me of a bad Lucille Ball movie. It mattered not, as I continued screaming while watching the two armed, regulatory thieves leave the train with my passport. My only documented connection to the USA was now off the train and gone into the night. I continued to scream at the top of my lungs, my vision flooded by tears, and a pounding heart choking my throat. The nightmare continued.

After what seemed like the eternal trip through hell, the two finally came back. By this time, they found me spent and demoralized while hiccupping and hoarse.

“American? American Woman? Why you travel alone?”

Oh, hell, who knows? Spy? Drug dealer? Art heist? Were these guys for real?

“I’m traveling to see my husband in Tiraspol, Moldavia.”

With limited English, these men hardly understood. Mr. Bayonet kept staring, and the talker just looked carefully into my eyes, looking for stray secrets hidden there.

“Madam, the next time officer tells you to give up passport, do so. Immediately.”

Thrusting the precious blue and gold booklet back at my chest, the two made sharp, communist, click-heeled stage lefts, and marched right off the train into the night.

Clutching my passport, yet again, I wished I was enjoying the freedoms of my country. Before living under communist rule, I had no real appreciation for the precious freedoms Americans enjoy every day. Something as simple as having a conversation at a border without fearing the shiny-sharp tip of a bayonet inches from insertion. Do you shoot and stab or stab and shoot? Both actions together? Horribly barbaric and frightening. Definitely not American.

That night held no more sleep for me. With three emotional upsets in under 24 hours, and no food, my stomach was experiencing a combination of hunger pains, dehydration, and adrenaline overload. I still had a full day to travel before I would change trains in Bucharest, Romania. Romania must be better, because Hungary had set the bar pretty low.

One roll and 1/2 an apple helped with the excess stomach acid and soon, I felt a little better. Under a morning sky, we rolled through beautiful fields and quaint little houses plucked right off the pages of history books. There were houses that had rope-and-bucket-ed water wells inside their weathered little picket fences. Ragged horses pulled wooden wagons full of green grass, cut and ready to store for the brutal winter, just around the corner. Everyone walked, because, no one had cars. Nowhere to go if you had one. Hungarian visions I would not soon forget. Straight out of a World War II picture book, frozen in time.

Mile by mile, the scenery had changed by mid afternoon. Rustic farms were being replaced by a more dense city-scape. Finally, we were pulling into the Bucharest train station, and civilization. From a first look, this could be even better than Vienna. My spirits soared. I had a plan.

Needing to lay over until midnight in Bucharest, I’d simply store my suitcase, exchange my $100 of US dollars into Rumanian money, and hit the town. I’d eat first, and then shop. By the time midnight rolled around, I’d be ready for the last leg of my trip. Easy peazy.

Leaving the security of my little room, I again checked my passport safe its secret location. Leave it at that. I had it secured. Struggling to get off the train, the other travelers evaporated and I stood alone in the station. Just my suitcase, backpack, and me. Except for one lone pervert lurking in the dark bowels of the shadowy station.

I didn’t notice him at first as I lugged my suitcase and backpack toward the ticket cage. But within moments, I heard someone following me while whispering in a hissing voice. I was being tailed.

“Hey. Baby.”

No. No. No. This couldn’t be happening. Early afternoon was not a time to deal with a pervert. Where were the communist cops when you needed them the most??? Like when an assault could occur? On a PERVERT? By a very tired American woman?????

Looking over my shoulder, I gave him the look I’d wanted to give the two morons at the Hungarian border. Only more stern.

“Hey. Baby. Whatcha doing?”

Walking faster, the ticket counter seemed further and further away. I couldn’t run, as this was way before the days of rolling suitcases. My 40 pound Samsonite needed carrying, leaving me slightly tilted to one side and a bit out of breath. Along with a 10 pound back pack, I couldn’t make a run for it. Walking fast, he walked faster. I could begin to smell the stench of urine and body odor that was his and his alone. I wondered if he could smell the human fear coming from me.

Finally reaching the ticket agent, I saw him slink behind a kiosk, his ragged and holey shoes giving away his position.

Relieved that the ticket agent spoke English, I proceeded with my request.

“Hi, I need to purchase a ticket from Bucharest to Tiraspol, Moldavia. Can you help me?”

“No.”

What? Could this situation get any worse? A one word answer????? No?????

“You must travel to the main office in the center of Bucharest by taxi. There you can buy an International ticket. We only sell National tickets here.”

This was not in the plans. The Main Office???? In Bucharest???? By Taxi???? Where everyone spoke Russian???? With a stalker on my heels????? How could this be?

“I would advise that you have the correct Romanian change. They do not deal in foreign currency at the Main Office. Thank you. I am closing now.”

With that, the window to an English speaking person closed in my face. Immediately, the stalker reappeared with some added vulgarities thrown in now. His intensions were very clear, as he spoke loudly, coming my way.

Across the way, I saw lockers in which I would stow my suitcase. There was a small bank in which to change my American Dollars into Romanian leu. In 1977, the exchange rate was $1 = 8109 Romanian Leu. Just like that, my dollars, invaluable for bribes, were changed to worthless Leu. Unknowingly, I’d exchanged immense bargaining power for scraps of worthless paper. I was “Jack and the Magic Beans” in girl form.

With over 8,000 Leu in my pocket, while keeping the stalker a few steps behind, I excited the train station and came into the light of early afternoon. Bucharest was beautiful and exciting. Right in front of my face, there was a taxi pick-up with a waiting taxi. Two men were in the taxi. The driver and one in the back seat. The front seat was waiting for me and I hoped in. The driver spoke limited English.

“Main Train Office, please?”

“Train? Train Here. You at Train.”

It would be a very long afternoon.

“No. Big. Main Train Office. Not Here.”

“Ahhhhhhh. Da!!! Da!! Poydem!!” In other words, “Let’s Go”.

Immediately, I realized the error of my ways as Mr. Back-Seat’s arm came over my right shoulder. The man in the back was a groper. As the driver turned around, chatting with Mr. BS, I was in terror. The car was moving at a high rate of speed while the driver’s eyes were on MY chest. Talking loudly and laughing, arms were flying everywhere. Horns were blasting as we careened down narrow streets.

As I struggled to keep wandering hands away from my breast area, I also had to brace for impact as the driver was totally insane. Swerving in and out of traffic, oncoming or otherwise, the chaos of the moment was overwhelming. Round-abouts and red lights meant nothing as we sped through a maze. With near misses of bicyclists and pedestrians, my shrieks and screams were real, as the two men laughed in uproarious fashion. It was another day on the job for them. My hell continued.

Finally, arriving at the Main Train Station in Bucharest, I was spent and angry. I paid the driver and quickly excited the car as the two laughed themselves to tears. Alone on an unknown street in the middle of a foreign town, I made my way into the office building and took my place at the end of in a very long line. I’d made it this far. I’d complete this mission and live to tell the tale. Mid-afternoon was upon us as I crept closer to the front of the line. Finally, at 1:59 PM, it was my turn. Imagine my good fortune. My turn!!! All good, until every single ticket counter slammed shut at exactly 2:00 PM.

To be continued……..

The Main Train Office in Bucharest was a visual delight. Assuming it was build after the war, the architecture and adornments were dazzling. Not a strip mall affair. This building was grand. As I waiting in a velvet-roped que, voices seemed to float to the cavernous ceilings. This was a grand place in which to do business. Each Window in the Main Office of the Bucharest Train Station was protected by an ornate, bronze window gate. The associates stood and worked behind them, although the entire area in which they worked was visible through vertical bars spaced between the gates. These were popular in very old bank buildings in the US. All of this protection seemed overkill for ticketing agents. A huge impression was made when ten of these windows closed at once, each with a metallic clink, manually, perfectly in-sync, and final. Especially when you are the next person in line.

Watching intently, I first thought it was closing time. But, at each window, a second person had appeared. The first associate was picking up every item at their window. Pencils, pens, stapler, staple remover, ink blot stamps, ink, ticket books, and anything else that was set out to be used. When they had collected their belongings, the second shift stepped forward and put out the same exact items. Never had I seen such an insane shift change. It was done in Soviet style. Everyone in lock-step with the next.

Finally, exactly together, all ten widows flew back open and I went to Window #13, although there were in fact, only 10 windows. In a broken regime, many times there are no answers.

Luckily, my ticket agent did speak a little English and knew, very well, Moldavia and the town of Tiraspol. I would arrive at 11:00 AM the following day. Again, the train would carry no food or drink. It would leave at Midnight, so, arrive at the station 15 minutes before departure. I would not be able to board before that time.

As she was telling me this, my mind went back to the dark recesses of the real station, deserted, except for one very determined stalker, waiting for my return. My stomach growled, bringing me back to the present. Paying my Leu, I still had plenty for a wonderful lunch at a little café next to the train station. I was going to start the meal with chocolate ice cream and go backwards from there. 5,500 leu in my pocket would insure that I’d eat like a queen. I knew the ticket would be expensive, and there HAD been the crazy taxi ride, but, I’d never spent 2500 of anything so quickly in my life.

With ticket in hand, I went outside to find the taxi que. But wait. More great news. There was NO taxi que. No sign of taxis. This quiet street was not anywhere downtown. There was no bustle or hustle. No bus lines. Nothing. Just a quiet empty street. I. Was. Lost.

It was then I started crying. Not a little cry. Not a loud cry. A desperate cry from a broken woman who bit off more than she could chew. Lost in a country in which she didn’t speak the language. Lost in a relationship that really wasn’t right or true. Dumped in a strange land by two men that should have been a little more interested in her wellbeing and safety. There, by the side of that street, exhausted and broken, I crumpled to the ground and wept. For how long, I really couldn’t tell you.

After a time, with tears not subsiding, a car rounded the corner. A large black car. Shiny. Long. Impressive. A Mercedes emblem proudly adorned the hood. Tinted windows hid the occupants. The only visible person was a driver in a tuxedo staring straight ahead. It was then the back door opened.

Out stepped a gentleman of means. That was obvious. From where he came, I know not.

“It seems you have troubles, my dear. Can I be of help?” Perfectly accented English peeked by total attention. Handsome and fit, his 6′ frame was perfectly proportioned. He stood as a man of wealth and status, would. Proudly.

I must have looked like a mere child sitting on the street crying.

Through my tears, I told him my story. He listened intently and asked if I would like a ride. He was going right near the station and would be happy to be of help. After assessing his custom made suit made from the richest cloth, the leather wingtips shining without a speck of dust, and his manicured hand reaching out to me, I made a decision that could have been lethal. Somehow, this angel man had been sent to save my sorry self. I took his hand and he helped me into his car.

Just like that, an suit-n-tie angel drove me back to safety. No groping. No unwanted attention. Just a safe ride back to the station during which he wished me well. On the drive back to the station, he offered me a drink of ice water with lemon from a crystal decanter along side two tumblers resting upon a sterling tray. Offering me his handkerchief to dry my eyes and knowing how scared I was, he remained gentlemanly the entire way to the train station. On the return trip, I realized how long and hard I fought off Mr. BackSeater. I shuddered and hoped we really WERE going back to the train station. Then, just like that, the car stopped at the entrance. With the sincerest of Thank-You’s, he opened the door and I was free. I forgot to even ask his name.

As the black chariot rode off, I found the bistro I’d passed earlier. There it was, with a faded photo of a bowl of chocolate ice cream right in the window. Serving lunch, I planned to be there for awhile, finally getting to enjoy a meal that I so desperately needed. Looking like the little cafes I had enjoyed in Venice, I settled into a chair and looked at the menu right in front of me.

The waitress appeared and plucked the menu from my hands.

“No. Closed.”

Was she kidding? Closed? At 3 PM? When I was starving????? Closed??????

I then looked at the door. Indeed. Closed at 3PM. Not open until tomorrow. With that, the waterworks opened up again. Just sitting a little longer, I put my head on the table and cried. It was then I heard them and looked up.

A group of very large, athletic, and handsome men were standing near the train station. Speaking in Russian, they were pointing at me while giving me looks I would have rather not received. Laughter would erupt periodically from their little gang of five. Four of them were behaving as young men often do. One whistled. One made a whooping call. When I turned the other way, they all laughed. All except one.

Being raised in on a family farm in the middle of no where in a family of five daughters, my knowledge of men was limited. I wasn’t a city girl, street wise and able to tell trouble from boyish silliness. With the added stress of the my ongoing troubles, being the center of attention wasn’t something I wanted. I was definitely the center of the approaching stranger’s attention.

“Hello? It seems you are distressed. May I be of help? I am known as John Lewis.” Although he had a buttery smooth accent, his English was perfect. His kind eyes calmed my fears just a little. Eyes are the windows to the soul, my grandmother always reminded me.

Being mindful of the others as they jeered him on to victory of what ever sort their were planning, I turned to him.

“I’m terrified. I’m hungry. I’m angry. I’m lost. I don’t speak Russian. Can you help with any of that? If so, have a seat. I also have a black belt in karate and will drop any of your friends that continue bothering me. Got it?” His smile was warm and he singled the others to leave. They waved like gentle school boys as they walked away.

John Lewis was perhaps one of the nicest men I will ever meet in my life. From Liberia, and in a foreign exchange program, he spoke perfect English. As I explained everything that had happened up to this point, his kind eyes spoke volumes. He assured me that chocolate ice cream waited right around the corner, along with a healthy meal for a weary traveler. Concerned about the stalker, he assured me that he would not leave until I was safely on the train. And with that, he became yet another guardian angel.

Suffering from extreme racism in Romania, he talked about his group of friends. He was eager to finish his education and move back to Liberia, becoming more able to help his countrymen. We talked and ate and talked and listened until the daylight turned to darkness and it was 11:30 PM. My luggage was waiting, safely in the locker. I had my ticket to Tiraspol, as well as Romanian money in my pocket.

Saying GoodBye to John Lewis was heartfelt. Here in a city that was confusing and complex was one of the nicest men I had ever met in my life. Waiting, while protecting me until I was on the train, I was safe with a gentle bodyguard that spoke fluent Romania and English.

With one swift sentence, the stalker, who had been waiting behind the kyosk, went running into the night, never to be seen again. A full meal, including ice cream filled my stomach and I was ready to enjoy a nice night’s sleep in my sleeping car.

Dreams came and went. In the morning, while crossing Romania and heading for Moldavia, I realized it was time to go mingle with the locals. I was sure there was a good story to be told just outside my cabin door.

To Be Continued……

Traveling through communist countryside by train isn’t a trip one should try alone. Actually, traveling anywhere alone can be compromising to one’s health. Two together can tackle most problems, but alone, you are out there in survival mode. This is how I found the situation I was in as I entered the third day aboard the Train to Hell.

Having gotten over the Joni Mitchell romanticism of the sleeping car, I needed a different view. Carefully, I made it towards gen-pop (general population) in coach. The fat ladies were mowing through their baskets of goodies. Yum. 6″ long, dried fish were held like popsicles as they were consumed, HEAD FIRST. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Others were gnawing on stale rolls like the ones I had bought before leaving. Body odor was overwhelming. Large ladies protruded from their aisle seats like rising loaves of bread. Kids laughed. Elders slept.

With only one available seat open near three seedy looking men in zoot-suits, I claimed it. Their eyes all turned to me, as I joined them.

“Eh-Lo, Miss-ee!” said Mr. Brave One. When they smiled, it was obvious. Three Russians. Their dental work gave it away, with gold grills, all three. Between the body odor and smell of alcohol and cigarettes, I wished there had been a seat anywhere else.

“Where you going to?” inquired Mr. B.O.

“Tiraspol, Moldavia.”

Confusing looks shot back at me from the trio.

“Where you from?”

“America.”

A raucous conversation followed, intensified as one produced a hidden flask of hooch, quickly passed from mouth to mouth. Shoving the booze my way, I declined. I understood nothing, except that these guys presented a clear and present danger with which I wanted nothing to do. I kept scanning the train for an open seat, but there were none.

Their interest in me quieted down as they became more drunk and bored. Soon, quietly talking between themselves, I relaxed a little, becoming fixated on the countryside. We were traveling through a barren landscape, browned by the shortening days of late October, and the night time temperatures well below freezing. The stark, empty visuals were interrupted only by a parallel train track 300 yards away.

In the distance, a chilling sight was coming into view. Something devastatingly large and black. I couldn’t quite identify it, until I could. On the other track lay train cars derailed, twisted, and burned almost beyond recognition. Obviously a passenger train, because each car had characteristic large-gauge chains and padlocks on the outer doors, locking the passengers in and intruders out. The train I was riding in had the same, eliminating the ability to walk between cars. I flashed back to my own sleeping car, with a window that opened only two inches. Claustrophia made my skin crawl. The wreckage held people once upon a time. Fat women with their baskets and men in their worn out zoot suits. Elders. Children. Russians. Multiple cars, maybe upwards of 10 lay in a maze of charred metal and broken glass. It had been one hell of a fire.

Wide-eyed, I gasped.

“What? Something wrong with you?” Mr. B.O. asked with a smirk.

I pointed to the train. Multiple cars were still visible, with no life anywhere to be seen. Not a current disaster, it appeared the accident had cooled from the terrific fire that must have ensued after the crash.

“People dead?” quietly, I asked.

“People? Dead???? No. No. Cattle cars,” laughing, he spoke quickly to the others and they all laughed loudly.

Liar.

First, cattle production isn’t a major industry in Russia. No production feedlots full of fat and sassy steers. No steaks. No long meat counters at the grocery store. Not much excess meat of any kind. When old cows die, they are cut up and sold for dinner. The sad truth of my summer experiences in Tiraspol.

I’m a farm girl. The bone marrow tells the tale of bovine health. Healthy cows gave milk. Sick or dead ones provided meat. Period. People stood for hours to buy maggot laden, unrefrigerated beef hanging off rusted meat hooks when such a luxury becomes available. I’ve stood in those lines to buy just such a product, sometimes hours. Protein deprivation and starvation make people do desperate things.

Sickened, a seat opened up far away from this triangle of disgusting men. I moved.

Just like the poppy fields in the Wizard of Oz, I was suddenly overcome by the need to sleep. “Sleep, my pretty. Sleep.” Sleep I did. For how long? I know not. With no one to wake me, I slumbered deeply until the train came to a stop.

Opening my eyes, the nightmare continued, now born from stupidity mine, and mine alone.

Looking around, no passengers remained on the train. Everyone had left. The basket ladies. The three disgusting men. Kids. Elders. Everyone was gone. Vanished. Quickly, I raced to my sleeping compartment and retrieved my belongings. I was the very last person to exit the train as it stood, wheels still steaming from the very long trip.

“KIEV, UKRAINE” the Station Sign read.

No.

No.

No.

I’d arrived in another country. The wrong country. A country kilometers away from any form of safety and comfort I had traveled three days to find. I stood at this station knowing I had done a very, very dangerous and stupid thing. I’d slept through the stop in Tiraspol, Moldavia. I was now totally screwed.

To be continued……………..

491.9 Kilometers of dreams took me straight into the worst nightmare yet. I’d slept 6 extra hours in an upright position. Perhaps I’d been awake here or there, but never when the train stopped in Tiraspol. For that little snippet of time, I was out like a light. No one knew where I was going or whether or not I had documents to go there. All very important information in a communist country.

Russian law in 1977 required that in order to leave a certain area, you must have the proper documentation and travel visa. Written permission to leave a home town’s border was required. Without a blessing from those in charge, you were breaking very serious laws, as I was now.

I had no permission to be in Kiev, arriving by train or any other method. I had no contacts in Kiev. The only word I knew was “TractoroExport”. This agency of the Russian government was our only contact. It was this word that I kept repeating over and over as a small viewing audience grew. It was obvious that this very distressed and young woman needed some immediate help.

On long taxi trips to the farm on which we worked, we would often get stuck on dirt roads behind prison trucks. The trucks themselves were modified box trucks with no side windows. The back door had a window with steel bars and no glass. To each side of the door, there were square steel platforms with railing. Each one of them held an armed guard and a huge Alsatian, bigger than ANY German Shepherds bred in the states. These dogs were magnificent with amber colored eyes that didn’t miss a move. Pair them with two Russian guards with AK-47’s that would stab and shoot you simultaneously, while laughing. Ice water veins, they looked straight past us into nothing.

As I struggled from the back seat to see prisoners inside, they jockied for position to look through the bars back at the taxi behind them. Crowded, the men, with their blank stares and shaved heads looked like prisoners of war. I can only guess what crimes they had committed. Jaywalking outside of a crosswalk? Not handing over a passport when it was demanded? Now, with no paperwork to be in Kiev, I could join them on their box-truck journey. Because, I had broken some big, big laws with my untimely slumber.

Led to a waiting car by a uniformed officer, the crowd parted and I felt very small and extremely important, all at once. Seriously in deep water, I got in the back with no more tears to cry. Not even a hiccup. Petrified and living my worst nightmare. It wasn’t a regular patrol car, but not a black Mercedes either. Somewhere in between.

“I take you. TractorExport. Now.”

I didn’t quite know what my fate would be. I hoped they would find some kindness in their hearts to send me back to Tiraspol or out of this communist hell hole to await my fate in Vienna. Pulling up to the TractoroExport building, I felt comfort that I could read the word, but also terror at what was to come.

Inside a plain but clean office, four very Russian men, all in black suits, white shirts, and grey ties, stood on one side of a desk glaring at me. I sat on the opposite side. In my experience, all government buildings and offices look exactly the same. There are multiple pictures of Lenin everywhere, sometimes even in life size. Pictures of Leonid Brezhnev, the Acting General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist party, were smaller in size, but also hung around the building. The furniture was all the same cheaply varnished, reddish wood. Every bookcase, desk, chair, or stapler was exactly the same in any office I had visited. Communist produced and government issued.

The four TractoroExport associates were not sympathetic to a lost American. The were judgmental and harsh. Peering into my eyes, they shared their disbelief that I’d been so stupid. I agreed with them on that count.

“And you did not get off at your stop, Why? Do you realize you are in very deep trouble? What REAL business do you, an AMERICAN woman, have in our city, KIEV? Does KIEV sound like TIRASPOL? “

The questions went on and on, and soon, I was again weeping. In quiet irritation they discussed the options for my return. Delivered to where, I knew not. They held my passport, my train tickets, and what little Romania Leu I had left.

“You will need to pay for ticket back to Tiraspol.”

This was great! I had the Leu. I handed it all to them. Just take it. Blankly they stared back.

“This is worth nothing. We need $100 American dollars for the six hour taxi ride back to Tiraspol. You will pay now.”

I had turned ALL my available dollars into Leu in Bucharest. It was then I found out the truth. Leu was not worth the paper it was printed on. I had zero money. I had broken serious laws. And now, it was up to these men to decided my fate.

An hour later, after many more questions and accusations, the four men escorted me to a waiting taxi driver. Just one. I was relieved. It was a little before noon, and they gave me a sandwich and soda to take on the trip. Each one shook my hand and dropped the angry Russian attitude just long enough for a Goodbye. The driver was given proper documents to carry his precious cargo to Tiraspol and return to Kiev immediately. With that, we were on our way.

For the first few hours, the driver would occasionally glance at his rear view mirror and me. Self conscious in the beginning, I finally ignored him and took in the countryside. I’d used the restroom before leaving, so, I was in no distress. But, at one point, he pulled over the car on an isolated stretch of road.

I really didn’t want to look outside, in fear of what I might see. It didn’t seem odd when he went to the trunk, opened it, and spent extra time in the back. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but as long as it didn’t involve me, I was okay with that. I was looking forward to seeing the translators and my husband, in that order. I’d have some choice words for Arten. On several occasions, he had almost cost me my life and liberty by suggesting this trip. He would hear about it, along with his superiors. I was ready for what I would need to hear about my ill-timed slumber.

After a good 20 minutes had passed, the driver closed the trunk and returned to the car. We were off. Just before sunset, a very tired girl was delivered back to a run down and ratty hotel, The Druz-bah. Two very excited interpreters came running out to the taxi. They held money for the driver and helped retrieve my belongings from the trunk. With heartfelt and sincere Goodbye’s, he was off in a cloud of dust and I was left in the arms of two true friends that had been worried sick ever since the men returned without me.

A few minutes later, there was my new-ish husband. Things really hadn’t been good for us that very long summer. It was just nice to see another familiar face. The four of us retreated to our hotel room with my suitcase and back pack. Shopping on our vacation had been fun, and I brought special souvenirs for the interpreters.

Opening my bags, the obvious was staring me in the face. One last slap from the worst three days I could’ve ever experienced. I. Had. Been. Robbed.

Thinking back to the taxi ride, I flashed again to the stop on the road. The extended play time in the trunk. The quiet demeanor of the thief. He had been thorough. Cameos from Italy–gone. Amber jewelry –gone. Gold cross and chain –gone. The list was as long as it could have been for two newlyweds on an impromptu honeymoon. Sentimental gifts and trinkets that together didn’t amount to very much to anyone except us.

Immediately, the interpreters were asking if we wanted the driver arrested. Needing only to have said the word, our belongings would have been returned. The driver would find his place in the box truck with the others.

“No. I think he needs those things more than we did. I’m safe. Can we leave it at that?”

So ends the tale of my fateful train trip. So many times through the years I have given thanks that it unfolded the way it did with angels at every turn to help me through. Politics and Covid have changed travel and customs forever. The names of the towns I rolled through are all changed, as well. The Orient Express is no longer the name of a portion of a train excursion. Like so many things in life, the best things held dear are the memories of a different time, place, and a very young American woman, living adventure one day at a time.

What a week it’s been here in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada. Waking up to the sound of rain refreshes my spirit. There are not that many rain filled spring days, so this week, I have enjoyed every single one. This morning, the wireless rain gauge reports we have had over an inch of rain in a week. There has been homemade vegetable soup simmering, Christmas projects at the kitchen table, and old movies on tv. A nice way to enjoy retirement, which I love more and more each day.

On Tuesday, I found the need to get out of the house. Everyone needs to see another human once in awhile, and Tuesday was my day. Receiving an email from a local political group, it seemed an interesting speaker would be visiting my little town to tell his story. I looked him up, online, and watched two of his speeches. I would be there to hear him in person.

Leaving a little early, I’d take $5 and try my luck with the one armed bandit at the casino where the meeting would be held. Well, I might as well have ripped the $5 in two, because my luck remains the same. A gambler I’m not. VST and I would each try our luck before enjoying burgers at a local casino close to Virginia City. Sometimes he’d win enough to pay for our meal, but more often, we’d just spend a few mindless moments feeding the machines before dinner. Luckily, gambling never had a hold on either one of us. You can hope in one hand and …. well …. you know the saying.

Covid-19 left our casinos dark, eerie, and empty places. Shiny machines twinkle in the dim light. Perky music plays loudly. The Bars sit empty. Employees, scrubbed and starched, smile amongst themselves, as no one enters. Since the relaxation of mask requirements, things are starting to return to normal. Thank goodness.

After my little gambling loss, I headed for the meeting room at the back of the “Big Bears in the Forest” Restaurant. Familiar faces entered the room, and soon, I was with friends. Not close friends, but people that I’ve met over my first year. No longer the new girl in town, I felt at ease and settled into my own little space.

Watching the crowd trickle in, I realized the group had dwindled in number, as I assume many political groups have. It mattered not to me. I was on a mission to listen to one man who had a message I was certain was meant for me.

Invited to a table of five, I declined. Although appreciative, protection of personal space is something that is automatic now. Finding a table near the window, I settled in. Sitting alone, I wished I had someone to talk to, and then, in she bounced. Bubbly and beautiful Ninja Neighbor! When you’ve lived somewhere long enough to run into a neighbor, you’re no longer new. She came to join me, immediately finding things to chat about. She’s such a blessing to me. Our of the corner of my eye, I kept watching for Captain Sam Brown.

The retired officer would be obvious. A very tall and lean war veteran, his entrance would surely command attention. County and State leaders filed through the door as I waited, until he appeared. In jeans and a pale blue shirt, he radiated kindness and self-confidence. Joined by his wife, the two made a stunning couple. Making their way around the room for introductions, it was obvious they had the makings of a power couple. No one could look away.

Sam had chosen his topic well. Suffering. It’s here I need to mention that Sam had been through more than a little hell in his life. As a WestPoint graduate and Captain in the United States Army, he had chosen infantry as his career focus. One day in the desert, his group was the unlucky one to hit an IED (roadside bomb), leaving him covered with burning diesel fuel and terribly injured. Yes. The suffering had left this handsome man with a different kind of face than you or I.

Sam talked about suffering in life. As he shared, many thoughts raced through my mind. Physical suffering. Mental suffering. Spiritual suffering. Loss of youth. Loss of career. Loss of a spouse. Loss of dreams. The list was endless. Through life we all live endure suffering, but how do we choose to deal with it?

Sam had no choice at that moment. Luckily, his fellow soldiers were there to get him to safety, to face a coma, unimaginable pain, and years of reconstructive surgery. Sam talked about embracing the suffering through his faith and courage. Internalizing his message, I could relate. So much of the last two years of my life took courage I didn’t know I had. Smoldering, it would flame to action when I needed it the most. Courage was always there, at my core, just like Sam and the rest of us.

Through the suffering and courage, bloomed character and optimism. Sam had to learn to do the simplest things all over again, while facing surgery after surgery. Through it all, there appeared, by his side, a sweet soldier that helped him through. Falling in love, they walked through his healing together and eventually married.

The one thing Sam never lost was hope for a bright future. It was there on his darkest days when thoughts of his tomorrows were unclear. When feeling all was lost, he kept looking for things that weren’t. He changed his course while walking past the things taken away, towards new opportunities that bloomed as he healed. He had to learn to smile again. And he did.

Looking around the room as he spoke, it was obvious. The collective suffering in the room was overwhelming, and yet, so was the character and sense of hope. You could feel it in the air and through quiet tears that fell as we listened to this brave hero’s story. Faith and hope are sometimes the only tools we have to get through when all seems lost.

Through the suffering and hope, as Sam told the story, character built the foundation for success. Each new sufferable obstacle was met as an opportunity for growth as he has continued to power through life, marriage, and fatherhood of three young kids. A few flames were not going to extinguish Sam’s life story. Faith and hope are carrying him through. Reflecting on Sam’s outlook on life helped me to reflect on my own. An evening well spent.

Inspirational? A resounding yes. Sam’s story is told in several videos on YouTube. Just search Captain Sam Brown. You won’t be disappointed. We should all watch for great things from this lovely couple in the future.

The day is here when my happy involves living life while appreciating each moment.

The time is now when new adventures are not wrapped in fear.

The day is here when going on an outing can be spontaneous and organic.

The time is now that the devastation of cancer no longer dictates my weeping.

The day is here when something silly can make me belly laugh, loudly.

The time is now to realize the winter of intense grief has passed.

A peace is growing in the space between who we were then, and who I’m becoming right now.

Creativity blooms again, fresh and new, after the firestorm of a cancerous death.

Within Winterpast’s safe comfort, my life shines in technicolor.

God watches over me as I garden quietly and smile.

Dreams bloom as sweetly as fragile peonies, scenting the high desert breezes of spring with their delicate fragrance.

Happiness lives in my soul, where despair and loneliness have no lodging.

Adventure, travel, happiness, and love are mine to enjoy, chosen with sound judgement and care.

Struggles will undoubtedly come again and I’ll be ready.

For this moment, I dance under the bluest skies while rejoicing with the flowers.

Joy Hurt 5/24/2021

Pictures of injured or starving mustangs are disturbing. Every year, many articles talk about the struggle of the mustangs to survive on the outskirts of densely populated areas without obvious food sources during a drought. Living amidst the horses, I often wonder if these are stock photos are used to raise sympathy dollars. The mustangs I share the desert with are fat and sassy most days. The determination and will of a 1500 pound horse is awe inspiring, especially when they are invading a neighborhood at night breaking sprinkler pipes for a drink or ravaging a front yard for a tasty treat.

Not to say they don’t have their share of hardships. It’s true. The most obvious cause of death that I’ve observed is road related. Horses and cars are a terrible combination. It’s usually fatal for all involved and it happens more than you would think. Mustangs are always on the move, along with people. Picture postcard still, somedays they seem not to move at all. But then, I’ll be lucky enough to see them galloping through long empty stretches of BLM (the real one – Bureau of Land Management) acres. Picturesque and fitting, because that land that belongs to all of us as Americans. Public use lands.

Horses are hardy and resilient animals. When the foals are born, they must be ready to travel miles with the herd by the end of their first day of life. When newborn, their little tail are puffs of fluff. Little pointed hooves travel over hot sands and jagged rocks. They huddle close with the herd on cold desert nights. They wade through winter snows, growing up fast . In a very short time, the fluff is replaced by a real tail and their muscles grow strong. There is nothing delicate about a mustang foal. Even less delicate is the rage you can incite from the herd if you try to mess with one. And yet, idiot tourists do.

I’ve seen only a few terribly injured horses since I’ve lived in Nevada. Of course, the stallions are often covered with hairless hoof prints, testimony to territorial fights. They bite and kick each other with ferocity. On hind legs they strike with their front while teeth protrude and their loud screams complete the picture. This can happen anywhere, at any time. In the streets of Virginia City while on my deck, I was witness to one such argument. Violent, it came out of nowhere and made me respect these horses from a distance. The front and rear end, and, the teeth!

Bachelor herds form and roam together. In Virginia City, it was obvious these young stallions were either too young or old to have their own harem. Being horses, and liking company, at times they would hang out together. It was in these groups, often grazing below my suspended deck, on which I would see hunks of hanging flesh, slowly healing from the last major fight. Never anything more than superficial wounds, they looked gruesome, but didn’t prevent the stallions from walking miles while dreaming of their own harems one day. Seemingly docile and domestic, introduce a mare in heat, and the entire situation would change in an instant. The most fit, dominant, and rugged male always got the girl, or two or three of them.

Mustangs eat anything. They eat every waking moment as they plod along searching for food. Standing at the corner of Rabbit Brush Lane and Highway 85 when I run to the store, they’re docile and still. Twenty minutes later, upon my return, they’ve vanished into thin air. The topography allows us to see for miles, but, they disappear without a trace. They have no predators in the desert. Their only adversary is man. As more people escape city entrapment to move to the beauty of the high desert, habitats and the fragile desert landscape suffer. Some would insist the mustangs are an intruder, not truly native. but introduced to the desert way of life hundreds of years ago. There is truth to that, but, they find themselves in a wild state now. They’re as American as you or I, still enjoying their absolute freedom.

Last week, driving along Rabbit Brush Lane, a drama was unfolding. Vehicles lined the side of the road, all with similar markings on the doors reading “Large Animal Rescue Team”. Off to the south side, dwarfed by the tall sage brush and tumbleweeds, a group of eight people formed a human corral. Wearing yellow and orange reflective vests, holding orange boards, while being spaced at least six feet apart, they stood without speaking. I know this, because I stopped to watch, not sure what was happening.

They didn’t move. They didn’t speak. They stood with their 2′ x 3′ boards, horizontally, in front of their bodies. This made them appear larger than they were, still and quiet. Inside the very large human corral they formed was a lone mustang stallion. Chestnut in color, it also stood quietly. Make no mistake, it had every single person identified and under its radar. It chewed nervously while watching with intensely intelligent eyes. It’s all about the eyes with mustangs.

This stationary stand-off went on for minutes until the mustang decided to move away from these folks, just a little. Then, it was obvious. This guy was horrible injured. Not obvious if the injury was to hip or leg, the horse was in grave distress. As he hobbled along, the group took small steps forward, still not talking or making any quick movements.

Determined, the group moved towards a temporary and creative. The goal was to get the mustang into the old, beat up horse trailer, waiting with an open gate. When handling mustangs, the older and more beat up the trailer the better, because, it will surely be that way after transporting 1500 pounds of anger. Metal horse panels came out like a V from back of the trailer, tightly secured and creating a funneled entrance. More metal horse panels formed a small pen with the gates gaping, wide open. There was one way in, and no way out for this guy.

As the group waited, the stallion watched and chewed. Slowly, all of them moved towards the corral and trailer. As this was happening, no ropes were thrown. No taunting or yelling occurred. Only the wind disturbed the silence of the desert as eight men and women physically asked this injured mustang to head toward the trailer and medical help. He seemed to understand the situation. His body language seemed to say, “I really need some help guys, just give me a minute here.”

This was one lucky mustang. Suffering a severe injury, as his obviously was, the result would have been death by dehydration and starvation, as he was in no shape to follow his herd to greener pastures. With endless patience, time went by as the group approached the corral. With one futile escape attempt, he entered the corral, the gates shut, and the wild horse stood calmly, awaiting the next request from the group.

The gang of eight didn’t approach the corral, or even acknowledge that he was trapped. They simply talked quietly a little ways from the corral. They let him settle and think about the situation at bit. He needed a rest, and so did they. Job well done on all parts.

In observing these expert horse men and women, I was impressed by their knowledge, patience, and persistence with this stallion. There will would be done, but on his time. They showed respect and in return, he responded to their wishes. Simple. This procedure couldn’t be hurried along, or carried out in a disrespectful manner. That would have simply resulted in more injury for the stallion and possible the rescue workers.

The outcome for this stallion is unknown. Injuries involving hips and legs are extremely serious in horses. The High Desert Large Animal Rescue Team did just as they have been trained. The stallion has the best chance of recovery with them. That’s what they do best. But even with the best of care, leg and hip injuries are most serious in horses. This team will provide care with the least amount of suffering.

It seems our world could learn a lot from these amazing men and women. So many misunderstanding arise from forced will upon others. A lack of time to calm and think often creates disastrous outcomes in a world moving at warp speed. Sometimes, just standing still, while doing or saying nothing allows everyone time to think and make sensible decisions on their own. Yet another lesson to be learned here in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada.

I’ve stopped listening to the news. With gloom and doom surrounding every story, sometimes ignorance is bliss. Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of a slick, shiny-toed news pawn or politician and think to myself, “Could YOU survive a night in the high desert wilderness? Our even a trip through our little Starbucks drive-through? Really? I think not.” Have they ever been challenged by the wild in ways that tested their spirit? Some seem so fragile that a strong wind might blow them away. Perfect hair. Perfect teeth. Perfect eyes. Perfect points of view. If you happen to think their interpretation is perfect.

Wearing suits that cost more than a week’s salary for many, or shoes cost more than it does to feed a family of four for two weeks, Their images are displayed on American televisions. Smug and polished, they dictate the newest hair styles, clothing, and catch phrases. They hand out fabricated “facts” like Halloween candy to us, the little Trick or Treaters. And, we gobble it all down, hungry for more.

In my youth, news was something that came on for a few minutes at 7:00 AM and then again at 6 PM. At a very young age, there was no such thing as dinner time shows, because, there was no television. With the advent of TV, we would all watch the evening news with Walter Cronkite and soak up his every word. Each night, his program would finish with the number of dead soldiers in Vietnam. In a house full of girls, the news came to a group that really didn’t understand war or casualties. But, we listened, all the same, with quiet sadness as the numbers grew.

Now, it seems that anything qualifies as news. As the hands of the clock move, Tik Tok videos go viral. The silliest things catch the nation’s attention, becoming the latest rage. While Covid isolated elderly parents from children and grandchildren for over a year, the news marched on, showing images remaining in our brains long after the broadcast was turned off. Stories of horror, caused by something we can’t even see or touch. Something that has changed our way of life forever.

Microscopic evaluations occur on a daily basis of events that are parsed into small visual sound bites by news “professionals” that were not even there. Not knowing the before or after, we’re asked again and again to join a group or cause often without being told the entire story. Words are arranged to make tempers flare and rage simmer, all while individuals forget to do their own investigation to make informed decisions about their stand on a subject. Opinions are formed by the lead story. Passions flame over something that happened somewhere that someone told them through a game of telephone. Very few times is a story told in its entirety, without personal opinion and point of view added for impact.

Through all of this, those slick dressed entertainers sit in studios and offices with the perfect lighting to make their youthful skin glow. The pretty people write stories they spoon feed us like a baby’s formula. We lap up every last drop.

Yesterday, driving through the vast and barren high desert BLM (Bureau of Land Management) lands owned by us all, I thought about those people who seem to give us daily answers to questions we never thought to ask. How would they fare if placed any one of the many mountaintops that surround my little town with only water and a loaf of bread? How many of them would know that the sun rises in the East and sets in the West? How many would be able to come close to knowing the time of day by the position of the sun in the sky? How many would not be able to find their way off the mountain and perish before lunch? Even with an abundance of gravel roads to follow, most would die within ten feet of where they started.

Self sufficiency and critical thinking are life skills that seems unimportant to many in our country. Even making a home brewed cup of coffee is lost on millions of citizens. Watching commercials, it’s easy to see that some people have forgotten how to find a recipe or chop an onion, because it’s easier to wait for a box to arrive with a preassembled dinner inside. A microwave system reads a bar code on a prepared dinner, so even entering the necessary cooking time is an unneeded skill. More time for videos gone viral, or games on a screen. More time to showcase selfies to the world.

This summer, I’m looking forward to being outdoors. Visiting the local woods while reading a paper map, I plan to make my own Vitamin D while soaking up some sun. Maybe I’ll even continue to live on the wild side and walk outside without a mask or sunscreen. My bronzed skin has never looked more healthy. I can’t wait to ditch the internet for days on end while just enjoying the sky and wind with nature surrounding me.

Those polished types live in a different world than the one in which I thrive. They would never fit in the little town I call home. We are referred to as heartland fly-over country by the elites. Funny, here in the high desert, we’re relieved they keep flying wherever their itinerary takes them. News folk and politicians just may be missing what is real and true about our country. At the very least, they cause me to click off the television. There is always something more interesting to do in the high desert.

4-H camp was something that I always looked forward to as a child. There were so many parts of camp that were just delicious. Leather crafts, canoeing, and swimming. Meals so good, plates were emptied in minutes. Camp counselors that were golden goddesses to us kids. A nurse that took gentle care with the smallest injuries. Campfires in which everyone glowed by firelight, as skillful camp leaders told stories that were just scary enough to give the group goosebumps.

Skits and jokes kept us all laughing. If letters arrived, the addressee had to perform a silly stunt before they could open them, sometimes expected to read them out loud. Laughter was a great part of camp. As new friendships blossomed, old friends enjoyed fun filled days. When lights went out, campers quickly fell into deep sleep, exhausted from the activities of the day. We grew in independence, resilience, and confidence as camp days expired, one by one.

Although I never saw a sign of any bears, our annual camp was held at a place called Bear Skin Meadow. Raised platforms held neat rows of metal bunks under a starlit sky, and for a few days each summer, life was magical in the high Sierra Nevada Mountains. Boys on one side of the camp, girls on the other, with camp buildings in the middle. Childhood wasn’t about gender identity, it was about age appropriate activities and making friendships that would last a lifetime.

My girlfriends Betty, Jackie, Linda, Sandy, Karen, and Susan were all there. The backdrop of the forest made us into new versions of ourselves. We grew in many ways during that week while trying new things. For some kids, it was a first try steering a small canoe on a big lake. For others, the terror of being away from home for the first time hit hard. But, for all of us, that magical week each year was an inspiring platform for growth. You couldn’t go through a week of camp and return home unchanged. Impossible.

This summer, I want to create the aura of summer camp, grown-up style. I’m pretty sure I’ll be safe from bears in the confines of Winterpast, however, I might be grossed out by an occasional lawn-eating toad. I want to lay outside in the night breezes falling asleep under the beauty of the night sky. Perhaps I’ll be serenaded with a whinny from a passing mustang, as he clip-pity-clops along. With the fire roaring, Ace and I will exchange campfire stories that help us to know each other better. There are probably a few camp songs we can sing for old time’s sake. With golden marshmallows melting chocolate between graham crackers in tasty Smore’s, the total camp experience will be achieved.

Sometimes, the importance of play is forgotten. The sheer enjoyment of breathing fresh air without a mask is now treasured. Looking up to the stars to identify constellations or see the first satellite of the night is satisfying. To dream little dreams of whimsy that came so easy as a child can happen again, if the brain quiets and we listen to our inner self. Those experiences create the perfect environment for creativity and inspiration to thrive.

Summer camp for me will include learning a new skill and practicing an old one. It will include crafts, friends, and acting. A disciplined bed time will assure that I awake at the crack of dawn to a hearty breakfast and some physical activity. Keeping the bunkhouse clean, I plan to tend to Winterpast’s gardens, so that she continues to look her best. It will include daily adventure walks to the mail box, hoping for mail from loved ones. At days end, stories shall be shared around the campfire with friends, even if it’s only Oliver and me.

The neighbors will probably wonder what the heck the Widow Hurt is doing in her back yard. That’s okay. They already know I’m a little different than the others. Who knows? With a little effort, maybe the neighborhood will join in with my Summer Camp Week!

May is almost over and the time for camp and dreams is now. Try leaving the rest of the world behind for an evening and find your own wilderness. Don’t forget the sunscreen and mosquito repellant. I hear the fish are biting and the water’s fine. Happy camping!!

Hope. Dreams. Visions of tomorrow. With retirement in full swing, I have all the time in the world to plan. True. The problem is that sometimes, the variety of choices are overwhelming and vast. With so many possibilities, temporary paralysis sometimes occurs. Rather like walking up to a intersection of several roads, all going in different directions. You can’t travel west to the beach if you are already going on the Eastern route towards Mt. Rushmore. Weather and logistics play a role in activity selection, too. Like I said, a vast array of possibilities.

Some roads simply can’t be taken anymore. Due to the virus, or old age, some routes are blocked, either permanently or temporarily. Do Not Enter Anymore. Being a lot like a wild mustang, I hate restrictions in travel, activities, or anything else. I fight them. Some fights, fights can’t be won and acceptance chips away at my spirit. Accepting age and the limitations it brings is a bitter pill to swallow.

Years ago, as a wife thinking about the future, I’d ponder the “What If’s?”. Mind you, I never thought the day would come when I would actually need contingency plans for widowhood. It was comforting to know that if something happened and I was suddenly alone, there were a few plans I could deploy. This was crazy, because, nothing would ever happen to VST. Right? Wrong! There was one plan that persisted year after year.

I always felt that if tragedy struck, I would simply pack my little suitcase and head for Hawaii. A place of healing and health. Our “Go To” place when life became overwhelming. So many times, VST and I ran to the islands with very little planning, becoming overwhelmed by life and our challenges. It was a place we could be alone to take a breath and regroup. Hawaii was our safe place.

If Covid hadn’t come to be, no doubt, I’d be an island girl by now. The last trip VST and I took together was one to be remembered. It was Spring 2013, and both of us were under immense pressures with our jobs. VST managed a huge staff of Child Protective Service employees. Imagine if one of your monthly duties was to participate in a Child Death Revue with crime photos included. By law, his case load and daily activities were not up for discussion, protecting the privacy of children and parents. His face and demeanor would reveal how bad his day had been. Coming home to the top of our mountain in the Sierra Nevada Foothills, he would lose his troubles in yard work or by becoming a make-believe villain at the local theater.

My students were sick. Very sick. I was the hospital teacher at the local Children’s Hospital. Just me and my aide would teach children that were hospitalized longer than the names of the diseases they fought. Every day, my roster would change, as kids, K-12, would fight their own battles, either caused by disease or accident. I taught heroes that taught me more. Some of my students died. But many, many more returned to home schools and real teachers. I just kept them safe at “base camp” until their journeys continued.

With the kids grown and gone, VST and I, in addition to our full time professions, were farming a 40 acre vineyard on our free time. Physically demanding, our 24 hour days had no time for frivolous dreams. We were flying through life, hanging on for dear life. VST had a favorite saying. “We can sleep when we’re dead, Darlin’.” Some days I felt like the walking dead.

When things got to crazy, VST would ask in his southern drawl, “Wanna take a trip?” I knew the destination to which he referred. Honolulu. Waikiki Beach. Oahu.

Always the answer would be “YES!” We’d gone so many times, we would just tell co-workers we were going to the beach. It wasn’t quite a lie. We’d just be taking a plane instead of the car.

With the ranch falling on hard times and devouring our salaries as quickly as we earned them, we needed to be thrifty. This time, we wouldn’t be on Waikiki Beach, overlooking the ocean with waves to lull us to sleep. We would stay at a run down hotel in need of renovations. Although it wouldn’t be the most luxurious, it was on the main drag in Hawaii. Right now, we needed trade winds to blow through our hair, while enjoying moon lit nights. We needed time to stop, as we found ourselves gasping for air. We needed Aloha in the worst way, while the Menahune would whisper some advice about our futures.

Menahune are funny little beings with great appreciation for humor and mischievousness. Quite shy, small in stature, and nocturnal, you can easily overlook them. Being very industrious, they surely had plans for VST and I, as we were kindred spirits in that way. Oh, I might add, there are those that don’t believe in the Menahune. Laugh at the thought, comparing them to leprechauns, or worse, trolls. Each to his own. I find them to be one of the very magical and lovely characters of island lore.

“Do you want to visit Moloka’i?” On the second day of our holiday week, his words shocked me.

Looking at VST, I wondered where my husband was, because that was not a question that would come from his lips. Moloka’i had called to me from first time I learned about the history of this quiet island. I’d often asked if we could travel there. My question was always answered with a blank, and then, negative stare.

Now, with our hotel room temperature reaching 95, as a hotel mechanic hung out of the ceiling, with only hairy legs showing, I needed to discern if VST had lost his mind. From the beginning of our trip, the tired old hotel had been riddled with problems. The only thing more tired than the hotel was the staff, and they were facing exhaustion. Unhappy visitors lined the cloudy pool. Maintenance men had long fix-it lists. Phone lines were down. The nightly entertainment sucked. The ice machine crashed. Both VST and I felt we should have brought work clothes to help these people right the ship.

“Well, do you?”

With that, flight arrangements were made, two carry-on’s were packed, and out the door we went. If you knew VST, you would understand conditions needed to be dismal for Moloka’i to be an attractive option. For me, this was a dream come true. I’d be returning home to a place I’d not been in this life time. This was arranged by the Menahune, who were, perhaps, responsible for creating the terrible hotel environment. They’re sneaky, in that way.

At any rate, standing at the private airport, awaiting own little flight to Moloka’i, I was ready to embrace whatever lessons were in store for me. My heart was open and giddy with excitement. VST had come back to his senses, wondering what the heck he had just agreed to.

“You may board the plane now. Come this way, please.”

Just like that, we were on our way to adventure. No TSA lines. No other passengers. No. Two private people boarding a tiny little plane capable of traveling over the ocean to a different kind of paradise. Buckled in, we took off.

To be continued.

With only VST and I as passengers aboard the little plane built for eight, we could both look out the window at the vast Pacific Ocean. Within minutes, we were preparing to land at the tiny airport on Moloka’i. This island is not especially one that people beg to visit for the luscious beaches or personal cabanas. No night life or big city lights. No fantastic shopping malls or expensive luaus. Local people live here for a variety of reasons.

A very sad group of past residents had no choice to move to Moloka’i. In 1866, nine men and three women were dropped off and left to die there. Leprosy had come to the Hawaiian Islands, and these souls were the first to be banished from the general population. Thrown overboard and left to swim ashore among the sharks, they had nothing. Even worse, Moloka’i was a barren island, with little vegetation, and worse, no shelter. This was a death sentence of the most horrendous kind.

Over decades, thousands perished at Kaluapapa. Children grew up, their entire lives spent without the comfort of their moms or dads, grandmas, or grandpas. No cousins. Their new family all had one very terrible thing in common. They were victims of leprosy. Once it was discovered that a person suffered from this terrible disease, plans were quickly implemented for removal. Walked to the boat, with only the clothes on their backs, they were ripped from everything they knew and sent away. The family was left to hold a small funeral, because, they would never be together again.

Father Damien De Veuster, a young Roman Catholic priest from Belgium began his ministry in 1873, on an island in which there were no rules except those to be broken. Until his death in 1889, he and Mother Marianne Cope helped these souls build a functioning society among themselves. He was their friend, doctor, nurse, and confidante. He was a father-figure to the ailing children, as well as their school principal. He took people that had no hope whatsoever, and helped them find their way. In 2009, he became Saint Damien of Molokai. Mother Marianne reached sainthood a few years later.

Today, there are still a few residents that continue to live in Kaluapapa, which has been their home for decades. The little town is quaint, simple, and charming in a very Hawaiian way. Residents banished to this island were not allowed to make the choice to leave until 1969, although the “cure” had been discovered some time before that. Many decided to stay. The history of the tiny town is absolutely gut wrenching, and yet one filled with hope, showcasing the best and worst of the human spirit.

Kaluapapa is only one tiny part of this island. There are miles are beautiful shoreline, areas that are quiet and semi-tropical, and others that are agricultural or deserted. Importantly, Molokai is not for everyone. Don’t go there for the wrong reasons. Listen to your heart.

Traveling by taxi through beautiful countryside, we finally arrived at a beachside Sheraton hotel. We’d been warned that we were visiting the island during high tourist season, so activities that we might choose could well be sold out. Willing to take this chance, the beauty of the hotel reassured us that, even if there was nothing to do, we would find plenty of something.

While checking in, the most curious exchange occured.

“We apologize for the location of your room. It is directly above the dining room, and it can get very loud at night. It’s high season, and you were lucky to get a room at all.”

We were okay with that. As long as a mechanic wasn’t hanging from the ceiling, we would deal with a little dinner noise.

The hotel itself reminded me of going to visit an extremely wealthy cattle baron’s personal island hide away. Rich natural wood gleamed everywhere. The floors, walls, and ceiling were natural wood, stained a light color. Ceilings in the great room were two stories high. a beautiful staircase twisted back and forth to lead the guests to their rooms. Walls of glass faced the glistening ocean, and with a short walk past the pool, guests could be at the beach. Moloka’i shores are a little dicey for swimming. With a deep ocean shelf that quickly drops off, no lifeguards, and resident sharks, I didn’t feel the need to paddle into the open seas.

Our room was luxurious and understated. Fine bedding was freshly ironed and free from wrinkles. The faintest hint of hibiscus flowers scented the linens, all crisp, white, and new. The quilt on the bed was handmade and Hawaiian. A bowl of fresh fruit sat next to french doors and a deck overlooking the pool and out to the ocean. Everything was sparkling clean and inviting. There was no television or radio to bother with. With the french doors open and waves crashing gently on the beach, this hotel was becoming my favorite.

From the start, there was one thing I needed to do the following day. I would take a 3 minute flight to Kaluapapa Airport, followed by a day long excursion into town. I needed to see where Saint Damien of Moloka’i (born Josef De Veuster) and Saint Marianne of Moloka’i performed their daily miracles with hopeless souls, the victims of leprosy. Placing our bags in the room, we headed downstairs to the concierge.

The concierge area was actually in a separate open sided building. In this area, there were rows of bicycles, all brand new and waiting to be rented. There were kayaks leaned against one way and brand new surfboards leaned against another. There were walking sticks, beach towels, and sunscreen. Brochures on activities surrounding the island. Avis had a car rental booth. There was one thing missing. Tourists.

We had been warned twice at that point that this was the high season. We should expect that the last pineapple might be snatched from our lips. That dinner waits could be upwards of 30 minutes or longer. That all activities would be enjoyed by others who were crowding the beaches. But, as we looked around, this wasn’t the case. We could have walked off with a surfboard under each arm, while riding two bikes to the beach and there would have been plenty of activities left.

One loan clerk noticed there were two customers and came to our aide.

“Aloha! What activities would you like to do today?”

“I would like to visit Kaluapapa.”

“By plane or by mule?”

What an interesting question. The plane ride was three minutes. Down the run way, up over one mountain, descending to the airport, and landing. The mule ride was hours, descending the side of sheer cliff on the back of a mule. The return trip was that many hours going back up. Not some little cliff, but the tallest sea cliff in the world, measuring 3,600 to 3,900 feet. Hmmm. This was really a no-brainer for me.

“The flight, please.”

“Oh. This is troubling. I hope you understand this IS high season. I’m unsure of that possibility. We need to call to make arrangements, but it is possible that all mules or flights are booked.”

Looking at each other through side-glances, our gaze returned to her. Since arriving, we’d seen no tourists of any kind. No one tanning at the pool. No sign of surfing at the beach. No joggers. No bikers. No nothing. And yet, it was high season. The dining room had been set with the finest China and Crystal. At least 20 tables were at the ready. Bowls of tasty fruit were placed in the lobby. Employees, with crisp attire were everywhere, waiting to help. But, there were no tourists anywhere, except us.

“I know. I know. But, these people are only here for two nights. Can you check?”

The associate pleaded with the flight agent from her corded phone, looking off toward the beach as she did. After a small wait, the conversation continued.

“Wow. They are lucky. You know, high season and all.”

“You are extremely lucky. It is rare there’s availability on short notice. You need to report to the airport tomorrow morning at 7:00 AM. Please arrived 45 minutes early, because, with the added tourists during high season, the check-in process takes a bit longer. The pilot does not wait for passengers on their way to Kaluapapa. Sometimes, he even takes off five minutes early. Do not be tardy. Enjoy your flight.”

Again. High season. Walking back to the lobby, we made dinner reservations, just to be safe. Were all the tourists on some fantastic whale watching excursion? Golfing? Visiting the Menehune? All in Kaluapapa for the day? That remained to be seen. For now, we had the entire place, rich and luxurious, at our fingertips. What difference could a few tourists make anyway?

To be Continued.

Traveling alone, I’d be taking my first solo adventure in many years. Excitement churned in the pit of my stomach. Kaluapapa was only hours and a three minute airplane ride away. Memories would be carved in my heart, mine and mine alone. But, there were hours worth of adventures left on this day, as we returned to the main hotel.

VST wasn’t interested in visiting the little town of Kaluapapa. He had a real dislike for the stories of leprosy and the tragedy it brought to the islands. Although he had no problem with me visiting, he was not going to chance contracting the disease himself. He would stay at the hotel, people watch, and make sure that we had dinner reservations for the evening. He might drive around the island to look for more activities, but, he’d not be joining me on my little get-a-way.

With still no sign of any guests, we asked for some fresh pineapple and coconut milk upon our return. Three associates all raced away, finally having customers to satisfy, while VST and I sank into deep leather chairs with ottomans that sucked us into luxurious comfort. A quartet of handsome Hawaiians in flowered shirts and khaki shorts entered the room to play afternoon music just for us. The cavernous room, its high ceilings covered in wood, provided perfect acoustics. Hawaiian music drifted through the air, not to loud, not to soft, but perfect in every way.

The associates brought back a silver tray with two glasses of coconut milk, and one pineapple sliced into bite size pieces. Delicate purple orchids surrounded the pineapple. Another associate brought us warm, moist hand towels with which to refresh our travel weary faces and hands. We had at least eight associates that waited to handle our every need, because, so far, we were the only guests there.

The time approached 4 PM, and we decided to get ready for dinner. As we got up to leave, the musicians looked forlorn. An associate raced over to ask if everything was to our liking. Explaining that we were going to prepare for dinner, one had very helpful advice.

“Have you dinner reservations? It’s high season, and “Solitude Grill” fills up quickly. If you give me your name, I’ll try to get you a table by the window.” Giving them our name and room number, we continued upstairs. We had dinner reservations for 5 PM. Just enough time to get ready.

Upon returning to the room, we saw we had visitors while we were out. A crystal carafe of fresh ice water with lemon sat on the table, along with a tray of crackers and cheese. The bathroom had been prepared with even softer towels and a tray of wonderful soaps, oils, and refreshing sprays, in individual bottles. Directions for the multidirectional wall shower were on the counter, as well. A selection of bubble bath sat near the jetted soaking tub. Everything was sparkling clean and smelled faintly of hibiscus flowers.

On the deck, two light blankets had been draped over the arms of the chairs, because Hawaiian evenings can get chilly. The softest Hawaiian music played quietly.

The beautiful Hawaiian quilt had been put away, and the bed had been turned back, with at least eight down pillows fluffed and propped. On the desk lay two brand new iPad’s for our hotel use. It was as if everything we could have needed or wanted was anticipated and prepared for. We used the privacy wisely.

Wearing my newest Hawaiian sundress, and VST looking exceptionally handsome, as always, we headed out for the “Solitude Grill”. We’d been warned to arrive right on time, as the crowds could make it impossible to get near the entrance. And yet, when we arrived there was not another guest in sight. No one. Just us.

Waiters and waitresses stood at their stations in the restaurant. The glass doors slid and stacked at either side, making the far wall disappear. The ocean waves provided the music of the evening, in the open air venue. Waiters wore tuxedo jackets with tuxedo shorts. A nice touch to a beautiful and serene setting. We’d already decided on our dinner selection and wanted to order quickly. It was local movie night, and we didn’t want to be late for that either. We had been told the movie sold out quickly, being one of the few choices for evening entertainment on the island.

“I’ll have the filet mignon, medium charred, please.” On a tony cattle ranch in Molokai, the beef would be an excellent choice. I just knew it.

“Yes, Ma’am. I’ll need to check on the availability. With high season in full swing, we’ve been running low on provisions. Some selections might not be available. Could you please wait for a moment while I check?”

Looking around at the 20 empty tables, all set with the finest china and crystal, I shivered. This was becoming a bit creepy. Our room should have been noisy from the crowds in the restaurant, but there was no one to make a peep. Any additional conversations would have been welcomed at this point. But, there was just an occasional pot clanging in the kitchen. It was so quiet, whispering staff could be heard from across the room. Eerie, I began to feel like this was a new episode of the Twilight Zone.

“Yes, yes, we have two filets. Eight ounce and aged. Perfectly marbled. Grain finished. You should be very happy with the selection. Our beef is raised on the island, right above the beach, over there.” Indeed, we had driven by green pastures dotted with huge Black Angus. This should be delicious.

Dinner was served to perfection, down to the freshly baked rolls. Everything was the freshest it could be as we ate by the open windows, overlooking the beach. During dinner, there was never a sign of another guest. Just us, enjoying this most private and beautiful hotel.

After dinner, we walked to the community center where first run movies were shown once a week. Locals were paying their $2 a ticket and entering the building. With no one wearing more than a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, we were overdressed, causing a few to stare and smile. The community center had fifty chairs arranged in rows. There was a portable screen at the front of the room, and a projector in the back. We were going to see the premiere of a new movie right here in this dingy little room with no windows, because that is how things are on Moloka’i. Two local women popped popcorn in two air poppers, melting real butter on a hot plate. We ordered two bags and settled in.

With little fanfare, the movie played. A romantic comedy, the name I don’t recall. Another experience that made my love for Moloka’i deepen. Such a simple little place.

With stars high in the darkest sky, we walked back to our hotel. There were no strangers to fear or traffic to avoid as we walked down the middle of the street holding hands. The night breezes rustled the palm leaves and our hair.

Upon returning, the welcoming staff asked if we would like hot chocolate before we turned in. Sipping on whipped cream and cocoa on the lanai with the stars and the moon watching over us, there was nothing more a conversation would add. This was a place I would remember forever. Hours evaporated into dream filled sleep. An adventure beyond my expectations would unfold in the morning.

“Arrive 45 minutes before your scheduled flight. The pilot often leaves a few minutes early. Leaves a few minutes early. Leaves a few minutes early. Don’t be late.” The words played over and over in my mind, until I awoke to the alarm clock.

Oh no! Were we late, already? The airport would be bustling. We needed to get through TSA with enough time to board. We had to hurry! Adventure awaits……

To Be Continued……..

Everyone has them. My blog site is under repair today. I will be back tomorrow.

J

The Molokai Airport, locally known as the Hoolehua Airport, was a short 9 miles from the hotel, with an estimated drive time of 16 minutes. However, the concierge had been very clear. High tourist season could ruin everything. Not sure how the traffic would interfere with our mission, we left with two hours to spare. Hurrying through the hotel lobby, nothing had changed overnight. Attendants and associates were standing at the ready to answer questions or fulfill any needs of the guests. The guests must all be sleeping, because, we saw none.

VST would spend the day driving around the island, looking for interesting activities. There was at least one golf course on Moloka’i, along with the complete rodeo arena, available for rent to be used for company team building. There were miles of beaches to explore, and a tiny town stocked with any supplies we might need.

Down the road, a little way from the hotel, there stood a lone bird. Just sitting there, motionless, with no intentions of flying. The closer we came, the more still it was. Just sitting there looking our direction, almost as if it had never seen a car before. We were the only auto rolling along on the clearest of days with the most brilliant sky overhead. Surely it would move. The closer we got, the more still it became. Closer. Larger. Closer. Larger. Closest….. Whoopsie….. We continued on, in quiet contemplation after that.

The airport was an open air venue, as so many places in Hawaii are. With perfect weather, windows aren’t needed. Just a roof to protect people from the sun. We parked within feet of the front door and hurried in. We had 1.75 hours to spare before departure. Inside, we found a complete crew at the ready. Ticket agents. Baggage handlers. A small kiosk in which to purchase a bag of candy or the latest magazine. A restaurant serving coconut milk and pineapple. The one thing missing was any additional passengers. We were the only ones needing assistance.

Once checked in, we now had 1.70 hours to spare until departure. VST was getting a bit antsy as we waited in very uncomfortable plastic chairs. The more we waited the more it was clear he was returning to the husband I knew and loved. The one that never in a million years would willingly visit Molokai. That one.

Finally, after a few snacks and a little patience, a small plane landed and pulled up within feet of the airport. Because there was no wall or door, the engine noise was deafening and silence appreciated when the pilot turned it off. The airplane door flung open, and out stepped a very handsome, uniformed pilot. An extremely small plane, it held seats for eight. Sauntering in with real swag and ego, he approached the ticket agent and they exchanged niceties.

“Just one. Right there.”

He turned to glance my way. After a few minutes conversing with the adorable ticket agent, he walked over to us.

“Ready to go?”

“Yes, I sure am.”

Quickly kissing sweet VST, I followed the pilot to the plane. He reached inside and threw out a cheap door mat, and then motioned for me to enter. Wiping my feet, I hunched over and got in. It was the smallest plane I’d boarded in some time. While I got settled and belted in, he grabbed a chipped clip board and penned a few numbers. I never saw him complete a pre-flight check of the plane. He just gunned the engine, swung around, and, in seconds, we were in the air.

The ascent was immediate and steep, as the expansive ocean and view spread out in all directions. Passing over the huge mountains, just as quickly, we descended immediately at a steep angle. Just like that, a $100 plane ride delivered me to the Kaluapapa Airport. I smiled to myself that the mule ride would’ve included three hours of saddle sores. I’d chosen well.

In preparation of my visit, I’d read a little about the residents. During tours, the residents prefer to stay indoors, away from prying eyes. There was one resident that loved watching the airplanes come and go. I could expect to see a rather old pick-up truck by the airport, with one lone man observing tourists from a distance.

The airport was by a cliff next to the shore far below. It was nothing more than a shack, with one solid wall and three open sides. Protection from sun or rain, it stood empty. No one worked at this airport. The pilot would have the roster of those he was taking back to town or Oahu. His roster showed he was transporting four away from Kaluapapa, and indeed, four waited.

In a flash, I was off the plane, the four were loaded, and gone as quickly as we’d arrived. At 3 PM, he’d return for me. For the moment, I stood alone. Other than the empty airport, no buildings were within my sight. Ocean waves crashed on the deserted shore below. I turned and looked in a complete circle. I was totally alone. Just me. In this very sad and lonely place known as Kaluapapa, there wasn’t even a bird in the sky.

Then, I remembered what I had read about the lone man. Sure enough, about 1/4 mile away, sat a pick-up truck, a single person inside, watching. A cold shiver ran down my spine. Just me, there, at this broken down “Airport”, waiting for the Father Damien Tour Bus.

I didn’t need to wait too long. Rolling in, squealing brakes trailed by a cloud of dust, it arrived and I flew out the only door in the airport. The very, very old school bus was painted navy blue, with “Father Damien Tour’s” stenciled on the side. The driver flung the doors open, and was making notations on a small clipboard.

“Hi. Sir? I’m supposed to take your tour?”

“Return to the airport and wait until I come for you,” he barked. He was a gruff, no-nonsense kind of person who wasn’t going to put up with anyone who got out of line. I scurried back inside the airport. For minutes I stood under this lean-to, while he sat in his empty school bus just looking at the ocean. Finally, I heard his footsteps approaching the airport.

“Come now,” he barked sternly.

I followed him quietly to the bus.

The driver was 6′ tall and trim, was true law enforcement. Estimating his age in the early 70’s, he had a tan, weathered exterior. Even in the heat, he wore blue jeans and a short sleeved shirt. Ruggedly handsome, I wondered how leprosy had scarred him. His face and hands were intact, unlike so many victims. Leprosy is caused by a bacterial infection of Mycobacterium leprae. It usually affects the skin, eyes, nose, and nerves. If caught early enough, the disease can be cured, or at the very least, controlled.

“Wait here,” he pointed at the ground outside the bus door.

Once seated, he pulled out his clip board and asked if I had authorization to visit Kaluapapa. I present the handwritten ticket and he took a long, serious look at it. How would I have come to this place unless I had authorization? It seemed an odd question. I couldn’t swim or walk this far. Hitchhiking wasn’t for me.

“It seems this is in order. You may board.”

With that, during HIGH SEASON, his one passenger boarded the tour bus. Making a large turn in the dirt, we rattled off down the gravel road towards town. He introduced himself as Richard Marks, the Sheriff, and a long time resident of Kaluapapa. His story unfolded as we bounced along an empty and barren piece of land. With sadness, he told me he had been diagnosed with leprosy as a young man, and was banished to this little town. Many adoptive relatives were buried on either side of the road on which we traveled. In this huge expanse of land, he explained, were thousands of graves of victims who died after suffering from leprosy. For a very long way, I didn’t know what to say or ask. As we rolled on, he finally told me that we were on the way to pick up the mule riders, and then, the tour would begin.

The old pick-up truck bounced along far enough behind us to avoid our dust. Indeed, it had been the man I’d read about. The one that longed to see the visitors come and go. Sheriff Marks knew him well, as they were old friends with one very sad thing in common. Leprosy.

Leprosy is a disease well-controlled in 2021. Effective medications and treatment had been discovered years before the residents were ever told. When leaving was finally a choice they could make, many decided to stay. According to Sheriff Marks, for the men and women that chose to leave, sterilization was mandatory. When I visited in 2013, a handful of residents still called Kaluapapa home, and could visit Honolulu for medical care. Some stores had special hours, providing the residents privacy from prying eyes. As Sheriff Marks told me stories along the way, I received my own private tour from someone that had a lot to say. These residents had endured not only the ravages of the disease, but true cruelty from a place that boasts Aloha.

The day was filled with walking and listening. Visiting the very land in which Father Damien provided the holy sacrament to so many unfortunate victims was overwhelming. Mother Marianne and Father Damien, through tragedy, brought people into a place of love, faith, and family fellowship. Both produced real miracles in the face of hopelessness for which they achieved sainthood in the presence of Man and God.

Father Damien ignored social distancing and face coverings. He ate with the residents, as well as provided them medical care. He dressed wounds and hugged the children. He held church services and gave last rights. For years and years, he remained strong and healthy, until he finally contracted leprosy and died from the disease in the spring of 1889.

Lunching on a shady cliff overlooking crashing waves underneath trees coated with Strangle Figs, Sheriff Marks told us that parts of Jurassic Park 3 were filmed in this most beautiful place. All the vegetation had been brought to Kaluapapa. When the first residents arrived, this part of the island was barren. Looking at the lush growth now, it was hard to visualize what hell it must have been for the first victims, thrown overboard in shark infested waters to swim ashore.

Driving through town to visit the docks, only one small store was open, selling ice cream bars. Other than that, the town lay quiet and empty.

Eight mule riders spoke of their journey down to Kaluapapa, criss-crossing the steep trail on switch backs. I was never so happy in my life that I had chosen the easy route. Soon, the visit was over, and it was time to return to the airport and back to VST.

Sheriff Marks and I chatted like old buddies on the way back. The canonization of Father Damien was occurring at that Vatican in the fall, and he’d been personally invited to attend, along with any other residents that could make the trip. Deciding on travel for he and his wife, he considered their advanced age and declining health.

Saint Damien of Moloka’i and Saint Marianne of Moloka’i attained the highest honors of the Catholic church by living exemplary lives. They had taken people without hope, faith, or even love, and created a thriving community, orderly and functional. A society cast away from others. That was the supreme miracle they performed, creating the legacy of Kaluapapa.

Just as before, the small plane landed on the bumpy strip. The same pilot jumped out, threw down the mat, and invited me aboard. Within minutes, I was back at the airport kissing VST Hello!

“How was it?”

There was no answer to that question. Although I’ve visited many beautiful places in this big old world, Kaluapapa is a place that will nest in my heart forever. Since my trip, the mule rides have been discontinued, and tours are not allowed due to Covid. Sheriff Marks passed on a few years after my visit, leaving a widow to grieve his passing.

In the most serene of moments, I was the only human on cliffs above the crashing shore near the tiniest of airports outside Kaluapapa, Moloka’i. No car horns. No laughter. No voices. No sounds except those of nature. A true adventure of the best kind, during the middle of High Season.

There are some days when I embrace the fact that I live in the Wild West. There are other days, I realize the Wild West just isn’t here, it’s a new state of mind. “Grabbing hands grab all they can. Everything counts in large amounts” an old song says. It isn’t necessary to “Open Carry”, when we just need to rely on our brains, Spidey-sense, and vigilance. Gangsters flourish all around us, no matter the terrain or population. During the last few weeks, my blog site has been hit by some very bad people. As a writer, I enjoyed getting comments from fans. In the beginning, “Comments” were the first things I checked, hoping that someone would send a word of support. Squealing with happiness, I would hang onto every word. But, that all changed. In the last two weeks, the comments came in fast and furious, all with Arabic lettering at the top of each message. On the next line was a link to porn. Then, there were generic names and messages that camouflaged the entire affair. My blog has been read in over 60 countries, so at first, the Arabic lettering didn’t alarm me. Until it did. It became necessary to block comments from my daily blog. As a new member of my community, I’m isolated. As a widow, I’m more isolated. Add Covid on top, it’s isolation to the extreme. My blog and interactions with my readers were links to the outside world. However, the risk of hackers entering my personal world is too great. Another nice thing ruined in this crazy society thanks to ruthless minds out to do no good. In our world, I’m amazed at the amount of entitlement and corruption occurring on a daily basis, even in a very small town. My blog is so small and insignificant, one wouldn’t think it wouldn’t be worthy of a second look from hackers, but, here they’ve appeared. Attacking a widow, of all things. Jackals go for the jugular of the weakest, eh? Well, some jackals pick the wrong widow. To add to my frustration, a text arrived from a friend I shared dinner with last week. We’d decided to go to the “nicest” restaurant in my little town, even though it was on the pricey side. The food was usually just okay. The Tee Pee Bar and Grill is my go-to choice, with the Papoose Burger and fries for $8.50. But, this was a special night, and so, we chose the fancier place. Long story short, my friend, who doesn’t live in this little town, was charged a second time, (after the outrageously expensive dinner), for a second tip of $30. A generous tip had already been included with the first charge. Luckily, she is a business person, checking every charge on the banking account every day. Gangsters need not hold anyone up in person. No masked bandits need to burst in on horseback. Fraudulent computer entries make difficulties and complications for others. Along with false charges come blocked credit cards and reassigned numbers. All while the thieves continue on, day after day. May I make a suggestion to those new to banking due to widowhood, or any other reason? Check your credit card charges on a daily basis. Every card and account. Every day. Make sure you don’t fall victim to fraud after a very nice evening with a friend. A bitter after-dinner-mint to swallow. In the days of the Wild West, things were simpler. Everyone knew their neighbors. The bad guys in the village were dealt with, while the good guys in the village stood together to defend their space. The sheriff was respected, whether he’d earned that respect, or it was simply a respect for the title. Those that didn’t respect the sheriff or town faced consequences. Townspeople were kept safe. In times of trouble, people would circle the wagons and take turns on watch. The community banded together, rising above differences of opinions when things got tough. With a wagon train of one, here in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada, Oliver and I will keep our eyes peeled for the rat bastards of the world. Please, don’t mess with this widow. It just isn’t a nice thing to do.

Only in small town America can one experience drag racing down Main Street on Friday night. VST was a mechanical guy, plain and simple. Starting on any topic regarding automobiles, he could talk for hours. It would have been impossible to avoid absorbing mechanical knowledge while being married to him for 32 years while farming 17 of those. VST was a legend in the world of John Deere Tractors. Farmers from every part of the San Joaquin Valley in Central California knew of his expertise. He was the guy they called.

After a nice meal in town, I drove down Main Street, headed home. On either side of the road, small groups of people were gathering with lawn chairs and ice chests. Kids waved at us as we rolled down the street, barely reaching the speed limit. By the time i arrived at the stop light, a man was preparing a table and loud speakers for music. The local radio station would be broadcasting. Something big was about to go down.

With a skillful U-turn, I returned to Main Street and found a place to park. It still wasn’t clear what I was waiting for. Maybe an early Memorial Day parade? Lighted car parade? It was clear that an event would start soon. I was ready with a front row seat parked just West of the Fire Department on an empty lot. Only a sidewalk separated me from Main Street.

With curiosity brewing, I texted K to see if she knew what was about to happen. Funny, Facebook allows users to know everything before it ever occurs. Being old fashioned, I often to call K and ask her for updates in my little town 6 hours away. This had her stumped, too. Nothing was announced on town’s Facebook page “Chit, Chat, All About That”. So, I waited.

The group across the street from us was a prolific bunch, with at least eight kiddos under eight, and a couple more in strollers. Several parents were obviously enjoying their time with each other. Little ones were riding their small bikes up and down a wheelchair ramp leading to a small business. Totally joyous, it was testimony to how lonely and isolated everyone has been. Just visiting in a parking lot was reason to celebrate.

In the same parking lot, there sat a RAT car. Rusted, it looked like a mix-matched concoction of parts from many different old cars. Very wide tires in the back, smaller ones in the front. The car was small, resembling a rat, as well. It’s owner fit the car and my town. After a few minutes of visiting, the RAT car peeled out of the parking lot onto the street in front of us. Coming to a complete stop, it’s engine roared to life. All at once, the tires were burning rubber, until, we were choking on the thick black smoke. It then zoomed off at a high rate of speed, made an erratic U-turn and zoomed back towards us again. It’s comical appearance didn’t quite fit the power under the hood and the skill of the driver’s performance.

In the middle of a car show that started at that very moment, I waved and laughed as every kind of car you could think of cruised by. Not all at a high rate of speed, some just drove the speed limit. People were out to show off their rides and I was lucky to sit and watch. Cars from every decade drove by. Some muscle cars raced right by me right down Main Street. The best part was that everyone enjoying the night was having fun. No masks. No social distancing. No thoughts of deadly viruses or the horror of the last year. Just people enjoying the fresh desert air on a lovely spring evening. Visible smiles and lots of laughs enjoyed by everyone.

As the sun set behind Kathmandu, a few Jeeps turned on lighted flag poles mounted on their bumpers. There were cars with hydraulic lifts, and some drivers that nearly lost control of their rides. There were cars that were smeared with Bondo Body Filler, and others that had been perfectly restored to show room glory, even though they might have been a 1954 Bel Air or a 1964 Corvette. A show like no other, with the prize of a cheering crowd won by all.

At one point, a young father and two small kids parked on our side of the street. Immediate screaming began, coming from a pint-sized tornado, yelling to her little girlfriend across the street. Nothing would quiet this little diva. She wanted what she wanted right now. Her friend. Dad quietly walked his pre-K daughter down to the cross walk and across the street to see her bestie. They both ran full speed ahead and locked into each other’s arms. An adorable show of affection that added to the beauty of the night. I wondered how many years these two pint-sized besties would enjoy such a beautiful and pure friendship.

For a couple of hours, in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada, there was a happening. It didn’t make the news. In fact, it didn’t even make Facebook. But, it will remain in my memory as I watched cars drive up and down Main Street.

Always beware of crowds forming on the sides of your home town street. Pull over and wait for a bit. You just never know when a RAT might be coming to your town for a perfect Friday night cruise down Main.

The heat is on, on the street,

Inside your head, on every beat

And the beat’s so loud, dep inside

The pressure’s high, just to stay alive

‘Cause the heat is on……Glenn Fry

I wonder if Mr. Fry lived in the desert, because, for the last week, the heat’s been turned up. Summer is breathing down our necks here in Northwestern Nevada. Yesterday, I needed an outing. Finding myself lounging in the air conditioned nest that is Winterpast, days dwindle by without very much excitement. A bloom here, a baby tomato there. Just not much else going on. Laziness is great in moderation, however, there comes a point when a girl just has to get out.

Not factoring in the extreme heat of the last days of spring, I needed to travel to the garden center for a stroll through rows of dogwoods or mulberry trees. Classical fountains, or whimsical yard art just an hour away, there’s a delightful garden center that’s a great place to visit.

It was then Oliver looked up at me with his soulful eyes. I knew what he was thinking. “What about me, Mom? Don’t I ever get a playground adventure?” Oliver is not a “sit in the car and wait” kind of dog. I wouldn’t have a car left. Oliver likes to chew.

With a little thought and a phone call, I made arrangements for Oliver to visit “Doggie Day Camp” for the morning. He would lose his mind visiting with his old pals, Vinnie and Oscar, as well as the office cat, Jasmine. All his lady friends were there to pamper him, and I could run to the garden center to shop.

When we arrived, the morning was still on the cool side, and the camp counselors rushed to the door to scoop up Ollie and love on him. He didn’t even look back, already having a great time. I was on my own until noon, when I’d retrieve him and head back home.

First, I visited my favorite hardware store, “See-Al”. VST and I frequented this store when we lived in Virginia City. They carry everything from crafted jams and jellies to turnbuckles, nuts, and bolts. I drifted into the clothing section to find a country girl t-shirt in plum. Sure enough, they had a nice selection. Again, anyone who knows me well enough could tell you whether I’m wearing blazers, hoodies, spring dresses or shorts and tees. These days, shorts and tees rule. In the high desert, the dress code is breathable comfort, with many days well over 100 degrees.

Driving through the town, ghosts of the past haunted my thoughts. There are many days, still, I find it mind boggling that VST is gone. We spent hours together in the car running errands or picking up project supplies. These trips were always tied to lunch or dinner, as we ate out at least one meal of the day. Driving by our favorite restaurants and casinos alone was a strange and lonely feeling.

The Garden Center was to open at 9 AM. What? With summer just days away and temperature spiking, what “garden center” opens at 9 AM? Real gardeners are up at the crack of dawn and finishing their work by noon, looking for an afternoon siesta. But, this place opens at 9 AM. With a few minutes to spare, I took a parking spot right up front along with a dozen other cars. Real gardeners all, we waited.

And Waited.

AND WAITED.

I really don’t know the outcome, because I left at 9:20. Employees were leisurely watering the plants. Fountains tinkled. Windchimes dinged. The garden cat snoozed in the sun. All behind locked gates. When I left, 30 patrons stood on very hot asphalt, waiting. No dog mulberry is worth that. I’ll be traveling to the other, better garden center from now on. Besides, they’re normal. They open at 7 AM.

The rest of my morning was just as underwhelming. Shelves were sparse or empty. Merchandise looked trampled, repackaged, and still for sale from last year. Tired employees were stuck wearing masks because of company policy. An environment that made yesterday’s shopping something I don’t really want to try again any time soon.

I can only speculate how many more weeks the department stores I visited can stay afloat. Void of customers, employees moved merchandise around to make the shelves look full. The night before, I’d ordered supplies from a large online box store. My purchases will arrive today, fresh and clean. All without the trouble of traveling over an hour to a town I really don’t want to visit anymore.

After purging another closet and enjoying a quick yogurt for dinner, the skies opened up on my little town. A huge thunderstorm brought relief to the desert sands and the gardens of Winterpast. Rain’s a lovely gift at the end of a very long and hot day. Stay cool. Because…

The shadows high on the darker side

Behind the doors, it’s a wilder ride

You can make a break, you can win or lose

That’s the chance you take, when the heat’s on you…..(Glenn Frey)

Boredom can create the need to dig around for new adventures. When first moving to town, I’d visit Walmart every Monday morning. Bright and early, with the doors opening, I would mask up and make my way around the store. In those days, the shelves were often empty, but as the year progressed, more items became available. I often thought about the olden days, when Walmart had every item known to man, AND toilet paper. As we know, Covid robbed us of that luxury, too.

So, last week, I visited the Walmart to the West. Noticing that Women’s Apparel had a better selection, I made my way around the store. It wasn’t much different from the one in my little town. Only larger. The shelves were just as disheveled as the ones I was used to. I long for the days when shoppers treated merchandise with respect.

Today, I visited the Walmart to the East. What a horse of a different color! I first noticed that the store was spotless. Glad that I was wearing dark glasses, the shine off the floor was dazzling. Walking by the produce department, the fruits and vegetables were fresh and inviting. Being a military town, the shoppers are a different breed. Respectful. Neat. Thoughtful. All immediately notes. But, I was on a mission. Walking straight, I saw what I had come for. Bathing suits.

The purchase of a hot tub is only the beginning of the expenses. Increased power and water bills. Chlorine. Weekly enzymes. pH Up. pH Down. Metal remover. Mineral replacements. Foam Down. Scent Up. Clarifiers. Test strips. All to keep the water sparkling and fresh. It’s a daily chore, checked every morning right after breakfast. Missing a routine water test equates to cloudiness, which is never good.

After all the chemicals are purchased, (keeping in mind the current chlorine shortage), we come to the next expense. Bathing suits.

There is some controversy in the area of swim suits in a spa. Living alone, I could easily slink out to the spa and slither in, rather like a moving shadow. So quietly, that no one would ever hear me enter the water, copying an Olympic high diver as they enter the water with pointed toes that don’t even make a ripple. I could do that. The trees are leafed out. Winterpast is a very secluded place in which I could soak undetected.

But, what of the unexpected knock on the fence? Ninja Neighbor stopping by to check on me? The next door gentleman returning mail delivered to him by mistake? The Jehovah witnesses hoping for a conversion? The Mormon boys on bikes? There I would be stewing in my own juices, so to speak. Unable to answer the door or open the fence, I’d be stuck.

The obvious answer is to amass an assortment of swim suits. A variety of suits, because, if you’ve just one, it’s wet for hours. A dry swim suit is hard enough to shimmy into, let along a clingy, wet one. The following is theater of the mind for your chuckles.

A week after the spa arrived, I found and ordered the cutest swim suit. Something I hadn’t even known was possible. A long-sleeved one-piece swimsuit. As a senior citizen, well weathered, plump, and ready for a harsh winter, I have arm-wings. Other women dream of face lifts or tummy tucks, while I would settle for upper arm reduction. Because of these wings, I seldom wear anything shorter than a 3/4 sleeve. These wings flutter in the breeze. But, in the new suit, I found them to be a younger version. Although still large, my upper arms were now in sausage form. Extremely sleek and dolphin-like, in the cutest suit. The suit has a front zipper, and getting into it reminded me of girdles of the 1900’s. I think today they are called “shape wear”. Whatever. The only shape I become in one is sausage-like.

The suit was adorable, although very, very tight. Feeling I should have scuba gear and a tank, I scurried out to the hot tube began my soak. For winter time, the sleeves were wonderful. Very relaxing. I did feel chic in my new suit and thought about the many other colors that I would order the next day. Because, as everyone knows, getting into a wet suit is miserable, when one soaks multiple times every day.

My new spa shuts off after 15 minutes. Big brother at work, someone has decided no one should ever soak more than 15 minutes. But, just like the alarm reset in the morning, I can reset the thing over and over. So, after a 45 minute soak in the tub, I slithered out and went into the laundry room to take the suit off. A comedy that should have been taped for pay-per-view.

Unzipping it was easy, although, my compressed torso sprung out, leaving the zipper quite strained. It was now that the fun began. I had no idea that the fabric was so clingy. Like a second skin, really. Struggling to loosen it from my shoulder, the struggle was real. I would pull on one side, and the other side would get tighter. Suction was not mentioned on the review of this suit. If I peeled it down, the other side was drawn more tightly to my skin. Add in the fact that my right arm doesn’t work quite right after an old injury, and I was a whirling dervish. I was whirling and twirling, while the suit became tighter and tighter.

I bent a little this way, twisted that way, prayed a bit, and then cursed my decision ever to buy this suit. I longed for the hanging bat wings, not knowing if I would need scissors to extricate myself. All this worry about me falling into the tub and drowning alone. What about my fate trapped in this god-awful suit, unable to move ever again. This went on longer than it should have, but finally, by the grace of god, the thing let loose and fell to the floor. I must add, this will never be my go-to swimsuit.

Back to the swim suit carousel at the Walmart to the East, we return. The selection of suits and cover-ups was dazzling. Just regular suits covering what one would expect. $19.99 can buy you a darling one piece these days. I found two more that I didn’t already own, now having enough to soak 7 different times in the day, while still having a dry suit left to put on.

The rest of the Walmart was just as delightful. Clean. Smiling Associates. Well-stocked shelves. Fresh produce. Just like that, they have a new customer. Driving 10 minutes to the one in my town or 25 minutes to the Walmart to the East is a definite no brainer.

I guess the moral of the story would be to plan for added expenses when splurge on something nice like a spa. The bottom line is that there is nothing more relaxing or soothing than sitting in a hot tub on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada on a beautiful spring night. Don’t go to exotic on suit types. Besides, in the dark, we all have perfect arms. Right?

See you Tuesday.

In these past few weeks, with springtime in full bloom, I’ve certainly enjoyed being out and about. It seems that a year’s flown by under lock and key, and now, it’s up to all of us to rebuild our communities. little by little. Working on plans for my personal summer camp, I’ve compiled a list of things that would be fun to try. Even something as simple as going to the library to get my very own card is on my list of “To-Do’s”.

I’ve felt an increasing impatience at being trapped at home. Not that Winterpast is a bad place to be trapped. On the contrary, it’s a lovely oasis surrounded by beautiful mountains and the bluest sky. But, “plane watching” in the hot tub can only amuse one for so long.

Changing the name of almost every single place in town is something I do for privacy’s sake. This is just too rich to alter. In my little town, there are three parks. Not lush, or well manicured, but heavily used for all kinds of fun activities from dog walks to Little League Baseball. One park is named In-Town-Park. Another is named Out-Of-Town-Park. The third is between Main Street and the railroad tracks, which could be Between Park for all I know.

These are names engraved on signs in front of both parks, and quickly became one of the reasons I fell in love with my little town. Indeed, the I-T-P is IN TOWN. The O-O-T-P is OUT OF TOWN. Brilliant in simplicity and functionality. The names speak of a time long ago, filled with picnics and children flying high on swings. Neighbors munching on fried chicken and potato salad, while visiting, mask-less. You just social distanced from those you with whom you chose not to converse.

The fact that Sheriff Smith or Rancher Ron hasn’t insisted that the park be named after them speaks volumes to the type of people that live in my little town. They are townsfolk, not egotistical morons. The parks belong to everyone.

The carnival had pulled into town on Friday morning, setting up in O-O-T-P. It looked suspect. There were six adult rides that were too shiny and new to be really exciting. The best part of roadside carnivals was the thought that you really could die, or at the very least, lose a finger or foot. That was, if you made it back to the car before being snatched by the Carnies. These were brand new, shiny rides. The town-folk were a-twitter with excitement for the weekend event.

At 4 PM, I drove over to the little carnival to look for funnel cake. Never having tasted it, I had a hard time envisioning what it would be until I brought up a picture on his phone. Interesting. I would much rather have cheese curds or a slice of pizza, but, I would be up for trying funnel cake, which I had heard was a food created by angels.

Under the big cotton wood trees, the high school was holding Sober Grad Night. Graduating seniors look younger every year. Right? There were balloons and squeals of laughter from the mechanical bull, set up to the side. It looked like their celebration would be a very long and fun night, free of masks and social distancing.

Continuing towards the midway, there stood six adult rides, two children’s rides and some games of chance down the middle. Somewhere in the mix, there would be funnel cake. With a Ferris wheel calling to me, I went to buy tickets. Until I stopped. Six rides — $30. EACH. Had no one told them this wasn’t Disneyland on wheels? These were little carnival rides that would be packed up and moved Sunday night. A one minute ride on the Ferris Wheel would cost $10. Floating up into the air with a chance to die just wasn’t that important, so I changed course.

Turning to the Games of Chance, I could win this little lady a prize. These games were obviously set to the house advantage, ruining the fun. Besides, each try cost $5. Each TRY. No “greased plate dime toss”, or “glued together bowling pins” ready to tumble if you hit them just right. The games were all computerized for controlled outcomes. Huge prizes hung overhead for gullible victims. Certainly, not me.

Well, there was always the funnel cake. Until, there wasn’t. Nope. There were corndogs, caramel apples, cotton candy, and popcorn, but, fresh funnel cake was not sold at this carnival. They only sold ready made food pre-sealed in plastic. The time? 4:30 PM. The travel and investigative leg work took only 30 minutes.

The Nevada State Fair (another carnival with the same silly rides) was the same weekend. They would have funnel cake. But the drive wasn’t worth it. I chose to stay close to home and visit the Tee-Pee Bar and Grill for a nice dinner before returning home.

Thinking back on carnival’s of the past, something precious was lost along the way. Cake walks with freshly baked cakes as prizes. Square dancing. Beer gardens. Animals, big and small. Rusty carnival rides that might or might not make it another night. Sparkling lights in big old oak trees, with shadows where the young lover’s might steal a first kiss. A place where family men could be the hero to their children and let them ride anything they wanted, all night along. A sense of community at an event people waited for all year long.

The next morning, the headlines were grim. At the Nevada State Fair, one hour’s drive to the West, three had been critically stabbed the night before. With no suspects apprehended, the thought was sobering. A decision to take a simple drive in search of funnel cake at the Nevada State Fair could have taken me to the very site of the stabbing. Something so precious has been lost. Freedom to enjoy a fun evening without fear.

I own three very large flat screen tv’s, two iPads, and a phone. Lots of screens display absolute garbage, if I get bored enough to turn them on. It’s easy to surrender one’s brain to a image on the screen, replacing real human activities and interactions. Yesterday was an all time low.

A school board meeting in Virginia was televised to the nation. A parent paraded their little girl and boy to the front of a very hostile group of people and expected her to read off a prepared speech. The child wasn’t even old enough to understand the meaning of the words she was reading. Parents in the audience were making rude comments as she tried to read. This was live.

What kind of Superintendent, School Board, community leaders and parents would allow this to happen to two small children? What kind of country are we becoming? Has all decency left the building? I turned off the television in total disgust. I am a retired teacher. No one would have ever been allowed to treat one of my adorable students in such a manner. Ever.

The rest of the night, I found other things to do. This morning, I’d already prepared another piece to post, but something really nice happened. Turning on the computer, there are always a few news headlines. One caught my eye. It was about a contestant on the show “America’s Got Talent”, so I clicked on the story. It was then I met Jane Marczewski. I need to share her words with you. They are beautiful and uplifting. For once, SOMEONE on television had SOMETHING IMPORTANT to say in addition to sharing her amazing talent. I hope you Google her name and hear the original song she sang for Simon Cowell. More than that, listen to her real message. Time is short. “It’s Okay.”

Her words for your consideration.

“There are times when I wonder what I must have done to deserve such a story. I fear sometimes that when I die and meet with God, that he will say I disappointed Him or offended Him, or failed Him. Maybe He’ll say I just never learned the lesson, or that I wasn’t grateful enough. But one thing I know for sure is this. He can never say that He didn’t know me.”

“I am so much more than the bad things that happen to me. I have a 2 percent chance of survival (cancer), but 2 percent is not zero. Two percent is SOMETHING. I wish people knew how amazing that is.” Nightbirde. Jane Marczewski — Cancer Warrior, Cancer Survivor In The Present.

Jane’s uplifting spirit and voice are something worthy of watching.

Sing on, Jane, Sing on!!!!!

Onward and upward on my search for summer camp activities, a new thought crossed my mind. Even though I don’t fit the stereotypical mold, I am, indeed, a Senior Citizen. I’m retired, with plenty of extra hours on my hands. I don’t wear my hair as many older women might, finding I like it long these days. I do wear shorts and tees more than I should, but then, I have really nicely tanned legs. Ace tells me so.

I don’t carry a big purse, because I prefer a fanny pack. “Both hands free, Don’t Mess With Me.” Period. I like my Sketcher’s athletic shoes. My fingernails are gardener short. The next time I wear make-up might be when I am laid out for a final viewing. I just don’t fit the mold of old. I guess I could be considered YOLD. Young Old.

Thinking of Miss Firecracker, so far away in lovely new life, it’s always been obvious she didn’t fit the mold either. Neither of us will ever be Moldy Oldies. The truth of the matter is, I need another Thelma to run with my Louise, and so far, I haven’t met one. Of course, there is only ONE her. Period. Thinking deeply, the brand new Senior Center just might be the place I could find new friends. I decided to give it a try.

The building was nearing completion last spring when Covid hit. Finished and empty for months before it actually opened, there would have been time to make this space adorable and inviting. It was Institutionally perfect. Any young relative would love Mom or Pops to hang out in this brand new space. Mom and Pops might feel differently, as it lacked humanity of any kind. It also lacked any sort of welcoming leadership giving direction to the program. What had they done behind all those months behind locked doors? A golden opportunity lost.

The old Senior Center was in a cozy house. Well loved, and a little rough around the edges, it spoke to the years of friendships built there. Often, aged things have value lost on the young. I’d only driven by once with Miss Firecracker. We found it was already closed by then, in anticipation of the bright new building on the other side of the tracks. Interesting and private, it was a private space for seniors to share themselves with other seniors.

Yesterday, shining up a little, I prepared for action. My shorts were replaced with black capris. My tee-shirt was replaced with a black and white blouse bling-ed just a bit. With new sandals on my feet, but still sporting the fanny pack, I was off. Today, I planned to visit the new Senior Center, expecting to find something totally different than that which I did.

The building is functionally sturdy, similar in structure to a pre-fab design. With no extra charm, the front doors lead to a large desk that should be managed by a receptionist. There was none. This entry way seemed to be shared by Seniors and Social Service Clients. This is not the most comforting combination of clients that could be paired.

An entire wall of glass separated the waiting room and the Senior Center. Two institutional glass doors were closed behind the receptionists desk. In my mind, thinking as an old teacher, the thoughts of privacy and safety came to mind. Inside, with the capacity to hold 100 people, you would have the most vulnerable citizens, distracted and trying to have fun. Right outside the glass wall, clients waiting for mental health, child protective services, or welfare. Nothing would ever go wrong. Until it might.

Thinking of the private little house on the other side of the tracks made me a bit sad. As I investigated more, I realized I’m not quite at the age to appreciate the Center. About thirty round industrial tables and brand-new plastic chairs filled the room. There was not one ounce of creativity or welcoming feeling coming from this space. To one side was an industrial serving area where people could get their daily meal for $2.00. Yesterday’s meal was spaghetti and meatballs, but, I’d lost my appetite. In all the time that took, not one employee came up to say “Hello” or ask if I had questions.

Being “Multi-Purpose”, the use could be changed at the drop of a hat. They could show ponies in this barn. House homeless. There is nothing specifically dedicated to Senior’s and their taste.

Sitting very near the kitchen sat five old friends. I believe Poker was the game of the day. They never saw me enter, as they were into a hot game. This cavernous room with 20 foot ceilings did not scream WELCOME or YOU’LL BE COMFORATABLE HERE. It’s cold walls perfectly new and white repelled me and I left as quickly as I’d entered.

Leaving, I noticed sign up sheets with the names of friends I’d not meet on that day. They’d all signed up for the new Watercolor classes to start next week. At the bottom in red ink-ed block letters –CLASS FULL. That sealed the deal. Searching for summer camp activities, I’d continue to look elsewhere. I wasn’t ready for this place nor it for me. Not yet, anyway.

The library was Monday closed. Dropping off donations at Sassy Second’s, down the road, I realized my summer camp would remain within the confines of Winterpast for a few more days. Water aerobics at 10. BBQ hot dogs at noon. Afternoon nap. Free Swim at 2. Dinner under the stars with a light show that is new and exciting every night.

When camp doesn’t come to you, make your own. Just don’t let the old lady in (as Willie Nelson would tell you). No matter, what. She will find a way in sooner or later. Until then, keep on the search for your own summer camp fun. Others are waiting to join in, you just haven’t met them yet.

For most of my life, it’s been a groovy thing to play a supporting actress. As the fourth in a family of five girls, the role was an easy one. Be quiet, smile often, and walk in the footsteps of those that went before. Pretty easy gig, as my three older siblings were beautiful and smart team players who always did the right thing. All college graduates, they set the bar of expectations high. There was no real need to forge a different path, so I went along the one that worked for everyone else.

My life was full of situations in which the easy route was just that. Easy and obvious. Choices were limited by life’s boundaries. Moms could do this but not that. Wives needed to help provide a good lifestyle. Business partners share equally in ventures. Life went along well, because VST and I were the best of partners. Some dreams, like writing, just didn’t fit the narrative. Sometimes life is like that. Sacrifices made for the better of everyone involved.

In early March, 2020, it was obvious that VST was seriously ill, while we were in the middle of what some would see as a big mess. We had a solid buyer for the Dun Movin House in Virginia City, and we’d made a solid offer on Winterpast. With packing in full swing, VST came to me one morning with a request.

“Could we go see the new house? I know you’re busy with packing and all, but I really want to see it again. Do you have time?”

Of course, nothing was more fun than taking the hour’s drive to our new house in our new town, so off we went. I remember the ride there, talking about a lot of nothing. Details about the sale. Details about the purchase. Detail after detail after detail. VST was already feeling poorly, so an hour’s drive to and fro took energy and focus.

The new-house realtor was waiting to open Winterpast to us. Tree buds were swollen, although the grass was still brown as it was late winter. VST took his tape measure and tried to make some notes on his pad, but quickly stood by the kitchen island, uncomfortable and in pain. Measurements, numbers, and focus had started to become a problem he could no longer hide.

“Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?” the realtor asked, genuinely concerned.

He’d chuckled and assured her that there was nothing wrong with HIM. Nothing at all. Just old age. Waving both of us outside, sadly, he watched us through the window. Remembering this reminds me what a special husband I had for 32 years.

After our visit, we went for the best tacos ever at the stand by the Starbuck’s. To finish the day, we stopped at Sven’s Homemade Scoops for ice cream cones. The visit had made us love our new little town even more, and our excitement was noticed by Sven, who was the first person to Welcome us as new residents.

On the way back to Virginia City, VST turned to me and asked the one question that haunts me still.

“Will you be happy there?”

“Of course!” I reminded him that WE would be happy there, but inside, I think he knew better.

“But, will YOU be happy there?” he asked one more time. The question hung like a dark cloud over the Jeep, as we rode the rest of the way home in silence.

In three weeks time, he would be gone. I would still be packing and preparing for a move that most thought I should abort.

A little more than two weeks after he died, I did move. Roots immediately formed and started pushing down into the rich soils of Winterpast. As spring turned into summer, falling in to Autumn and settling into the deepest winter, I found my bearings and sense of home. All here in Winterpast.

I’m now starring in my own life story. As an old friend told me, the scariest part is the immense array of options. Being YOLD (Young-Old), the options are as different as sheer laziness played out day after day in a quiet house with Oliver, to turning feral and traveling throughout this big old country of ours. Gardening gives me time to reflect on the talents and gifts that I’ve been given and how best to use them.

I returned to the Senior Center yesterday. With even fewer people there than before, I went up to talk to the only gentleman that said “Hello”. He was assembling silverware and napkins for the lunch crowd. With a few questions, he gave me a schedule and introduced me to the director, who was preparing Orange Chicken lunch plates for the upcoming meal.

“Do you offer any writing classes?” I asked, waiting for doors that would open or close with her answer.

“Can you call me next week? I’ve been waiting for a guy that used to run classes here. He hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”

Just like that, a little window of possibilities. Writers hang together. Surely there will be opportunities for friendships to grow. There is nothing better than a writing group, especially if you are lucky enough to run one. My spirit needed this little boost as I saw a possible leading role.

Leaving the senior center, the receptionist desk was again empty. As I was leaving, I heard music coming out of the hallway. One lone voice was giving directions. Tap. One. Turn left. Leg out. No, other leg. With all the directions, I had to look. Inside, 35 women of all shapes and sizes were doing aerobic dancing. Not intimidating dancers with curves in all the right places. Just Senior Citizen women like me that were sick to death of sitting at home and would try anything just to see another human being.

I’ll return to this center soon. Maybe even tomorrow. There is more to this place than meets the eye for this YOLD senior. As Ghandi put it so well, “Be the change you seek.” I need a leading role in my new life, and with a little work, I’m going to create it for myself.

From birth, I was surrounded by music of one form or another. My sisters had their record player and 45’s, of course, being more than a decade older than me. But, they also played instruments. Mom made sure that we all had our turn at learning about musical notes, reading music, and proficiency at least one instrument. One sister was great at the accordion, while another was just okay at the clarinet. A third sister was a beauty as she strutted and twirled in front of the High School band, keeping time with the marches as she spun and caught her wand.

When I was finally of age, my mother hired the local school music teacher to drop by for piano lessons. It didn’t go that well. For starters, there was something off about the man. Not sure if there was alcohol on his breath, or that he was the first un-manly-man I’d ever met. But, trust him, I did not. He was just plain weird. Therefore, the lessons didn’t last very long.

Long enough, though, for me to read and enjoy music. As for an instrument, I attempted the guitar, but finally got stuck in the percussion section playing the bells. I quickly lost interest, never learning to play an instrument well. When choir came along, it was a fun place to read music and sing. That I enjoyed due to my good friends, one of them being VST, whom I would marry years later.

Movie scores are of special interest to me. How often are we gripped with a visual scene in an old classic without realizing the equal effect the soundtrack is having on our emotions. I love old movies for that very reason, knowing that the musical score was produced with a real orchestra playing real instruments, not computer generated sounds.

To this day, I love music. Any kind. Any time of day or night, music adds magic to the feelings of the moment. Tears can flow with the saddest songs, or your soul can sour with an insprirational tune. Music can also get people in trouble. Serious trouble.

Visiting Auntie TJ is always a time to be cherished. She lives a long distance away, and I miss her terribly these days. But on this particular day, she would be a bit devious. It was the first or second night of a week long visit at her beach house. There is no better music to sleep by than the ocean waves crashing on the rocks. I was in the middle of such a nice dream, not realizing that the sun had already been up for a few hours.

Just then, a most horrendous noise woke me out of my peaceful slumber. It was a march. John Phillip Souza’s “The Stars and Stripes Forever (1896)”. It came blaring through the door, slightly ajar, and shook me to the core. Of course, it starts out with a bang and then there are the unassuming little piccolos in there. Some horns, some tubas. And then……..the drums. I flew out of the Murphy Room (named so because of the Murphy bed on which I slept soundly, until then) to find her exploding with laughter. At this time the chipper little piccolos were in full swing. It was hilarious, looking back. But at the time, it was just not right.

Some songs cause tears to flow. The song that reminds me the most of VST is Neil Diamond’s “Play Me”. It could have been written from either of our points of view and still been accurate. Whenever it plays, I succumb to tears.

Anything Joni Mitchell speaks directly to my heart. We are surely kindred spirits. It was that way from my college days, when ballads were heavy with beautiful words crafted with deep messages. Joni Mitchell was with me through my isolation while in Russia. I knew her so well, I could tell a note misplaced. I could also have written many essays on a single Joni song pertaining to how it applied to my life at different stages. Such a talent. Such beautiful story telling.

While VST and I drove 50,000 miles together, RVing, I finally realized the depths to which he loved Country Western music. His “go-to” channel was Willie’s Road House. Often, an old song that he remembered from time with his beloved grandfather would play and he would turn up the radio and sing with the tune. It was happiness personified as he would tell stories of memories with his Grandpa. I know that heaven is having a hoe-down now that the two of them are hanging out together again.

Last night, casually looking through headlines, I noticed that Carrie Underwood had again won top awards at the Country Music Awards. I smiled, because, her star rose on American Idol, as we all watched. Such a beautifully rich voice in a dear human package. She was the whole deal in one young woman. The article spoke of an award for her new duet, “Hallelujah”. Looking it up and listening, my heart found Christmas in the minutes the song played. Such a sweet message. Good to listen to her at any time of year.

When the days get long (and they do), or the nights don’t bring sleep (sometimes they don’t), turn to music and enjoy whatever you have. From Country Western to R&B, decade-grouped selections, or instrumentals. Music heals. One of life’s little gifts that enriches us all.

It’s my summer’s goal to learn three new skills. Not quite sure of my focus, I’ve considered things I need to learn. The options are so broad it’s a little daunting. Learning a new skill doesn’t necessarily involve becoming the best in the world. It just means learning a little more than I know today.

Physical Fitness–

Uncoordinated, beyond reproach, I need to accomplish something in the area of physical fitness. Even if it means attending a senior citizen aerobics class for 12 weeks in a row, it needs to include the movement of my body in a meaningful and productive manner. As I garden, I often sit on the ground to repair sprinkler hose or pull weeds. Getting back up is a bit of a show. Rather like a leggy giraffe, I rise. Not gracefully, it takes quite an effort. How wonderful it would be to leap to my feet like a playful gazelle. I would even be happy if it wasn’t such a darn struggle.

There are some options in town that sound interesting. One is the community pool, lovely, and indoors. There is a community swim time that sounds refreshing and a possible source of hours of writing. I need to check it out, as this chick-a-dee needs to get out and move. There are also some fitness clubs in town, however, I’m still a little virus leery. The thought of breathing other people’s evaporating sweat isn’t very appealing in this, the second year of the virus.

Spiritual Fitness-

The Bible has been a fascinating mystery to me for many years. Verses written long ago, inspire and comfort in many ways. How interesting to listen to others and their interpretation, while considering the relevance to my own. I’d like to read at least one chapter and begin to think about personal applications. There are many churches in my little town yet to be visited by me. With at least twelve that I know of, visiting one church a week would be a good summer goal.

Intellectual Fitness–

In 12 weeks, I’ve plenty of hours to publish my first book. Deciding on which one was the hard part. As originally planned, I’m self-publishing my first book, Widow, later this year. Looking at available webinars on that very subject, plenty of tips and tricks on the subject are available online. Google Kindle Direct Publishing and go on their cyber tour.

A wonderful new option called kindle vella is available. Serial stories. Amazon is now offering writers the option of continuing a story, one day at a time. The first day is free to the reader. The next the readers are charged a certain number of tokens per day. The writer receives 50% of each sale. I’m really considering this option for a few of my stories, such as the train ride. Too short for a book, but, perfect for a 5-7 day serial story.

Just spending 30 minutes a day searching the internet for information on a new hobby can provide inspiration and information.

Creative Fitness–

There is a tiny shop in town that specializes in pottery and creative painting. Each week, they offer a class that will leave you with a personally crafted work of art. Following a set techniques and patterns, while listening to the instructor, you create. During this time, wine is consumed, as well. The finished paintings could end up a little more abstract than intended, but definitely original.

Painting has always appealed to me. I’ve attempted a few projects that did turn out quite nice, so this may be an outlet that leaves me a little more skilled.

Culinary Fitness–

I want to learn to cook one gourmet meal that I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, will turn out amazing. Every time. One I can cook to “Wow” company. Just one. My cooking skills are very basic. I wonder how in the world I ever raised children to maturity with my limited knowledge of food preparation. At any rate, I did. With most dinner plates empty over the years, everyone must have been farm hand hungry.

Earlier in the spring, I purchased the Julia Child cookbook, “Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume 1: A Cookbook”. I’ve gotten pretty good at reducing recipes to an amount for 1, with a little left over for the following day. Preparing a French dish will stretch my comfort zone, as I’ve never actually eaten anything French that I know of. I do know I love Brie and butter, so there’s probably a really good chance this will be valuable knowledge.

Old Apparel In The Barrel —

Need I even explain this again? I live on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Although there is a city thirty miles to the west, anything more than shorts and tees in the summer is really overdressing. In my younger years, I’d wait for the Fall issue of Vogue to pine for new Winter fashions. Just knowing the colors for the upcoming season was helpful. Window shopping inspired, as stores usually carried similar styles.

I’m in dire need of a fashion make-over. Perhaps there was never anything to make over in the first place. I’d be the perfect candidate for the show where a clueless woman’s chosen. She has no idea. All of a sudden, the cameras are in her closet and her favorite sweats and jeans are in the dumpster. With a credit card, they send her to create a new wardrobe, all her own. Her hair is revamped and makeup customized. Yes! Please! Someone nominate me for that. Otherwise, that may become another summer goal.

So, there you have it. Wanting to improve in three areas of knowledge and fitness, I’ve thought of six needing my attention. I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface. Nothing stays the same, nor should we. Retired days are full of hours to learn, experiment, and grow. Times a wasting.

Something bad happened a few days ago. Really bad. To someone I used to know. At least, I thought I did. Long ago, we were all full of edginess, clawing our way to the top of the nearest heap of dreams. Some of us had moral boundaries, while others just did anything necessary to realize their desires. Something really bad happened a few days ago. Not to me, but someone I used to know. Hearing the news, I realized I never knew him at all.

His mug shot, displayed for the world to see, revealed a man in trouble. Not the spicy young executive with a life of possibilities ahead of him. A lost soul staring through a shatter life into the lens of the law. His emperor’s clothing exchanged for a white t-shirt and emotionless expression. The same exterior I used to know. However, the young man I knew vacated the premises years ago. His chickens have come home to roost. Karma does that sometimes.

There’s an old saying I’m trying to remember these days. “A truth told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent.” In this case, truer words have never been spoken. Knowing so many things about this man and his poor choices, gossip perches on my lips wishing I had a friend that remembered the past as I do. But alas, that part of my life ended when I moved to Nevada. The stories were from years ago, although they remain delicious to this day. Looking back, the direction he chose back then paints the mug shot of his today.

With internet connectivity, my phone blew up with texts. Okay. Okay. I had two messages, which for me is blown sky high. I’m pretty quiet. One of the messages let me know of this really bad thing that’d happened in my childhood town to someone I used to know. The other came from the most unexpected source. An old friend.

Friendship is funny like that. Some people come into our lives, bringing messages, laughter, and comfort for a time. Some stay and some disappear for days, weeks, years, or forever in either case. But then, some return. A return it was in this case.

Braveheart, she shall be called. Because, brave she is. Not many have a bigger heart. Liking her is an easy thing to do. Beautiful and willowy-tall, she becomes even taller in heels. She’s the mom to a baseball team of children and shows wisdom and grace on a daily basis. Smart, witty, compassionate, and truthful, she stepped into a very public arena for the good of others. She sacrificed much at the hands of a few. It was during those dark days our paths crossed first, and our friendship grew.

At the time, I was a teaching very ill children who were experiencing some pretty bad things on their own. Some got better. Some did not. Through all of it, I taught them, so they wouldn’t get behind in school. Over five years, the richest hours of my career were spent with my precious students. Braveheart found herself in a supporting role as a watchdog over my bosses. She did her best, anyway. It was in that group the man I used to know found himself. It was in that position, Braveheart and I weathered a ruthless storm caused by greed, power, and politics.

During those years, Braveheart was the only supervisor that joined me whenever I asked. She was the only one that sat and visited with my kiddos, as sick as they were. She cried with me. She held my hand. She helped me be strong. She taught me about grace under fire. She loved coming for visits, while bringing her brilliant smile and kind eyes. She loved my students and they loved her as much as I did.

So, you can understand that on a morning a couple days ago, when this really bad thing happened, seeing a message from her was amazing. We’d lost touch over the last few years. I filled her in on the sad events of 2020, while she filled me in on her life. It was just as if we’d never missed a day.

Both being relieved the very bad thing didn’t involve either of us, it brought back memories of things we shared. Experiences no one else would really understand. We did, because we survived that ruthless storm years ago, although a few ruffled feathers remained.

As for the troubled man I used to know. He’s Smart. Resourceful. Powerful. Resilient. Cunning. He has connections to high places. Already, he’s posted bond and the “Channel 32 News Jackals” have moved on to juicier topics. The talk will die down. Things can be made to disappear when you know how to play the game and he plays it very well. Hard to believe he was someone I used to know. However, the real truth of the matter is, I never knew anything about him at all.

Through this reunion, Braveheart and I have been sharing laughter and stories. Just like that, an Old Friendship is New again. Look through your address book and call someone you’ve lost along the way. Your voice might be the one they need to find their way back. Look for new friends, but, for heaven’s sake, don’t forget the old ones. They know all the stories. And, old stories are best shared with friends who know the endings.

While living mindfully in the moment, second guessing decisions can enhance or ruin a good thing. Trust and blind faith have strengthened me during some harrowing parts of my journey, while common sense sets me on the right path in the first place. Following one’s own True North can’t be ignored. Some truths glow so bright, they blind you from reality.

Life threatening situations often arise so quickly, there’s no time to react. Like bears attacking your tent on the shore of Skilak Lake in Alaska, or suddenly finding yourself in the belly of a whale off the coast of Massachusetts. In my case, the bear attack would be more in the realm of possibilities, although the whale scenario would definitely be more interesting.

I have a game I play from time to time that’s called, “Never Gonna Die That Way”. Over the years, it’s provided laughs as news stories become more ludicrous with every passing day. I know, without a shadow of a doubt I’m not dying in the following ways. From an outbreak of Giardia on a television show set. From being hit by a scooter in New York City. From being sucked into a stump grinder. From scaling Mt. Everest. From being swept to sea by a rogue wave in Florida. From being impaled by the bill of a swordfish. From being trampled while running with the bulls in Spain. From running into a tree while snow skiiing.

Each day, there’s usually at least one news story about an untimely death. The more bizarre the situation, the better. It’s a comfort to eliminate the cause of one’s demise, little by little.

The diver, sucked into the whale’s mouth, brings many questions to my mind, even though his story is now in doubt by some. Going for his second dive of the day, a man from Massachusetts claims he was sucked up by a whale, held there, and then spit out, living to tell the tale. Although suffering bruises, he had no broken bones and supposedly never lost consciousness.

There are some stories that are so fantastical, logical thinking keeps us from believing. If I had, indeed, spent even one second in the belly of a whale, it would be a story about rich with literary details. Describing textures, sights, and smells would be enough material for a book. Wearing oxygen, the diver could breathe, but do little else. Was he compressed? Being sucked this way and that? Just what did the whale think about the entire situation?

Of course, doctors are questioning the validity of the story, along with logical folks. There are more reasons it couldn’t have happened than reasons it did. But, strange things happen every day.

In the case of the campers mauled by bears in Alaska while tent camping, the situation was different. According to a park ranger, “It was a short, in-your-tent-attack.” Sleeping near very hungry, newly awakened bears, humans become a mere snack. The territory is theirs and theirs alone. Tent-camping imbiciles will lose every single time.

In life, people forget their common sense when venturing into the great unknown. The sheer beauty of nature lures one into an invincible state of mind. The stars and moon cloak everything in the softest black-blue shroud, while the night sounds make a wonderful lullaby, until they involve the huffing and screaming of a bear attack. No. A bear attack while tent camping in Alaska won’t fill the last page of my story. My True North may lead me to Alaska, but tent camping will not be involved.

Of course, the bizarre deaths don’t need to involve huge mammals near stunning lakes or in the depths of the sea. An untimely demise can involve plain old stupidity. Texting and walking don’t go together. Distracted walking leads to all kinds of injuries and deaths. A careful driver these days needs to watch their speedometer while predicting the direction of low-functioning pedestrians and texting motorists to the right or left. It’s a concrete jungle out there.

As everyone, I hope my last breaths are decades away. On my last day, I’ll be outside taking in fresh air while being surrounded by the flowers and trees of Winterpast. Adventures complete, it’ll be a new kind of journey, exciting and unknown. Until then, I’ll keep up with the crazy ways people exit this old world. Remember to follow a trusted guide, but, in the end, check your compass. Your own True North will never steer you wrong.

Winterpast is in full bloom. A correct watering schedule is a beautiful thing. With everything getting the correct dose, I have little plants emerging that weren’t in sight last year. In fact, remembering July and VST’s memorial, the yard is more luscious and green, now. Far more than last year. Hence, the rose blooms are here and gone, requiring the tedious but rewarding task of deadheading.

Deadheading encourages more blooms in the garden, by removing any blooms that are dead. With my scissors in hand and the trash can at the ready, I bend and snip away anything withered. The results are stunning. Last year, I wasn’t sure if the roses would ever bounce back. With a severe pruning and the correct amount of water, the results are amazing. Blooms, well shaped and intense in color, are abundant.

My dad loved roses. As a farmer, he had no extra minutes in the day. But saving minutes from each day, he tended his favorite rose garden in the front yard. He made sure the roses had the proper water, fertilizer, and insecticides. Being in the middle of the San Joaquin Valley, the soil was the richest in the world. His roses were magnificent. Every day from Spring to Fall, my mom had one fresh rose sitting in a vase by the sink. He would bring her this rose over breakfast and give her a morning kiss. Just the way it was.

His favorite rose was called a Peace Rose. This rose was the palest of yellows with a hint of pink at the base of the pedals. It had a oily rose fragrance that was rich and full. These roses were so large they could fill a dinner plate. When I moved to Winterpast and began with my own roses, I searched everywhere for a Peace Rose to add to my collection. Things change over the years, and unless I wanted to order one online, it wasn’t to be found.

Then, the strangest thing happend.

Like everything else, the roses struggled in 2020. They hadn’t been groomed, partly because I had a million other things going, like moving it. They also weren’t all getting the water they needed, because the sprinkler system needed adjustments. But, late in the summer, this one struggling rose bush was almost ready to bloom for the first time. Not really paying attention to things, when I finally noticed the variety, I was overjoyed. For there, the one little bloom told it all. It was a Peace Rose! In my very own back yard.

If you are given a miniature rose bush remember that they are as hardy as their bigger cousins. When the blooms are done, plant it outdoors. With the right water, fertilizer and care, they continue to grow.

Along with deadheading the roses, be sure to top your bulbs after they’ve finished blooming and dry back. They need to be dug up and separated every few years, for a fresh start. By doing this, your bulb stock increases and you have more flowers all over the yard. I have a beautiful crop of Iris bulbs that need to be moved. That project will be on hold for a bit, do to the latest little problem.

I have a major sprinkler line break. I started digging yesterday in the front yard. Long ago there was a lush, green lawn in the front, since replaced by white rock. Under this white rock, garden cloth, black plastic, and remnants of the sod of yesteryear, there is a major leak. With a shovel in my hand and a song in my heart, I must leave you to dig, rather like the human mole. I worked on it a few hours yesterday. Perhaps today, I’ll reach the source of the problem. Thank goodness I’ve located the break. It’s just a deep line that will take patience to unearth.

Have fun in the garden. I hope you’re lucky enough to have an apricot tree that is producing fruit. Pass the fruit and keep deadheading!

Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about lifelong values. In 65 years, they’ve served me well as a rock solid foundation. With Grandparents that were born in 1902, the beliefs values of first generation German-Russian immigrants were passed on to me. Simple beliefs and values like honesty, determination, and integrity a strong foundation for everything else to come. In my life, strength to withstand the storms has come from faith. Not a belief, but a knowing. There is such a difference between believing something is true, and knowing there is no other possibility. Without faith, I’d have given up decades ago.

Since becoming a widow, the choices in life are overwhelming at times. Remaining optimistic in the middle of the firestorm of cancer is no small challenge. Finding the courage to continue through the vicissitudes of life, I trudge on. Some days it would be easier just to pull the cover’s over my head to wait for the next. However, with morning, comes a new day and a chance to find opportunities for growth.

I’m so blessed that VST left me within the secure walls of Winterpast. While sharing adventures through our lives together, the things that mattered the most were our friendship and love for each other. We enjoyed health and wealth through the years, never forgetting to be grateful. So many times, VST would look at me and say, “If not now, when?” There wasn’t an hour to be wasted as we raced through a happy and productive life.

Many are not as fortunate to have the trifecta of Health, Wealth, and Time. Enjoying those things in retirement is truly a gift I’m so thankful for. Now, Covid has changed the ability to enjoy spontaneous travel. Every day, the freeways around my town are packed with campers and RV’s. I can only imagine the challenges these road warriors are facing with crowded conditions in the great outdoors. Turning to the big desert sky and the gardens of Winterpast, I’ve decided I’ll wait just a little while longer for travel adventures that will surely come. Besides, I have a broken sprinkler pipe to fix.

Achieving a happy life has been a journey of determination. Some days I had to fake it until I could make it. Those days will certainly come and go again. Striving the the illusion of perfection is a silly game. At the end of the day, if you can smile at the small successes, it’s been a great one. Hoping for peace, while trusting in the love and kindness of mankind, snuggle into dreams of a world we long for. Differences that seem to be tearing the world apart are not a productive focus. Love, peace, and tolerance begin with a single heart.

Days of Viral Insanity are coming to a close. Although storm-weary, there are always inspiring stories from those that carry on under the most adverse conditions. Those that struggle with physical and mental health issues. Those that have lost loved ones. Those that find themselves working diligently to find their own values and truths.

Take a few minutes each day to think about beliefs and what you know to be true. Think back to what helped you get through each day. Perhaps through the struggles of 2020, important values became clearer. They did for me. A very wise person once said, “Value what you know, and you’ll know what to value.”

Time is a most precious gift. Given 24 hours each day, they’re a perishable commodity, taking me the pages of my life’s story. Minutes to sleep or work, read or watch television, walk or rest under the shade of the apricot tree. Time marches on, no matter the chosen activity.

Through my life, the worst thing I could imagine was not making each minute become a product of my intentions. VST was of the same mindset. An un-aimed arrow always hits its mark. So, I’d make a bullseye of goals, ready for completion. One by one I’d finish each, crossing them off my list. By the end of the day, the feeling of accomplishment was satisfying, if nothing else.

When I first moved to Winterpast, there was no choice in the matter. I needed to work as hard and fast as I could to get settled in. There wasn’t anyone else to do the things necessary to make a home. Just me. Some days, there wasn’t even time to breathe, let along find enjoyment. Preparing for a Memorial in July 2020, it was a race to the finish.

My lists were long, including all forms of unpacking, cleaning, organizing, planning, and contacts. Time was allotted for grief and rest, because anyone that’s been hit by a Mack Truck needs time to recuperate from gut wrenching devastation. Cancer is no less than that. Through the days, things came together as planned.

These days, my life is a bit different. I schedule in categories instead of by minutes. Making sure there’s time for spiritual, physical, and emotional health, my time is split equally between household tasks, gardening, and necessary outings. By dividing my time in this way, life is a balanced ballet, while I roll forward. When things are going pretty well, I can add another spoke to the tire. Lately, I’ve been sprinkling the entire experience with love, friendship, success, and lots of fun.

My God-Mom, being so very wise, told me long ago of the importance of practicing lazy. A valuable truth. Months ago, if an hour was spent doing nothing, I felt terribly guilty and unproductive. I SHOULD have something to show for every waking moment. However, an hour of meditation or napping IS something very important for the mind and body. I’ve been working on relaxation techniques and the hot tub has been helpful in that regard.

Sky watching has become one of my favorite hobbies. Being under the jet stream between East and West, as well as being near a huge US Naval Airport, the jets and their fluffy trails crisscross the sky right over my hot tub. Clouds, puffy and white, blow this way and that, showing me wind direction and speed. The sun makes its daily trail from my right to my left as I sit facing, as I face True North. The day time sky is as fascinating as the night, both mesmerizing.

Add in the daily activities of the bird families happily creating more of their own, and there’s an entire show going on right in my own back yard. One thing missing here at Winterpast are stray mammals. Random cat visits are non-existent thanks to a healthy coyote population. There are no opossums or skunks that make it over or under the white plastic fencing. A random hawk will take out a dove or robin, leaving the murder scene covered with feathers. But, that’s about the height of the mammalian drama in these parts.

I do long for travel, but that will need to wait. Doggy Day Camp is full, with no room at the Inn until after August. Oliver and I need to make the best of it and enjoy the daily routine that we enjoy. Summer camp is in fully swing with the summer solstice in two days. With Autumnal Equinox in 96 days, the extreme summer heat won’t last forever. Thank goodness.

I’m happy to report it seems Oliver is finally finished eating plastic. At least for now. The number of small lights on my pathway are holding steady. The drip system no longer under attack, Oliver is now focused intently on the ripening apricots. This is the new worry of the day, as apricot pits can be harmful to dogs. Well, plastic pathway lighting isn’t part of the normal canine diet, either. He waits by the back door each morning ready to hunt for fallen fruit. I sneak out before him to clear them away. We’re both enjoying our fair amount.

Sometimes my allotted lazy time is eaten up by tiny little disasters. Happily, I report that I’ve located the sprinkler line leak. In a major line for my drip system, it was buried 18 inches below the surface, probably leaking for a very, very long time. Now exposed, I’m going to try taping the crack with electrical tape until I can get someone to come fix it. A hack I found on the internet, it sounds brilliant. I will keep you updated on the success or fail.

Someday, it won’t be necessary to schedule my life in this way. Eventually the journey will carry me along, balanced in a little boat of happiness. For now, paying attention to the individual parts of my life is helping things run smoothly. Remember, time is a terrible thing to waste.

Summer Solstice Eve has arrived with a flare, as in solar. The heat is on. Waking early, I’ve been gardening before the sun becomes to intense. Oliver’s outdoor antics have become very short. He loves going outside to harass the birds and patrol for a wayward toad, but after a few minutes, he’s begging to come back inside.

Extreme weather calls for preparation for the “What If’s”. Winterpast heats up quickly when the air conditioning is off. With a power outage, a rapid drop in my comfort level would follow. For this possibility, I’ve been planning.

Household refrigerator/freezers these days are pretty amazing and can stay cold for hours during a power outage. A spray bottle of water is a nifty tool to stay cool. Wet washrags can help, also. Find some shade and mist away until things return to normal.

Covid has shown us all how quickly panic buying can change the landscape of our town. Now, the gas tank on my Jeep is never below half full. Non-perishables are stored in the garage, including extra water. My pantry is inventoried, with an array of meal possibilities that could be prepared on a small propane BBQ. Outside of those things, there isn’t much more one can do.

The other day, a News Jackal was reporting about the weather in my old home town in the San Joaquin Valley of California. This valley was a desert before irrigation. After irrigation, it became the bread basket of the world. Everything grows there. From kiwi’s to garlic, it’s possible to grow anything your heart desires. This reporter, who was too young to remember 1990, reported all activities for the area were cancelled due to the extreme heat. Shake my head in wonder.

As a child, nothing was cancelled. From Memorial Day to Thanksgiving, there was one temperature. Hot. Night temperatures often hovered in the high 80’s to low 90’s. It never cooled off and nothing stopped. Football practice was a 4:00 PM during the summer months. Kids didn’t fall down dead. They drank lots of water and carried on. Tractors didn’t have cabs, but tilling continued. Farmers farmed and children played. None of us ever died from the heat.

The News Jackal went on to report the day’s temperature of 110 would be the hottest in history. Hmmm. Not sure about that. The July day my son was born in a town 45 minutes south of mine, the temperature was 115. Friends and family were so envious that I was in a chilly hospital with my warm little bundle. They all encouraged me to stay there as long as I could because of the heat wave. The Central Valley of California is hot. Period.

These days, people seem so fragile. You can’t be in the sun without sun screen. Forget the fact that when you’re in the sun, your body produces your very on Vitamin D in the correct amounts. Hmmmm. Vitamin D is a deterrent to the virus, if I’m not mistaken. You can’t be in the heat. Stay out of the cold. We’ve all become hermits surviving in artificial habitats of 70-something degrees. Believe me, if I could live in 70 degree weather for the entire year, I’d be so happy. But nature is a wonderful place to hang out in any weather.

Take some time to make a plan if the power grid in your area goes down. Crazier things have happened. Stock up for your pet, giving consideration to their needs. Remember that walks on hot pavement can burn paws badly. Oliver, being white, can sunburn. Yes, doggie sunburn is a thing. His outside water gets very hot by mid day, here in the desert. Be sure to provide shade and fresh water if your furry friend lives outside, where dogs lived my entire childhood.

Even though upcoming days may find us with inconveniences, focus on the wonderful things we do have. Get out and have a blue-sky kind of day. Forget about the hand wrenching News Jackals. Let’s hope they get out for some fresh air, too. They need it.

And on the eighth day, God looked down on his planned paradise, and said, “I need a caretaker.” So God made a farmer. And through the years, young boys became men and those men became farmers. VST became one of those strong, brave men to farm. I was lucky enough to be the farmer girl that stood by his side caring for our 40 acre vineyard for 6,385 days.

God said, “I need someone willing to get up well before dawn, repair a tractor, work all day at a real job, race home, eat supper and then pull a disc a past midnight to get ready for irrigation water.” So God made a farmer. In his infinite wisdom, knowing the farmer needed help with the more delicate matters in life, he made his wife. Because her muscles could not perform heavy tasks, (even though she wanted to believe she could), he created this wife to prepare delicious meals, launder the clothes, grow the garden, pay the bills, help kids with their homework, and order supplies, while waiting up for him on very long nights as he worked on. She provided optimism and encouragement during the darkest of storms, when his muscles were so tired, he thought surely couldn’t go on. Yin and yang- opposite forces gave rise to each other as they interrelated. Together, a force to be reckoned with.

God said, ” I need somebody willing to sit up on a September night with a year’s crop of raisins on the ground while holding onto his weeping wife while saying, ‘Maybe next year.’ I need somebody who can shape a knife blade from an old piece of metal, fix a spray-rig with duct tape, or weld a raisin shaker out of scrap and discarded parts. One who’ll finish his 40 hour week by Tuesday noon, and then, painin’ from ‘tractor back’, put in another 72 hours.” So God made a farmer. He made his wife to irrigate in 105 degree weather, while walking down a dusty avenue kicking up dirt as fine as cake flour. A wife that could chop weeds with the best of hired hands, because they couldn’t afford one. A wife that was all in, all the time.

God said, “I need somebody strong enough to repair the broken-down fork-lift and move raisin bins, yet gentle enough to teach his sweet daughter to drive and his young sons how to become men. To care for the vineyard’s tendrils of spring, the growing bunches of summer, and the drying grapes of autumn. A man who would stop the word for an hour to sit on the porch and laugh with his mom and dad.” So God made a farmer. He made his wife to bake the best apple pies and have dinner ready at 6 PM sharp. A wife that could work the fields along side him, but also join him for a Waikiki sunset surrounded by his arms. A wife that could stand up to nature along side him, while they accepted everything thrown their way.

It had to be somebody who’d plow deep and straight and not cut corners. Somebody to seed, weed, feed, build, repair, disk, plow, and plant, while laying down the grapes to deliver a raisin crop. Someone smart enough to be a doctor, and wise enough to know what he didn’t know. Someone who loved ice cream anywhere and any time. Somebody who’d bale a family together with the tender yet strong bonds of sharing and love. Who’d laugh, and then sigh, while replying with smiling eyes to his God who was so proud. Standing tall, this farmer and his wife loved God, Family, Country, Neighbors, and each other. God made a wife that was just for him and he for her. God made quite a fine man. God made a farmer.

****Together, we farmed our little spot of paradise on earth for seventeen years. I’m grateful that God let us.

For everything obvious, and things not so obvious, be thankful there are men and women that work physically and mentally challenging jobs every single day as farmers. Without those that toil in the heat and till the soil, life would be much different for all of us. Happy Father’s Day to all the wonderful Dads out there!

PS–Eat Raisins. Nature’s best sweet treat. Thank a farmer!!!!

Yesterday, I woke to the normal darkness that is 5 AM. After getting my coffee, feeding Oliver, and completing my daily blog, I went outside to tend to the gardens of Winterpast. Just when I think there are no weeds, here they come, fast and furious.

I pulled them both out.

Watering, while snipping this and cutting that, I decided it would be a great day to visit another local church. Being alone in a strange town is not for the faint of heart. With Miss Firecrackers advice, I’ve joined The Red Hat Society, but the local chapter has yet to phone. With a real need to build a community of friends, I went inside to prepare for my visit to the local Catholic Church. Deciding it would be most appropriate, I wore a cute floral sundress with sandals. I even ditched the fanny pack, taking a purse instead.

The drive up to the church was quite impressive. On the side of a mountain, the structure is ten years old, with the main chapel and classrooms designed to showcase the surrounding mountains. Thirty foot ceilings made the interior of the church grand. Floor to ceiling windows behind the alter filtered beautiful light into the sanctuary, blue sky Nevada as the backdrop. Everything was crisp, clean, and new.

A gentleman at the front of the church was reciting the rosary with a few parishioners.

When I entered, I noticed no greeter or even a single person to notice that I was new. Asking if there was a program, the gentleman at the door looked at me as if I was from another planet and thrust a paperback book into my hands. I went to sit towards the back of the church. It was then I realized that church this might not fill my spiritual needs.

The entire service was scripted in this little book. Yesterday’s service, as well as those for three months. It was as if I was teaching 3rd grade again, with scripted lessons that needed to be delivered precisely as written, day, after day, after day, without any deviation. All the words to be delivered were pre-planned, and I could just envision an entire country with every Catholic priest delivering the same exact prayers and sermons at the same time. Orchestrated religion.

The priest himself had one simple problem. Being an Indian man from India, he had a thick accent. So thick that I could only understand every third word. I was so thankful for the book I’d been given. This man was a good man. A man of the cloth. Kind. Sincere. Observant of visitors in the pews that morning. But, I need to be able to understand the message delivered.

He spoke of Job, and every few minutes used the phrase, “Let me make this simple for you.” A strange phrase to add, when all I wanted was understand the message through his heavy accent. Continuing on about the necessity of severe pain and suffering in life, the focus of the message was heavy. Searching for a place of hope and healing, his message, although full of truth, wasn’t something especially helpful in my situation. Listening, bricks were added, one by one, to my already sagging shoulders.

Strange as it seemed, an offering wasn’t asked for or collected. However, the priest WAS collecting money to send to an Indian community ravaged by Covid. All very confusing, considering our own community has fallen on very hard times, as well. Elderly veterans living alone, homeless people, and hungry children struggle right in my town. No mention of them.

All in all, it was a beautiful morning. Two guitar players shared their talents. A spiritually uplifting building full of very quiet guests provided a place to pray and reflect on God’s blessings, so numerous and beautiful.

A mask-less communion seemed tone deaf, in spite of the ravages of a virus from which we just now heal. I cringed as the gloveless priest handed each parishioner a broken piece of an unwrapped wafer. People waited in a line of 100, one after the other. Not being Catholic, my participation wasn’t allowed. Grateful, I took the time to pray for everyone’s safety.

A search for a little spot of community will continue. I didn’t find a personal sense of family today in my visit to a very beautiful church in the desert, but a visit with God is wonderful in any situation. I hope the Priest finds help for his hometown village in India, but with limited funds, I need to support my own community.

Such was a Sunday in the hottest little place in the Northwestern Nevada Desert that I call home. Gardening awaits. It’s going to be a scorcher today.

People are the most interesting subjects to watch. Truly fascinating, some of the more colorful characters live in the same wide spot in the road as me. Scary to think we’d have anything in common, let alone our choice of home town. I hope the similarities stop there, because there are some mighty interesting dudes around these parts. Last weekend, Joan I  returned after Oliver’s grooming and our little visit to the gun range. Zigging this way and zagging that back to Winterpast, we were slowly approaching our last sharp right turn. To our left was the most interesting sight. The houses on that side of the street sit high above the road with extremely steep driveways. At the bottom of their steep properties, there runs a fairly deep drainage ditch. With frequent flash floods throughout the year, the ditches help prevent flooding. Wedged into the bottom of the ditch was a newish SUV, grey in color. Pointing hood up, bumper down, it seemed pretty obvious what’d happened. The car had rolled off the top of the hill, slamming down and coming to a violent stop in the ditch. Next to the car stood a heavily tattooed 20-something boy with a man-bun. This short clad boy was on the phone to the man of the house, his dad. At 20 years of age, every one of our five children were no longer boys and girls, but adulting and doing quite well at it. Today, things are different. Distraught and confused, he was deep in a conversation we overheard, now that our windows were open as we drove past him at a snails pace. “Daaaaaahhhhhhhhdddd, what do you want me to do? Tell me right now! WHAT DO I DO????” There are times in life that one must look to the heavens with a grateful “Thank-You” that some problems are not ours. This falls into that category. His Daaaaahhhhhhhhdddd deserved a very nice Father’s Day, but something tells me this kid has lots more grief to give before he launches. Perhaps a lesson about the different gears in a transmission and what the “N” represents might be in order. Because, most likely, he left the car in “N” instead of “P”, leaving him in this conundrum. No doubt, he’d need to look that word up on his phone, not owning his own Funk and Wagnalls. It appeared the car was driven to the top of the hill. Perhaps still in neutral, the car rolled off the hill and slammed into the ditch. By this time, we’d used up our neighborly amount of time staring at the wreckage, so we made our right turn and proceeded home. Without a tow truck at the ready, we could be of no help to this poor lost boy. Later that evening, I felt like an ice cream sandwich from the local gas station. Jumping in the car, we raced to the Chill and Grill Jiffy Stop off 85B. It was especially busy for an early evening, but it was the group of friends parked just outside the front door that caught our eye. They were three together, with one car that didn’t run. One man, two girls and a pair of jumper cables. It was obvious from the moment we arrived who was in charge. SHE took command of the entire situation, calm, cool, and collected while wielding her jumper cables. Knowing where to connect the positive and negative charges, SHE was familiar with the workings of a battery. Another friend pulled in with a donor car and the two hoods were placed in the up position. Now they were four, one car running, one not. The young woman in command, also was in control of all eyeballs at the station. I think people were going back to fill gas a second time just to sneak a peak. I, already being in the store by the ice cream freezer next to the window, had a front row view. It took him longer than normal to make my ice cream selection. You see, this woman was wearing swim wear, not of the normal type. For the longest time, swim wear has been getting skimpier and skimpier. In my childhood, it was forbidden for women to show their naval in movies. As the years passed, it didn’t seem anything could get smaller than the Brazilian thong string bikini. But, our “Cable-ette” with her mechanical knowledge had gone one step further. Her bathing suit covered the front only. Just tiny strips of torn fabric went across the lower back. Plenty of space in between them. Nothing else. The front was torn strips that strategically covered important areas. This was her bathing suit. A vertical maze of torn fabric that obscured nothing from the rear, including the rear in its entirety. Like a torn t-shirt retrieved from a lawn mower accident, this suit covered very little, quite possibly having been designed by Edward Scissorhands. Oh My. She WAS in charge of the jumper cables. She certainly knew what to do with them. After two such entertaining episodes, I realize that trips out to various parking lots in my little town are in order. Forget evening television shows that I used to find amusing. My town is far more interesting than those. These are richly diverse and outlandish people that dance to tunes I’m unfamiliar with. I plan to investigate this new type of bathing suit, although I prefer a little more modest version when hot tubbing. These days, I continue to check the “P” for Park and set the brake before exiting my vehicle. Things work out a little better that way. Having no DAAAAHHHHDDDD to call for answers, avoiding the problem in the first place seems prudent. Happy People Watching.

This has been a crazy week. With the full moon shining down on my little piece of heaven, things have been hopping. Tuesday was especially crazy.

During the morning hours, many things happened. A Landscape Architect stopped by to give me an estimate on the front yard. The loyal and realistic gardener arrived to fix the sprinkler line once and for all. $40 later, it was obvious he’d need to return on another day for more digging. The old line continued to crack with every repair he made.

A ringing doorbell announced the Fed Ex delivery of meat right to my front door. Steaks in a white ice chest of deliciousness had arrived a day early. The morning was rolling along, busier than most around my retirement haven.

Then, the phone call of all phone calls came in the middle of this flurry of activity. The dentist had an opening. Would I like to repair my crown at 2:50PM? This was the call for which I’d been waiting. Finally, my 20 year old gold crown, the last of its kind, would be replaced. At least the process would begin. This brought both optimism and dread because at some point, the tooth WILL fail. It’s a given. I hoped for one more save at the hands of a skilled dentist, only 30 miles away.

My teeth are a disasterous fail. VST always joked that he should’ve examined my teeth before marriage. It’s true. Born with very poor teeth, they’ve taken me on a carnival ride through the worst hairy-fingered dental hacks known to human-kind. All teeth have received multiple crowns. They’re short timers now, like me. Old.

It amuses me when people recommend their dentist. My first question is this. How many hours have you sat being drilled, filled, capped, polished, straightened, or extracted? If it isn’t well over 50 hours, you don’t know. So the office has the cutest pictures on the walls, or a beautiful fireplace and leather chairs. So the dentist has a computer and 3-D printer that spits out a crown while you wait. So what??? Is your dentist competent???????

My last dentist had that very expensive office. Soothing music floated through halls. With 20 foot ceilings throughout the brand new building, original art adorned every wall. Every employee was trim, tanned and perfectly model like. The chairs were the newest and most comfortable. Headsets for music were offered while your dental service was completed. A computer generated a beautiful crown while I waited 4.5 hours in the chair. All in all, the experience was perfection for the mouth and teeth. OR SO I LET MYSELF BELIEVE.

The little office I’d be visiting this time was different. It was a dental office with no artwork on the walls. The floor tiles betrayed any fleck of dust, utilitarian and white. A big office, the clientele were desert folk. Coming for many different reasons, they needed a dentist that would fix what was broken. There was no Keurig machine on the counter with everything from hot chai to hot chocolate. Nope. This was a PODO. Plain Old Dental Office.

Now, let’s get this straight. I don’t fear anything dental. Being knowledgeable after hours of treatment, I can read x-rays with the best of them. My concern was that the gold jacketed tooth would need pulling and and medication might compromise my drive home. I’d deal with it if the need arose.

Once settled into the extremely clean, modern, and functional treatment room, the fun began. A digital x-ray of both the gold crown and the computer generated beauty were displayed on the wall. Side by side, the old technology and the new. There was one glaring defect staring me in the face. Between the two teeth, there was trouble brewing. It was an obvious problem, easily identifiable. Either decay or a fracture was visible.

Dr. Mike finally appeared in the doorway. Adorably dental doctor-ish, he was ready to rock and roll. After a painless shot, we were on our way to done, until we ran aground.

After drilling for seconds, the assistant stopped him. He was drilling the very expensive, computerized tooth. Removing it, actually. The defect on the x-ray was decay under the improperly formed $2500 computer generated crown. The crown hadn’t covered the tooth’s surface properly. It was a fail before I ever rose from the very expensive dental chair five years ago. A computer is only as precise as the man running it. Obviously, Dr. Dimwit hadn’t practiced enough, because he generated a defective crown for me.

As a patient, learning that the dentist is drilling on the wrong tooth is a chilling event. This happened to me once before when I was 28, and it now it was happening again. I was there to repair the worn out 20 year old gold crown. Not my beautiful new computer generated marvel, now unrepairable.

“I came in to replace the worn and torn gold crown,” I stated.

“But this one has failed and you have decay underneath,” he defended.

“I signed an agreement to replace the gold crown,” I repeated.

“Hmmmmmm. Well, then. I guess today you get two for the price of one,” he said, solving the problem.

More wonderful words were never spoken! Just like that, this dental genius became my hero. If I couldn’t have seen or read the x-ray, I might’ve felt differently. But, the decay under the computerized crown was so obvious. He was right, it needed repairing immediately.

Of course, the procedure was not without added fun and frivolity. There just wasn’t a lot to work with considering how many times these two crowns have been replaced through the years. I got to see pictures of the active decay and pictures after the decay was removed. Dental impressions were made and gum tissue burned away. Nothing like BBQ in your own mouth. All in all, just more procedures added to my list of dental experiences.

Two hours later, I was done. Dental work is a strange experience. Although you feel the same, your mouth doesn’t respond in the fashion it should. With lip and tongue drooping to the side, I drove myself home.

To Dr. Mike’s credit, I did get two crowns for the price of one, fairly priced from the beginning. With temporaries and pain meds, I returned to Winterpast, exhausted.

The moral of the story is this. Pay attention to every service hired. Medical. Dental. Automotive. Even the Beauty Shop. These days, you need to be the Dentist, as well as the gardener, landscape artist, and chef. You need to be in the know, or else, you won’t be when the wrong tooth is prepared for a new crown.

Do I blame the dentist? No. He looked up , saw the serious defect, and got to work. When he saw his mistake made with the best intentions, he made the situation right. With the cleanest and most modern dental techniques, I’ll return to Dr. Mike. Fireplaces, leather chairs, and expensive artwork don’t qualify someone as a good dentist. Caring for patients, while working through unplanned detours, does.

“Home-owning” isn’t a static situation, but wildly fluid. In my case, literally fluid. Just when you sit down to enjoy a cuppa coffee, a septic pump blows or a pipe bursts. Every day with no breakage is a winner!

Enjoying my coffee on Tuesday morning while thinking about possibilities for the front yard, the perfect visitor knocked. The Landscape Architect arrived to give an estimate right on time for his pre-planned visit.

Now, some things should be obvious. Unless you own a mansion in the Hills of Beverly, the skills of a Landscape Architect might be a bit much. In my town, this is certainly true. As houses sell in my little neighborhood, young families move in. Busy young families, dreams overflowing, don’t have time to fret over yardwork. Face it. Keeping a landscaped area looking beautiful is hard work. Slowly, yards around me are reverting back to a natural state of weeds and sagebrush.

Retired, with nothing to do but garden, the elders of the neighborhood continue to weed, mow, fertilize, clip, chop, trim, and dig. My front yard was overgrown with junipers. Being difficult to even see the front door, they were removed. Everything lays in an arrested state of decay, awaiting the execution of a plan.

Years ago, a beautiful lawn grew in the front yard. Sprinkler pipe lay empty under the area, waiting for the day lawn will again grow. Surely possible. Stenotaphrum secundatum, Poa pratensis, or Cynodon dactylon, all deeply rich in color, would contrast beautifully against the harsh desert landscape and Nevada’s big blue sky. However, horses love lush lawn. Horses poop. A lot. My water consumption is high enough already. One solution, although not cheap, would be Engineered Poaceae. In other words, fake lawn.

These days, artificial turf has come a very long way. A variety of blades in various stages of growth and decay add to the illusion. After careful investigation, this product sells for $61 a foot, or more. Installation requires proper preparation. A 15′ x 40′ patch of green in front of Winterpast would add a kick to the neighborhood, which suffers from bland-itis with yard after yard of rock. Brown rock. White rock. Grey rock. Big or little. Rough or smooth. Any kind of rock you can imagine lines my street from East to West. I want green. Year round.

The architect, clipboard in hand, followed me from want to wish to dream. Explaining little things I’d like completed, his pencil flew across the page. It was quite a list when we were finished. Finally having a vision, he promised a prepared estimate within hours. Leaving me with a picture in my head and a song in my heart, I returned inside to finish my coffee wondering how much this would set me back

“$5,000 – $8,000 was my guess and as stickin’ to it.

Now, there was no way I’d pay that much. Simply eliminating tasks one by one, I’d trim that bill down to a respectable amount not a penny over $5,000. Green is the new Happy! Returning to the gardens of Winterpast, I continued assembling the new fountain.

Later that day, I received a phone call from the Landscaping Engineer. The estimate was complete and ready for e-mail consideration. I understood once it arrived. They couldn’t bear to hear the uproariously laughter that followed. Clearly, my yard would remain lost in the sea of rock that is my street. No lush green carpet of plastic would replace the perfectly great white rock (current cost — $0) covering the formally lawn-covered yard.

$21,000.”

Autumn is a great time to play in the front yard. Tote that white rock, I can, while preparing the spot. $3,000 is the new budget. With some decomposed granite and my gardener’s help, that will work.

Note To Self—– Landscape Architects are for the Hills of Beverly. Not for the Beverly Hillbillies. Yee Haw! Have a wonderful day.

Plenty of lemonade, no AC.

The air conditioning unit, the finest of heavenly inventions, died at 12:03 PM yesterday. With the help of a box fan, the house temperature hovered at 80 degrees last night. Of course, this would happen on a Friday when repair shops close for the weekend. Murphy’s Law at work.

Comforting it is to know this problem will cost me a flat $75, thanks to my home warranty. The problem must be fixed, and if it can’t be, the unit must be replaced. So, I can easily wait out a weekend. After all, it’s summer in the desert and AC repair people are in high season. Patience. Patience. Patience.

Today will be a day filled with misting, full speed fans, and naps. A good day to watch some movies and lay low. Ace has the knowledge, tools, license, and Freon to help me out, but he has weekend clients. As soon as he is finished, he’ll come to the rescue, if a repair shop hasn’t contacted me by then.

To compound the matter, Oliver is not feeling his best. Not sure of his issues, but we’ll visit his vet on Monday if he isn’t feeling better. It could have to do with his sneaky ingestion of apricots and their pits. But there are other indicators it could be even more serious.

Oliver is such a strange little creature. He’s so very intelligent, having spatial awareness. He knows the world is in three dimensions. He will sit under the apricot tree gazing at fruit yet to fall, contemplating the best way to get into the tree. He knows the countertops in the house are rich with everything yummy. He never forgets what he’s seen, having a photographic memory. If there is a crumb of food anywhere, he won’t stop until he finds it. He would make a great working dog, as his energy is as limitless, unless he is not feeling his best.

When Oliver came to live with us, VST and I were in the midst of RVing. Oliver was housetrained on the road. He is the only dog I’ve ever met that uses only pee-pads. Yes. I have lawn, but he’s just learning what that’s for. Being neutered at a young age, he never began to lift his leg. He’s a squatter. One benefit of pee pad exclusivity is that I know what comes out of Oliver. In the last week, the amount of liquid has been increasing.

Along with that, strange new spots are growing on his abdomen. Tan in color, they are flat, brown spots. Rather like the age spot on my arm. These could be absolutely nothing, or they could be the sign of something very serious, common in dachshunds. Hyperpigmentation. Two kinds exist. Primary and secondary. If primary, it could be a symptom of many troubling issues, with no cure.

The internet, vast with information on every subject, is not a place to sit and read about your furry friend and possible illnesses. Especially when said friend is peeing more frequently, while restlessly looking into your eyes. Dachshunds are prone to many health issues, but this is a new one I hadn’t heard about. I’ll be emailing his breeder to get his thoughts on the matter.

With that, I bid you “Farewell” this morning. I need to retrieve more fans from the barn and get this air moving. Expecting 100 degrees, today. I love the desert. Patience. I love the desert. Patience. I love the desert. Patience. Etc. Etc. Etc.

The biggest story around here all started on Friday, June 25 at 4 PM when the air conditioner stopped. One can’t fully appreciate the desert until the AC dies. When even your spice cabinet is at 90 degrees, things become desperate. No Worries!!!!!!! So brilliant I have been to buy a home warranty policy. Right?????????

And so the story begins.

For all the years of home owning, I’ve had a home warranty. The best “home warranty” I had all those years wore the pants in the family. VST was magical in his repair skills. He never really knew how sexy that was! With his southern drawl (unknown origin, as he was a California boy), he would simply look at the problem and think awhile. Retreating to the shop, he would come out with exactly the perfect tools and supplies and within a very short time, any problem was fixed perfectly. A real-life hero in overalls.

In his life, VST reroofed many houses to code, rewired several houses, jacked things up, made things straight, plumbed jammed toilets, and made things beautiful. He never threw tools or cussed. He just spent time analyzing and fixing. In 33 years together, we never called “The Guy” to fix anything. VST WAS the guy.

One of his talents was Air Conditioning Repair. He had a license, Freon, gauges and hoses, and the knowledge. If VST had been here through this nightmare, he would have known what to do. I’m sure he is in heaven discussing the problem with Baily’s and Cream. They would have fixed me up in a heartbeat. Yes, Miss Firecracker and I were lucky in that way. Two fix-it guys supreme.

Well, VST isn’t here. I am. I’m alone. No matter who drops by or calls to check in, all this stuff is on me now. Another widow understands what I mean while others can’t begin to know what this is like. Women alone are on constant alert, as jackals are hiding everywhere, just waiting for a misstep. Again, widows, you get what I’m saying. We must use our “Girl Power” to stay strong!

A home warranty has given me the sense of safety that someone will come riding up to the rescue in a big, shiny repair truck, eager to fix the broken. For the first time in my life, the home warranty company left me in the dust to figure this out on my own. I have yet to deal with them, but to call them worthless would be putting them above their place in life. The underside of lying cheating scum is more like it. With absolutely no help from them, I began to sweat mentally. The AC is the most expensive home appliance we own. Mine was broken.

After waiting four days for the home warranty company to flake out as they promised from the trees of India that they were diligently looking for help, I took matters into my own hands. For $129, I had a diagnosis. My AC was dying. Not from a lack of freon. That would have been easy. From internal decay. Old Age. 17 years of desert life. The gig was up. Electrical hints never lie. Now things were getting fun.

To add insult to injury, with the flick of a tripped breaker, the AC roared to its last days of life. But, the writing was on the wall. Its useful days are unknown. Could go out again tomorrow, for good, or could last another year or two. As the lights dimmed every time it started up, I knew he was being truthful.

As the technician put away his gauges he gave me the hard truth.

“Ma’am, the entire AC unit needs to be replaced. It’s failing. Ball Park estimate — $12,000 to $13,000.”

From there, I don’t remember anything else he said. I pushed the $129 at him and told him I wouldn’t be doing that.

HAHAHAHAHAHA

STUPID WOMAN. What else could I do????????? Live in a 90 degree house every summer? I made a difficult call to eat my words and accept my new reality.

With a bit of “Let’s Make A Deal”, and a flash of the “Widowed Senior Citizen” card through a tear, I got the price down to $10,500. Still a heart stopper, but in today’s world, a fair price. No wonder the home warranty crew were never going to get back to me. They don’t replace items for old age. And, really, I can’t blame them.

A week later, on the hottest day so far, two wonderful young men drove up in the morning and left a little before 5 PM. Skilled, polite, and adorably Grandson-aged, they removed the old and put in the new. Such a class act. VST would’ve approved, if it was necessary to hire “The Guys”.

My heart palpitations are clearing up now. Nothing like writing a check of that size to wake a person up.

I definitely won’t be going on a cruise for Christmas, or any other time until I recover from the AC episode.

That’s the story of the day from the high desert of North Western Nevada. Remember to service your AC units and pray to the heavens they run for one more day. Stay cool!!!

Just when things were at a pretty warm spot with AC problems, up bubbled the sewage in my front yard. AGAIN. July 3, 2021. High Noon with temperatures hovering around 95. Nothing like scents from the dark side to brighten ones day when all I wanted to do was retrieve my mail. There it was. A pool of liquid in the front yard, thanks to a failed sewage lift pump. Not every home is lucky enough to have one, because, quite frankly sewage runs downhill. If planned properly, there is no need for such a device. If your house is lower than the main trunk of the sewer line, you are a lucky duck to have one in your yard, like me.

I rode this pony just a few months ago, so I knew what to do. I had the “insider” direct phone number to call. It wasn’t a home owner problem at all, but the City’s problem. They’d come to the rescue faster than a speeding bullet and right the sinking ship that Winterpast was becoming.

Upon entering the house, fright and panic again stirred in the pit of my gut. No matter who thinks otherwise, a widow is ALONE. After 32 years of not being ALONE, it’s a new obstacle to overcome. Sewage can’t be ignored for some other day. Saved from my past experience, I’d call the secret number given to me by a neighbor to get this fixed, Pronto. Special powers aren’t only for Super Heroes, but for very strong women that can create another person while magically making a house into a lovely home. She who can solve Common Core math problems after creating a nutritious dinner. She who can run a home like clockwork, after hours working in her chosen profession. And, she who keeps good records of WHO to call when the sewer pump breaks.

My city’s website held information, as well. “In Case of Sewage Emergency, phone Sheriff Dispatch”. In black and white, there it was. Call Sheriff Dispatch. Even better. They’d arrive with flashing lights and sirens blaring. Nice!!! With a trusty cell-phone, I was on it.

“Hello. I would like to report raw sewage in my front yard. I need a technician to come ASAP.”

“You’re calling the Sheriff’s Dispatch. Don’t call this number for this type of problem,” the cold hearted little girl hissed back at me.

Now there was a problem, alright. It had just turned into hers.

“The City Website instructed me to call THIS number, H-O-N-E-Y.”

Ponytail.

A dear, dear, dear friend and I are politically incorrect at times. We enjoy being politically incorrect. A Lot!!!! She came up with the name “Pony Tail”. Having now been nick-named a “Karen” by many who aren’t, I have the right to sling back the term “Pony Tail”. A sing-song-y opinionated young female that has the world by the balls in her little realm of useless knowledge. I was speaking with a “Pony Tail” Dispatcher. I’d need to set her arrow straight on this.

“You need to report this to the Public Works Department, H-O-N-E-Y. I’m sure you have their number. This is a CITY health issue. Raw sewage is bubbling in my front yard. Read the Public Works website.”

She wasn’t amused.

“I will report it, but, NO ONE will come. They’re off today.”

Hanging up the phone, terror clawed at me as I tried to find my faith. It was a crap shoot. They might come, and they might not. The bottom line, realized again and again. I AM TRULY, 100% ALONE. I can cry, stomp, curse, rant and rave with no one to see but Oliver. At least he promises to keep my secrets. All I could do was wait.

Faster than a speeding bullet! More powerful than a locomotive! Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound! My City Public Works department rolled up within 20 minutes. No sirens, but there was an amber strobe on the top of the truck.

“What’s the trouble, Ma’am?” “Okie Dokie!!” “We will fix you up with a brand new pump!” In less than 30 minutes they had dug, sucked, pumped, lifted, replaced, and sanitized. The sewage problem was repaired before the clock struck 2 PM. Those guys are unsung heroes.

Bottom line here. When you live ALONE, don’t let the “Pony Tail” get you down. Stand your ground. Widows are a force to be reckoned with. Sage Crones of Senior Citizen Status have earned our stripes the hard way.

I do plan to mess with her a bit. Today I’m going to call the Dispatch headquarters to have a chat with the supervisor.

“A young woman was working Saturday at Noon. She took my call. I have something to say about her service.”

Pause. I know what you’re thinking I’ll say.

Surprise.

“She was efficient and did her job so well. Help arrived quickly because of her. As her supervisor, I wanted you to know she saved the day. Thank her for me.”

“Pony Tails” need love, too. Some day, she’ll turn into a “Karen” standing over a puddle of sludge, just like me. She’ll know true terror. Then, she’ll understand.

The journey towards a September 1, 2021 publishing date began with a first step this week. ISBN# 979E8533J533H106. The number above identifies my 1st book from now into eternity. Plain and simple, that number is the International Standard Book Number (ISBN#) found with a bar code on the back cover of any modern paperback. Learning to publish is my #1 bucket list item being realized.

Deciding to self-publish was an easy for me, discovering the process is one of following steps toward a finished product. With the push of a button, the computer does the hard work of assembling information into book form for purchase. So far, the entire dream of blogging and publishing has been free. Every bit. Organization, editing, proofing, and more proofing of the material now begins. My book will join tens of thousands of others for sale on Kindle and Amazon. Only the best work rises to the top, so others will need to make room.

Watching a webinar yesterday by L.J. Ross, (a very successful author), I took her words to heart. We are our own worst critics. There are winners and losers. It’s just as easy to join the winning side as the losing. Winners never quit. They may fall down and skin a knee, but they slap a bandaid on, get up, dust off, and keep going. I plan to be on the winning side at the top one day. Why not? Someone needs to take the top spot. New authors are born every day, having taken the risk of publishing their newborn words in a way all their own. It’s my turn to climb that mountain and plant my flag.

If your dream is to begin the journey of writing, just do it. Journals are as simple or elaborate as you choose. The information kept inside is up to you and you alone. Ranting or raving, the words on the page are cathartic and an authentic representation of growth, day after day. Your personal life line into the next day, when Widowhood’s path travels through the deepest and darkest forest.

In my case, blogging became my beacon of hope and direction, with over 32,000 readers cheering me on along the way. Readers in countries I’ve only dreamed of visiting in six of the seven continents. A Nepalese bibliophile will never know how much their continued support helped a little Red Necked Woman from the high deserts of Northwestern Nevada cope with a loss so deep. The identity of my readers is not what matters. It matters that Provo shows up every day. And Concord. Washington, Virginia, and Amsterdam. In the early days, if anyone read my blog during the night, I was squealing with delight the next morning. Five daily readers doubled to ten while blog grew along the way.

Since September 24, my blogs have been written with the intent the words would find their way into my first book, WIDOW (by Joy Hurt). Did I mention it will be out September 1st? Just a little excited here. Yesterday, all printed copies of the blog, held in large white binder, were separated into 15 piles. Chapters began to take shape. Hours later, the binder was reassembled into a crude form of my first book. The very first one of many.

Just thinking of the cover had me on pause for months. How could I create a cover on my own? What picture? What to write for the Bio? How to compel readers to buy the book with a catching synopsis? All those creative paths were shut tight, like a rose bud that is in the early stages of swelling before bloom. Each time the urge came to start, another nay-saying voice popped up in my head telling me why it wouldn’t ever be possible. I went back to the day I wrote my essay to win the Morgan horse. Failed then, I would fail now. I heard this until a very brave, unwavering Viking Woman voice stood up and said, “Listen Sistah,” (my Viking woman inner voice often speaks this way to me in slang), “Believe you are already doing it and it will be done.” I love that Viking woman voice. She’s rarely wrong.

With an empty house and fresh AC, yesterday was the day. Flicking the switch, my new computer sprang to life. Visiting the publishing site, I filled in a few boxes and in the blink of an eye, my new cover became a reality. For my first book, I’ve chosen to use Kindle Direct Publishing, which dovetails perfectly with Amazon. Cover Creator was the imbedded program I used to create the cover, taking form in less than an hour.

There’ll be two choices for you, my precious Readers. E-book or Paperback. At least one paperback copy will sit proudly on my bookshelf. The realization of a life long dream. So many troubling things have occurred in the last 18 months. The thing that kept me alive and well were my words, written before dawn in the safety of Winterpast with Oliver snoozing at my feet.

Please continue the journey with me. I love hearing comments. If there is something you’d consider a must for inclusion in the book, drop me a line. Hawaiianhurts@att.net. I promise, a real editor will correct grammar and spelling before it hits the market. If you want to help with that, drop me a line. I can use all the help I can get. 54 days and counting down. Publishing my first book on September 1st, 2021 , a wonderful dream will be realized, with two more books completing the trilogy. Nothing can stop me now.

The second year without VST is proving to be a journey all its own. After the first year, the journey through widowhood should settle into the quiet rhythm of my forever. Or so, I thought. Just as many surprises arise as each day passes, as I now find myself at the threshold of another first anniversary. That of VST’s memorial.

Growing up in a tiny Volga German community, death provided a strict set of guidelines. From a child’s point of view, your status in life was indicated by the funeral home your family chose when a loss came. Never even knowing there was more than one in town, when it was time for a funeral everyone met at Loyal’s Funeral Home. A majestic white mansion rich in dark woods and heavy draperies. There was a large parlor in which a widow, if she chose, could sit with her beloved during visiting hours. Visitations were equal to church Sunday, and respectful attire and behavior were expected. Nothing less would be tolerated. The guest of honor lay in open casket for all to view.

Cemeteries were segregated by groups. Not intentionally. It was just the way life unfolded. The Germans wanted to be with Germans. The Italians with Italians. The Hmongs with Hmongs. Through the years, the groups cluster in perfect definition, telling a story of the people of a little farming town grown big. Our cemetery is now in the worst area of my old town, with monuments and headstones from the 1900’s in an arrested state of decay. Each time I visit my Great Grandparents, Grandparents, and Parents, the hunt for their plots is tricky. After trial and area, there the six are, nestled together in their little family unit. Lined up and tidy, together forever, they’re surrounded by their Volga German friends and neighbors.

Walking around their plots, names of the past ring out. Scheidt. Klein. Schneider. Leider. Geringer. Weber. With a large family, my Grandparents bought many plots. A small buffer surrounds their graves, awaiting the arrival of more. There’s always room for one more, but VST and I moved away to move on. Putting a headstone there wouldn’t be a fitting period on his life.

There were so many MUSTS, SHOULDS, and NEVERS back then. A death occurred and, within three days, the minister was praying over a mourning widow, her family, and friends. A casket, front and center, held the deceased, dressed in suit and tie, or church dress. Decedent’s hair was coiffed. Makeup perfectly enhanced by the chapel’s pink lighting. The list of accepted protocol was endless, down to appropriate music. There were no video tributes or current music. Tradition. It all followed Tradition.

Privacy. That’s something that’s gone by the wayside through the years. At Loyal’s, the family sat behind a privacy curtain. Rather veil like, it provided the family a place to be separate and mourn in private. Grief is a very private ordeal for me. Proud farming stock don’t need the eyes of the community on them as the ugly cry commences. Folks were judged on how quick they were back on the tractor or weeding the garden. At least to a child of long ago, those were the takeaway lessons. Farm life is brutal. The favorite dog dies, you bury it quickly. You eat the animals you tenderly fed for months. And, when a loved one dies, you accept the truth and move on. Unless you don’t.

I delivered VST’s eulogy on July 15th, 2020. The kids each had a part in his service. His Masonic Brothers mourned the loss of their friend in a back yard VST never got to enjoy. So different are things today.

Living in a new state and town, the customs of long ago couldn’t apply even if they would’ve been a comfort. Three days after VST died, I was “Covid-Alone” frantically signing documents, packing, discarding, and crying all in the same hour. The move to Winterpast was 14 days my future. I don’t know that I even owned something appropriate for public viewing three days after VST left. It took five days for the funeral home to cremate his remains, and ten for them to return them to me. Three days? That would have never worked. For me, it took three months, and even after that much time, it was the worst day of my life.

Throngs of visitors? Covid dictated a “NO” on that. Winterpast held 40 of our closest friends and family. That many more couldn’t come due to Covid restrictions and health worries. A funeral in the back yard under morning sunshine on the high desert three months after a death? In the 1900’s, NO. Something acceptable and beautiful in the year of 2020.

Monday morning, I’m returning to Virginia City on a very sad mission. VST loved our home and new city. After so many years of farming and helping others, HE chose his new adventure and wrote the last pages of HIS story. He never laughed so much. He swelled with pride at his improvements made at the DunMovin House. He made life long friends and Masonic brothers as his days passed. Walking miles, back and forth on C Street, he stopped to talk to new and old friends alike. VST found HIS home, and home meant Nevada to him. He’ll be remembered on a headstone of granite in the Masonic portion of the segregated cemetery. Not to close to Stink-e. His headstone will read

Sir Knight Terry Lee Hurt, Psy.D.

July 15th – April 8th, (spanning 65.75 years).

Faithful Son, Father, Friend, Brother, and Husband

Don’t Worry, Be Happy

I’m just now able to publish his real name in type, after 15 months. How did widows do this in three days? While blogging, I’ve kept his name private, just for me. He remains VST from this point on.

I’ll pick the best spot available in Virginia City’s forlorn little cemetery. The Masonic portion is a place we visited more than once. He had great respect for Captain Storey, a historic and heroic leader. Maybe there’ll be a spot near him. At any rate, he’ll be surrounded by heroes and Men’s Men that lived and loved in the Wild West. Men with scars and the stories that went with them. Heroes. VST was a hero in his life, setting goals and winning at whatever he chose, including the capture of my heart. It’s there he’ll be remembered on a headstone of granite.

Isolation in desolation. Some days, the reality of my situation leaves my heart racing. What. Have. I. Done? Here I sit in a town in which I really KNOW no one. Yes. I have my beloved Ninja Neighbor next door for whom I am so thankful. Otherwise, I have a variety of acquaintances. A lunch date here, a friendly chat there. Oliver and I are alone, and he doesn’t have thumbs or a voice.

Being a party of one does have its benefits. I won’t deny that. Watching My Beloved God Mother through the decades, I envied here so often. A faraway life facing the Pacific Ocean, with a husband she adored on a wild little stretch of California coastline too remote for anyone to take seriously except a Billionaire publisher.

When my God Father passed away, she was alone with long time neighbors and friends in her tiny little community. I often wondered just how she became so strong. Now I know. Widows have no choice. Strength bubbles up within all of us. With no audience, you simply carry on. You raise up and fly right. Also a widow, her bestie neighbor, Cambria’s Goddess, sings in the choir and lets the wind blow through her beautiful hair as she drives down the coastal highway in her convertible embracing her Goddess status. Beauty on wheels, that one. Widowed, but not being restricted by that status. Independent and strong as nails.

God Mom always had little jokes with the neighbors and involved me, making me feel as if I lived right down the street. Nurse Girl and the Writer lived next door to her. The perfect kind of neighbors, they respected their fence line and privacy. Great friends, they all shared a similar sense of humor.

Fences don’t last forever, and the one between them was failing. Ocean air takes a toll, and the fence lasted as long as fences do. For months, discussions flew back and forth about shared replacement materials and costs, (in a very neighborly way, of course). Until. The conversations took a new turn. Instead of leaving this costly little project dry and uninteresting, it was named The Erection (of the fence of course). Eventually, it became the reason to hold An Erection Party. As you can imagine, the puns and conversations were laced with innuendos, leaving giggles and laughter to surround a situation that could have been painfully serious.

How I wish I had a failing fence with anyone right now. Winterpast fencing will live on for decades more, being made of rugged white plastic. Wonderful material for desert life, the fencing looks as beautiful as it did on day one, seventeen years ago. A neighborhood of perfectly white fencing does look pretty sharp.

Surrounded by Winterpast, new relationships are growing. Slowly. I could recognize 10 people at the Tee Pee Bar and Grill if we both dined at the same time. There are two waitresses at the TPBG I know on a first name basis. A handful of friends from the political group. The ice cream maker, Steve. My minister and his wife. Strangers that haven’t yet become good friends. And so it is for me.

The other day, I decided it was time to visit my favorite little country church again. Bible study begins promptly at 6 PM on Wednesday evening. After attending the 5PM City Council meeting, I arrived to be greeted by a lovely congregation. I felt like the High Desert Rodeo Queen, as everyone was eager to say Hello. The bible lesson was interesting, giving much to consider for application in my own life. It was towards the end of the lesson a visitor arrived.

The class had run late and was just finishing up, when a slight lady walked through the doors. Finding a seat in the back, she quietly picked up a Bible and followed along as we listened and discussed verses.

Unremarkable, she was someone I’d pass at the store, not even to give a second glance. Being at least twenty years my senior, her skin was wrinkled, weathered, tanned. Petite and trim, she wore a desert girl outfit of white cotton pants, sandals, and a cotton blouse, pale in color. Her white hair added to a ghostly appearance. Although she might have been at one point, she was no longer crisp and fresh, but slightly disheveled from head to toe. Eyes, milk-y in appearance, made me wonder about blindness, but she carried no cane.

After the minister had wished us well, in a frail voice, she startled everyone.

“I’d like to play a piece on your piano. I wrote it when I was a girl.”

In a flash, she was at the piano, announcing it was terribly out-of-tune. But of course, a little church in the desert wasn’t the place for any thing other than an untuned piano.

Just then, her concert began, stunning us all. This woman, an unknown, gave a Carnegie Hall presentation. A concert pianist in every sense of the word. The notes ran together in a flowery piece, drowning out her small little singing voice at times. Every key and chord were used with a flourish. After two minutes of beauty, the last note sounded and applause rang out.

Without missing a beat, she rose and declared, “I’m 86. I’m driving to Oregon. I can’t drive at night. I need a place to stay.” Five little sentences, played as skillfully as her original song. Smiling, she waited, looking at the entire congregation twitch with nerves.

In church, one needs to stop and think back on the two hour Bible lesson. Think hard. What would Jesus do? Covid. Loneliness. Nefarious ideas. Isolation. Murderers. Kindness. Thoughts, like dissonant chords, played through in my head.

Just then, a young man stood up and said, “I’ll find you a hotel room.”

In a room of 30, we all had our own reservations and reasons she couldn’t visit our own home, lost and puppy-like. Leaving that night, I had a lot to consider.

I surely had the space with an empty guest room. Extra food sits untouched in my frig. I could have been helpful in the situation. Someday, I’ll be traveling the country to unknown places. When I’m 86, I’d hope for the kindness of others to help me in a pinch. Heck, I do now at 65..

But, 2021 is a different time and place and it couldn’t be me. It wouldn’t be me. It wasn’t me. She’d need to find help in a different life raft, because mine is having a hard time staying afloat with one. Coming from a house of God, I know Jesus understands this. Maybe he would’ve chosen differently, but maybe he would have done the same.

At church today, I’ll find the chap that offered the hotel room to find out the rest of the story. Give him $20 towards the expense. Thank him for helping The Visitor. A special pianist, a very long way from home.

Yesterday, my little country church didn’t disappoint. Rising extra early, my routine changed a bit as I selected an outfit appropriate for church after washing and drying my hair, which is getting longer every day. As it does, I look forward to the day I have 12″ to donate to “Locks Of Love”. Cancer affects so many parts of life, including hair loss. This is most distressing to kids. I’m blessed with thick straight hair that grows quickly. It will be my pleasure to donate it when it’s long enough. Until then, I’m enjoying long hair once more in my life.

A Hawaiian print dress in black and white, with black flats and a light sweater were the perfect outfit, and out the door I went. Bible study was scheduled at 9:30, but in their excitement, the group started a little earlier than that. By the time I arrived, almost 20 sat around the table. The book chosen for study is entitled “Who Am I In Christ” by Neil T. Anderson. For an hour, we discussed Chapters 2 and 3, and I learned a lot about the people in the group.

Diverse and intelligent, everyone was respectful, listening to each other intently. They followed along as the leader read the text, stopping for our input. It was through the group that I learned there was another teacher present.

Later in the morning, she joined me in the chapel as we waited for the main service to begin. Teachers have a way of finding each other. Special needs teachers even more so. We have our teacherly ways of dressing, standing, and speaking. Not that we try to be this way, we just are.

This teacher wasn’t just a teacher of one grade or level. Through the years, she taught Kindergarten through 12th grade, just like me. She talked about her at-risk students and things she did to help them learn to read. While we talked, I realized we have much in common as educators, both leaving the profession because teaching changed into something foreign and unpleasant. It was she that asked for my phone number first. Exchanging numbers was like an exchange of life lines. She lives on the other side of town, and it seems we are similar in age. We plan to have coffee soon.

During the morning, other friends I’ve made during Bible Study and actual services came to give me a hug and say Hello. The music is becoming more familiar. The rhythm of the service comforting. Quiet time in which to pray faithfully is different in this tiny little chapel. So very still, you can feel the presence of God.

One of the most precious things about the chapel ties it to the region. Near my town, there is a mysterious lake, massive and wild. I’ve only heard tales about giant wind storms creating waves as big as the ocean’s. The lake is on an Indian Reservation, complete with folk lore and spirits. I’ve been warned more than once to not ever go out on this lake, and not knowing anyone on the reservation, that chance will never come to me. It’s a beautiful and mystical place which glows in colors only seen in paintings. It’s represented in this little church.

The chapel interior, rectangular om shape, holds red cloth covered chairs aligned in rows. The front of the chapel is raised two steps worth, leading to a stage. On this stage, the musicians of the congregation play songs with a piano, guitar, tambourine, and drums. The words of the songs are displayed on screens on either side of the stage. The Pastor delivers verses and messages from his podium. It’s the middle of the stage that’s so gorgeous.

There’s a false wall with a window in the center. Through the window is a most serene mural of the mystic lake. It’s as if the lake is within our view as we worship. It’s beautiful in every way. But especially, because it is a painting made of love. Recognizable as the the nearby lake, but also as a painting done by members of the church with patience and skill. It’s truly lovely.

Everything about the morning visit left me glad that I took time out of my day to go. My father always said he found his week by sitting with God Sunday morning. This morning, I found that to be an inspiration. This week, I’ll need God’s help to guide me through.

Today I return to Virginia City to meet with a Masonic Brother to make very sad decisions. The last time I saw this man was almost one year ago on July 15th, 2020 in my back yard at Winterpast. There, he helped eulogize VST as only a Masonic Brother could. Today, he’ll help me choose a spot to memorialize VST in the cemetery.

A fitting tribute to represent my “bionic cowboy” in the little town that chose us. A larger than life guy that walked four miles a day in cumbersome knee braces, cane, and his trademark Stetson. People might not have know his name, but, they all knew the inspirational Bionic Cowboy that roamed C Street.

The sights, sounds, and smells of Virginia City jar me in unpleasant ways when I return. Haunted by the happiest of times, the Red Dog Saloon is no longer the inviting place to eat pizza while listening to live jazz. The Bucket of Blood with its long bar leading to the window with the 150 mile view. The Roasting House for a quick cup of fresh brew. Mark Twain’s Saloon, where we went out in the snow for a late night date. The Silver Queen with Clint and Ila on the night they found they would become three instead of two. Then, with a glance upwards, adorning A Street like a magnificent jewel, The DunMovin House, where love created a home just for us even if only for the smallest window of time. All painfully difficult to revisit without VST’s shared memories of what it this hometown meant to us.

The spot must be just right. A place for VST’s headstone to remind people he lived there. That he was a wonderful Doctor of Psychology, Mason, and Knight Templar. A man among men. That he loved farming and ice cream. That he skipped to the heavens from atop Mt. Davidson, while I needed to move on. A place for me to remember he’s no more there in spirit than I’ll be when my time comes. VST found his rewards in heaven.

Pray for those that have gone before us. Pray for us as we make our way towards our own eternity.

And a delightful time was had by all. Such a strange line, considering yesterday could’ve turned into a tearful and solemn occasion. The hunt was on for a tiny plot of Virginia City (VC) real estate on which to memorialize VST. Never having lost a husband before, I didn’t quite know what to expect. I did know that VST’s favorite Masonic Brother would never let things get too complicated or overwhelming. Brothers from his lodge made a solemn oath to me just a year ago at the Memorial. They would ALWAYS be there to help in time of need. Today was a perfect example of Masonry at its finest.

With an 8:30 AM meeting planned in VC, my morning started earlier than normal. Oliver begged for a few days off with his buddies, and how could I deny such a good puppy? These days, Oliver is coming into his own time of life. He enjoys napping as much as I do. We have a lovely routine of after lunch naps, both curled up in our respective sleeping quarters. He loves patrolling the grounds, keeping Winterpast free of fallen apricots or toads. He cares not in what order they appear. Either are fair game. He is starting to ignore plastic emitters and lighting.

Oliver knows how to sit and wait for a treat now. Just like that, he learned and is proud. He knows that when on a leash, he needs to walk slowly if Mom-Oh has a coffee cup in hand. A hundred other little details Oliver has finally slowed down enough to learn. With that, I’m beginning to enjoy my little dog, like never before. Maybe I’m learning better behavior, as well. That being said, this week is filled with details time consuming and emotionally charged. A party at the kennel was just what we both needed, so, off we went.

Once he was safely in the hands of his loyal minions, serving his every need, I headed up the mountain to Virginia City. Taking a route I try to avoid, memories attacked from every angle. This was the route to and from Lowe’s. To our favorite dining places. To Lake Tahoe. To the coast. How many times we had driven this road, both in the light of day and on the darkest of nights? We’d taken the road when happy or angry, excited or exhausted. Winding up the steep grade, there was only one difference. When VST was alive, I was always in the passenger seat.

Going up the hill, one thing was certain. The terrain reflected the ugliness of late August, not mid-July. The drought’s stolen every bit of moisture away, leaving the hills brittle-burnt-brown. Autumn is a 1.5 months away, with daily afternoon thunder storms spitting out bolts of lightning along the way. A sad time for the wild mustangs which will surely be on the hunt for water.

Familiar memories swirled in my head as the road twisted and turned towards the Canvas Café. There, VST’s Masonic brother would be waiting. A good friend to us both, he was the liaison between the Virginia City Cemetery and me. A welcome visitor to our home on many occasions, he’s a true friend. Easy to confide in and always at the ready with sage advice. I looked forward to his company on this difficult task.

When I arrived, another gentleman joined us, representing the VC Cemetery. A gentleman whose kindness and soft spoken responses made our breakfast table a safe one. Visiting over coffee was a time to catch up after many months. It was as if a day hadn’t passed since we had last talked. Just the way of VC. Wild, ragged places seem to make people appreciate their friendships more. You never know when a wayward wind or snow storm might create a need for neighborly support. Mountain people remember what it is to be friendly and respectful. Masonic Brothers even more so.

After breakfast, we rode to the cemetery to choose the spot for VST’s headstone. Being in the company of those that ARE “The Rules” helped. With the day beginning to boil on high, we took our car through the cemetery to the top of the hill where other Masonic brethren lie. Plots are not laid out in endlessly neat and tidy rows. Rather scattered in wild fashion like the rest of the place. Bedrock makes digging in some spots impossible. VST’s headstone would need no digging. Just a respectable place to settle in and stay awhile.

After a short time, I found the spot as if it had been waiting for an eternity to hold VST’s memory. With a view of the DunMovin House (our last home together), our beautiful A Street neighborhood, besties D and B’s home, and Masonic Brother J’s house, all nestled under the “V” on the side of Mt. Davidson. The entire town was there to see right from THE chosen spot. There was no need to look further.

I’d visited that part of the cemetery often in the company of VST, long before there were any thoughts other than living a very long and healthy life. Mr. Barrow’s grave was right across the path, with Mrs. Barrow being my elderly neighbor who grew the most beautiful spring poppies in her flowerbeds. This spot was surrounded by Masonic Brothers I knew as VST’s good friends. His next door neighbor would someday be Masonic Brother J with a beautiful headstone saving his spot. Dean and Jan were right across the path, also ready with their pre-planning.

As I stood looking towards the peak of Mt. Davidson, I knew I’d found the very spot VST would’ve chosen. A settled peace filled my soul as I realized I’d held my breath a bit until I’d found it. This would be his spot for all to visit and remember. This manly man of men. My sweet husband would be remembered here forever more.

Today, the quest continues for a proper headstone. Drawn out, I know exactly what it will say and how it will look. With the proper craftsman, VST’s memory will live on, now part of a rich history of this, the wild, wild West. This, his beloved Virginia City, Nevada.

Some days are complicated just enough to make one want to return to bed. Yesterday was such a day. In our town, we have a Rant and Rave Facebook page. Today would be heavy on the rant side, as things have been sliding a little south here. South, in the heat of the desert, is just a little worse than north where happiness lives. After all, Death Valley is just a little south of here, and they have their share of troubles with this heat. I was hopeful yesterday as I jetted off to the the bigger town just West of me. Traffic was tricky, which was good. Keeping me on my toes, I hurried to meet my 10:00 appointment. I chose 10AM to avoid commuters. The interstate on which I travel can be a death trap, especially with people racing to get to work on time. It’s for that reason I made the appointment at 10 AM. Mr. Shiny-Toed-Short-Pants funeral director agreed to this. I find it interesting that in a bigger town than mine, there are no headstone fabricators. Not even one. It seems everyone turns to online shopping for funeral needs.   Funeral directors are just the  middle men these days.  I was told by Shiny Toes that he had plenty of samples from which to choose. His credibility was shot before I ever got to his postage stamp office in El Barrio.  First and foremost, he assured me we made the appointment for 9 AM. Funny. I would’ve NEVER agreed to that, due to above mentioned reasons. But, the male version of a Pony Tail wasn’t worth the arguing. In the office, smaller than my closet, sat three computer generated headstones.  Aversion to putting VST’s name and information on anything as permanent as a headstone probably colored my first impression.  Paying thousands, I could have the Grieving Angel monument to end all monuments.  But, this is reality.  VST is no more here if I create a simple stone or an elaborate display. It was obvious this funeral director in shorts deals with the internet for funeral needs, which he marks up x2 and sells to the public. After all was said and done, a flat headstone of the plainest granite would be $1,000.  A color photograph was 1/2 of the cost.   By the way, the price was a bargain because I’d be picking up the 106 pound headstone, carting it to VC, and throwing it on the spot I chose on Monday. Correct. No installation needed. Just toss it out there. All $1,000 worth. Well, as VST would say, “Homey don’t play that game, Shiny Toes.”  Who suggests a widow go set her own headstone?  Yes, Farm Girl can do it.  Surely I can.  But, where is there room for my own grief in this?  My own moment to take a breath and go to see a finished headstone remembering VST?  Non-existent in the High Desert of Northwestern Nevada in the year 2021. So, back to the beginning. A perfect plot with no headstone. Driving back in disbelief, I marveled that any moron would tell a widow to go set her own stone. The insanity of youth baffles my mind. At least this little Shiny Toed boy with his solutions for every problem. Upon arriving home, I went to open my blog site, and Horror of Horrors, I was being hacked. I could watch the little entries stacking up in comments. I would erase 5 and 10 more would show up. Erase those and they kept coming, rather like exploding popcorn. In a little panic, I Bluehost to ask if someone could check this out. Didn’t I know? A real pony tailed asked this time. I’d need to buy protection. I swear, I thought the Mob died out long ago. Yes. Protection that didn’t come with my site. Nice to know, since I’ve been blogging ten months now. What’s a girl to do? I bought protection. Very expensive protection. At that point I went on about my business, after being told the first examination would take upwards of three hours. But, in the end, they would get the bad guys. I would be safe. Typing on my book was a nice relief. 4,500 words later, I decided to check on my little hacker friends. It’s odd that when eyes are hemorrhaging as one sees more hackers, that one doesn’t see red. I’d just paid for “Protection” and the little visitors continued their work right in front of my eyes. More phone calls to the same pony tail. “Ohhhhhhh. You need to call the company you just contracted with this morning.” Dryly, I asked for the number. She would not receive the negative response sitting in my brain waiting to fall on my tongue like a gumball. Upon calling them, a youngster answered, not even saying the company name. When I asked her if this was the company that offered “Protection”, she perked up and gave me a professional, “Yeah.” Oy Vey. “Oh My, you have a breech in your file wall. I’ll make up a ticket. Repairs might take a while.” There are just no words. None at all. So, to cleanse my brain of negative thoughts, I went to gaze upon the Gardens Winterpast. It was then, I cringed. I wanted to cry, but didn’t.  I wanted to jump up and down and break something, but didn’t. For there, in the middle of my beautiful garden path, was a sink hole. Not a little sink hole, but a rather deep sink hole. 3 feet deep to be exact. With water running into it from the hose in the potato box that I’d forgotten to turn off.  In reality, a good thing, because the erosion located yet another major leak hidden underneath Winterpast. A leak too big for me to handle. A leak for a irrigation repair specialist. A leak that will cost plenty.  Just like everything else. Some days, it’s better to just stay in bed and watch a good movie. As long as the sink hole remains in the middle of the yard, a shovel and irrigation knowledge will get me started on this project. Somedays, it IS just better to stay in bed. Stay tuned.

Happy Birthday, VST!!!

Today is a day for reflection and remembrance.

I’ll return tomorrow!

Hopefully, troubles are gone for awhile around here. With Oliver safely home after a delightful visit with his buddies, we return to our routine. Finding in necessary to work on my patience in times of disaster, I’ve realized frustration only costs me valuable minutes when minutes count. I’ve been praying for a softened heart and the ability to accept this crazy world as it is. It’s a far stretch to accept so much of what’s happening today. All aspects of healing during this Post-Pandemic nightmare is going to take some time.

When VST became ill, the first 90 patients had just died in a Washington convalescent home. His 9-week illness progressed so quickly, there was no time for the news. The night he died, I turned on the television and saw that 20,000 people had died from something called Covid. Grieving in a widow’s fog while packing and moving, if I wasn’t coughing up a lung, I obviously wasn’t dying of this virus. I had no time or mental energy to watch TV. And so, the months went. I couldn’t tell you the headlines of 2020. That wasn’t my focus.

Now, I realize it was a blessing I wasn’t wrapped up in the news. When I do watch anything about Covid, my heart hurts for the victims. So tragic. My tactic for survival? Stay isolated as much as possible. Continue a healthy lifestyle. Wear a mask if the numbers start to go up. Shop online. Common sense things to keep me apart from anyone sick. Similar to things I’d do if there was an outbreak of the flu. The sheer terror that gripped the nation is lost on me, because, I faced a terror much worse. Cholangiocarcinoma. Like a mouth full of marbles, that word. Cancer of the bile ducts. A Virus? I’ll take my chances with that any day over what VST faced.

In addition to those things, I spend time in the garden with Oliver. As I brown to a glowing shade of bronze, my body works on Vitamin D production. Sunshine sterilizes everything. Any vintage model mother knows this. That’s why we hung our cloth diapers in the sun. Our healthy babies spent time playing outside, something lost on many parents and children today. There is nothing healthier than enjoying fresh air and sunshine. Good for the soul.

Every business in my little town struggles now, needing help. Nothing runs at it should. Just last Sunday, the Tee Pee Bar and Grill shut their doors. Broken AC with no company available to come repair it. When they did re-open, customers were leaving because of the wait. A big HELP WANTED sign sits on Main Street, while customers continue to flood in. Sweltering, the chef and staff worked on Monday in 100 degree temperatures at the stove while waiting for necessary repairs. They’re down to only two servers and a dishwasher. The managers help as much as they can. Patrons are patient as the restaurant limps along.

If I were younger, I’d waitress a bit. But, I’m set like an arrow, ready to fly off into the wild blue yonder. Being tied to a rigid schedule of writing, gardening, hot-tubbing, practicing lazy, and taking care of Oliver has me pretty busy at the moment. The most I can do is contribute to the economy by eating out at the Tee Pee once in awhile.

My heart needs to soften while I wait ten minutes for a glass of water, or find myself a little warm eating my “Lil’ Mo Bet-tah Burger” and sweet potato fries. I need to breathe and count to ten when things cost more than they did the week before. Remembering all the wonderful things that happen to me every day, I need to find forgiveness for the pot-holes in the road of life and carry on. This presents a challenge most days.

Yesterday, with my mutilated teeth still in there temporary jackets, I hit the wall. It’d been weeks since the dentist, in his adorable need to “Do No Harm”, drilled the wrong tooth when preparing my new crown. Solving the problem with two-crowns-4-the-price-of-one, my confidence in the outcome wasn’t great. Then, the wait for the new crowns went on for weeks. Until yesterday. With increasing frustration, I wrote an email to the office manager.

Mind you, it was a very pleasant, heart-felt plea for help. Had they forgotten me? When could I expect to receive the crowns I’d paid for in full? Quicker than a cricket, the phone rang, and the sweetest voice offered a spot at 2:30! Just like that. Now, the normal person might question how long the finished crowns would have sat in some cupboard? Five weeks more?????? But, the new and improved butter-soft heart of mine focused on the excitement of finally getting back to normal.

The new teeth look great. They seem to be a perfect fit. Dr. B and Nurse A were as adorable as I remembered them from before. After consideration, I think I’ll return for the rest of my dental needs. Perfect place? No. Is there such a thing? No. Nice people working in my mouth? That counts for a bunch. And these crowns are beautiful, fitting perfectly.

With my teeth fixed, I turned to the hacker that was still at it. Taking matters into my own hands, I went to work opening “Settings” in the control panel of my blog to find something I might try. Three lone boxes in “Save Yourself From Hackers Here” were unchecked. I checked them. Low and Behold!!!!!!!!! The hacker was frozen in his computerized steps. The nightmare stopped.

For now.

Two big problems solved, as I continue to work on a grateful heart. I’m so blessed in a million little ways. Yesterday, I celebrated the life of a husband of which women would only dream to love. Such memories of years of adventures with the man I would’ve rather been with than anyone else in the world. The one who could finish my sentences before I began them. The one who was an Alpha Male matching me, his Alpha Female, the two of us forming a Power Couple. Not completing or competing, but joining hands to take on the world. My beloved VST. Don’t Worry, Be Happy!

Broken AC — Replaced.

Broken Sewer Pump — Replaced.

Thousands of fallen apricots– Cleaned up an done for the year.

Oliver — Well again.

Two old crowns — Replaced.

Hackers — Stopped in their tracks.

Dishwasher??????????

OHHHHH NOOOOOOO.

A story for another day here on the high desert plains of North Western Nevada.

Winterpast provides a new lesson every day. Just when boredom gets a stranglehold on my throat, up pops something else for attention or consideration, all in the confines of my sweet home. We’re struggling through each day here in the high desert, Winterpast and I. When I get too complacent, life throws something else my way. Life is like that.

When I’m gardening, I appreciate the breathtaking beauty Winterpast is. In every single inch of ground, the decomposed granite paths wind this way and that all circling back to my covered patio. The hot tub bubbles while the new fountain trickles softly by the back door. The bird families continue to hatch and peep. The sink hold might or might not be an issue, but with enough fill dirt, anything can go away for a bit. The lawn is showcase quality and new plants continue to recover with water and love.

With no way of knowing the hours and hours of planning, design, and backbreaking creation of my oasis, I can only promise to tend to it, preserving a dream born 17 years ago. Trim. Dead head. Water. Fertilize. Repeat. That is the way of summer in the desert.

Now, I’m finding time to interject some wonderful new activities. Soaking in the hot tub at sunrise. Focusing on the traffic patterns of the jets overhead, zipping East to West and back again at 30,000 feet. Watching clouds form, grow angry, and turn into afternoon thunderstorms of the best kind, booming and zapping as they race across the sky. I’m finding time to breath in the fresh air while concentrating on doing so. My neighbors, on the other hand, have another lifestyle.

Mr. and Mrs. Fuss Britches live around the corner and to the right. They are frail and elderly. I am YOLD (Young Old). They are OOLD (Old Old). Mrs. FB is the slave. Mr. FB is the master. I hate to judge, trying to live as a loving and non-judgmental Christian. But from observations, this is so. Mr. FB runs his house like the tightest of military installations. Every Single Rock Will Comply. They are placed exactly the same distance apart, each weighing the same amount and being of the same shape and color. These surround 1/2 acre. I first noticed the rock placement about a month ago.

A tip to desert gardeners. One never starts serious gardening in July when the afternoon temps push well past 100. This is not good for YOLD people, let alone the OOLD’s. Every day, Mrs. FB is out on her knees on sharp, pointy gravel, pulling weeds barely visible to the naked eye. The painters came to paint the trim. Everything in the unfenced yard is placed perfectly. The travel trailer, washed and waxed. The garden area, fenced with glistening white pickets. Most recently, an incredible thing started to occur.

Every few days, as I traveled on errands, I noticed that large, expensive vegetation bushes and trees were appearing around the house. A tree over here. A bush over there. In July. In the worst heat storm of the century. Insanity at work from city folks that honestly do not have a clue. My front yard estimate for fake lawn and 15 plants was $20,000. At that rate, these folks have spent double.

I’m not talking small trees from Lowe’s. Full grown trees with guy wires to hold them in place. Fifteen foot trees are arriving slowly. I’d love to witness the process.

In summer’s unforgiving heat, the new bushes are already dying. Mrs. FB is out with a watering pail, without any drip to support this temporary “Oasis”. As the days have gone by, more and more vegetation has appeared. Thank goodness the creators of Winterpast knew what they were doing, creating something beautiful that’s taken decades to come to maturity, like me. I wish Mr. and Mrs. FB well. Someone would should save them frustration and let them know the desert will only be tamed on her terms. It can’t be regimented into a summer’s project.

With my weekly gardening done, and Friday home chores completed, I’m off to have some real fun today. The Junior Rodeo has come to town. Today and tomorrow, Nevada’s finest horsemen and women are going to show their skills, all competing for the coveted First Place Buckles up for grabs.

With a first stop at the local hardware store, I’ll enjoy the morning hours watching horses, riders, steers, and bulls strut their stuff. My little town. Deceptively simple. Delightfully complex. Just a wide place in the road on the high desert of Northwestern Nevada.

As days go by, I’m discovering more about the wonderful little town I call my own. This weekend, the Junior Rodeo is in town. Buying my first Cow Girl hat at hardware store early yesterday, I rodeo-ed, (at least until the heat got to me). Rodeos are a treat. So American. So real. Watching people and animals work together is fascinating. Animals read body language long before humans know they are completing sentences with their actions. The communication between barrel racer and horse is complicated, and yet, the most natural thing. Working as a team, the rest of us could learn a lot about mutual respect in we only paid close attention.

Fascinating to watch, the smallest children were on huge horses, racing up and down the arena. The competition included beginning steps of real rodeo events. Instead of racing around three barrel, children needed to weave through poles with their horses. And, horses don’t like wavy poles. More than once I winced at near accidents. These little kids were unflappable and patient with their horse partners. A job well done by their parents.

Bulls. You just gotta love them. Anyone who thinks bulls are bothered by bull riders has never lived on a farm. Bulls LOVE to mess with people. Hence, the word BULLEY came to be. They have a delightful sense of humor until they don’t. Bucking bulls are bred to do that. They LOVE the challenge of their eight second job. Just watch the best of the best in the shoot before the gate is released. They quietly think about planned twists and turns just as the rider focuses on concentration. Go behind the scenes and look at these guys in the eye. They are cool, calm, and collected before or after their workout. It’s what they do eight seconds at a time.

For the children, no bulls were involved. Instead, the littlest of the the kids rode sheep. Not an easy thing to do, either. These were tall brawny sheep. Of interest to me was how they get the sheep to cooperate. The dominate sheep of the flock was on a leash on the opposite side of the arena, obviously a pet. When the gate opened, the released sheep run to get to the dominate sheep with a tyke hanging on for dear life. These kids, 5 and 6 years old, did their best. All but one fell off inches from the gate. But one plucky youngster hung on for dear life, making it across the arena. He got a standing ovation from the crowd. His mom and dad hoisted him high in the air as he held his cowboy hat to the heavens. He’ll enjoy wearing his First Place buckle.

The older kids rode Holstein steers. For those of you city folk, that is the male version of the black and white dairy cows. A farm only needs one or two bulls. All the male calves are castrated, becoming steers, and ultimately, hamburger. These “calves” were teenagers, weighing 300-400 pounds. Feisty as any teen, these steers gave the kids a good ride. I certainly would have fallen off. No injuries to kids or animals occurred, while the ambulance and vet waited, at the ready if needed.

Modern day, Wild-West cowboys have jobs involving roping, riding, castrating, and birthing while living in the saddle. Participants in the Junior rodeo are often part of long time ranching families. They’ve been on horses from the time they could walk .

One of the most fascinating days of my life was in the early 1960’s when my family was invited to attend a spring Round Up. In the California foothills, this was a time young calves were vaccinated, castrated, and separated from their mothers. We, as flatlanders, were invited to something I won’t ever forget. A real working rodeo.

Swirling dust, dripping sweat, squirting blood, flying testicles, vaccines, singed hair, braying, bawling, and more of the same. Hot brands lay in the open coals, marking cattle for life as property of the Broken R Ranch. These cowboys roped the calves, stretched them out between two horses with ropes, and went to work. Now, for those of you that don’t know, these “babies” weighed between 200-300 pounds, being much bigger than a Great Dane or Mastiff. Brought in from mountain pastures, they’d kick you in the head quicker than a lightning strike if their momma didn’t get you first. These are not the docile creatures shown on television.

The calves were handled with precision and respect by professionals. There was no pleasure in causing distress to any animals on site. Just part of a day on the ranch. In minutes per calf, the job was done and they quietly munched hay in a holding pen, wondering what just happened.

Being small fry, we could have easily been kicked or trampled. We could have been hit in the head with a flying testicle, or worse, bitten by a grouchy cattle dog. There was a plan for the kids.

Banjo.

Banjo was a nearly-blind ranch horse who was in the twilight of his days. He must have been over 30. A beloved member of the team, Banjo would be our babysitter. All the littles were stacked on his massive back from mane to tale, numbering five. Told to sit and not move, we could watch everything from our vantage point. We could talk or even argue, but we were not to move off Banjo. So, we didn’t. Banjo would find a nice morsel of grace or move us to the shade. He understood completely the valuable cargo he carried. I noticed him watch the activity with sad eyes. Getting old is tough, even for horses.

Watching today, I recognized Banjo in the participating horses. So evident it was that parents had selected horses that knew the importance of their rider. When not in the arena performing, the horses stood like docile beasts babysitting their cargo. Learning horsemanship is a skill. When you are five feet, 70 pounds, brain power is needed to control a beast that weighs 1,500 pounds. Respect and communication between the two are essential to perform the task at hand. All those points were fascinating to watch.

Sitting on the top of the sun-kissed bleachers, I smiled with fresh happiness while remembering farm girl experiences I was lucky enough to live. The Wild West is alive and real, folks. Deeply woven into the high desert of Northwestern Nevada.

Yesterday was so busy, I hardly know where to begin. Sunday, my new church offers a full schedule with Bible Study at 9:30 AM, Services at 10:45 AM, and an Evening Prayer and Study Service at 6 PM. Luckily, the plans left a little in the middle for vittles. Each time I attend, the congregation grows by a few more. A chapel of friendly people all searching for personal answers.

Most of the parishioners are long time members. There is another Joy in the group who I met yesterday. We both have December birthdays and like personalities. Young and willow-y tall, she teaches Vacation Bible School. Tall Women confident enough to wear high heeled boots with skinny jeans are refreshing. At over 6′, she embraces her height. Another new friend.

Hawaiian Tutu is an exotic and beautiful woman, with her Hawaiian accent flowing like the trade winds. At Bible Study, I chose to sit on the corner between HT and the leader of the group, Strong Girl. These two women could run the country, and yet both are almost deaf. SG, age 70-something, confided that she is working with 10% hearing out of one ear only. HT is 64, with beautiful long grey hair. Sitting next to her, I could feel Aloha spirits dancing around her head. Impressive women, these two, they’ve been through many more hardships in life than me and have much to share.

“Love in A Cookie” joined the group while bringing some homemade delicious-ness. Tiny tart-shaped cookies filled with fudge and drizzled with chocolate. Just one cookie was plenty to savor. My teacher friend, who I met the week before, appeared again. Everyone listened intently while applying the lesson to their own lives.

An interesting lesson it was. Our Body. God. Our Body and God. Respecting our body while respecting God. Fill in whatever blanks you think appropriate. A lot to think about in one short hour. Not exactly what I would’ve expected for a Sunday morning Bible Study, but perhaps a message I needed to consider. I’ll be rereading that chapter for further consideration.

The visiting Pastor should be on television. His choice of words, heavily infused with southern charm and wisdom, held everyone’s attention. Fluid in his knowledge of people in the Bible, he can talk for hours about practical applications to everyday life. Listening to him describe the Jewish people of more than 2,000 years ago, I felt they might walk through the door to join us. The human condition is the human condition, whether then or now. His mastery pulled me back for the evening service, just as rich and interesting.

That left a small window of time for vittles. For non-southern types — translation — Food. My meal at the Tee Pee Bar and Grill was a little brighter, as I didn’t dine alone, but with a “new-come-er” to our little town. The homemade bean soup was delicious, with just a cup providing a hearty lunch. Friendships are the one thing lacking in my life right now. Remembering my own loneliness during the last 15 months, I was glad to provide conversation and information to someone new to town.

Respect and reciprocal dialogue are refreshing. Getting to know a stranger one question at a time is similar to a jigsaw puzzle. Edgy questions create boundaries and the general shape of things to come. Then, slowly, the picture starts to form. In an hour, we found the corner pieces.

The waitress, normally sarcastic and funny, was reserved and professional, while giving me an inquisitive eye. She’s friendlier every time I eat there, now that I’m known as a local. Each time I venture into town, more connections are formed. My roots are sinking deeper. This little place is home, even though on some mornings, it feels as foreign as the day I moved in. One thing that has helped is exchanging first names with people. Such a lost art in the busy world in which we live, but crucial to begin any relationship. I’m learning all the players at the Tee Pee Bar and Grill because a girl can’t have enough connections.

Miss Firecracker’s absence is felt every day. With texts and phone calls, we’re keeping in touch. In two weeks, a spa vacation awaits us. Food, laughter, relaxation, and shared secrets late into the night, (complete with giggling, of course), will be delightful. I wonder if they call security for uproariously laughter? I guess. Every time I enter the Tee Pee, I fully expect to be holding a table for us. We shared a flashlight during the very black days of early widowhood. We sure did.

Today, there are no church services to attend. No Junior Rodeo. No lunch date or other activities. With smoke as thick as fog from California fires, today is a day to hunker down and process the events of the weekend while resting my brain. Melchizedek and all.

Since moving to the high desert, summer smoke has become a normal part of life. Not from fires in our immediate area, (it being a barren desert-scape), but from hundreds of miles away in California. Presently, there are two massive fires both north and south of the bigger town just west of here. Devastating fires are destroying beautiful areas as mature, dense forests are turned to ash. Prevailing winds blanket us with the smoke.

Fires I’ve experienced, vowing never again to live in an area prone to them. Forests are beautiful places to visit. But… When all your earthly good sit inside a little cabin or home, including your children, pets, and self, the risk of fire outweighs the peace of the pine-scented breeze.

In 2013, VST and I bought a little cabin. Quaint and A-framed, it was a postage-stamp-sized building with single walls. Without repairs for years on end, it was the definition of a “fixer-upper”. For five years, we did just that. Fix her up. Every waking moment at the cabin involved work of some kind or another. Rake the pine needles. Bag the leaves. Whip the weeds. Re-design. Replace. Refinish. Renew. Varnish. Sleep. Do everything again the next day. Having a cabin is a blast for those visitors, of which there were very few. Owning a cabin is hard work for the caretakers. In this case, VST and I.

Nestled on 1/3 of an acre, the owners before had done a great job with defensible space. That’s the cleared space needed to slow or stop the spread of wildfire, protecting your home from catching fire. This could occur from embers, flames or radiant heat, according to readyforwildfire.org. This involved clearing 100 feet around the entire structure. Many in our little neighborhood of cabins didn’t feel the need to do this, but instead, protected the manzanita bushes that rubbed up against their windows at night. Manzanita is a bush that is one of the hottest fuels around.

Cal Fire is one of the most amazing government agencies in existence. How they run so well is a puzzlement, but if Cal Fire is assigned a fire, it will be fought. Each year in the spring, notices arrive explaining needed improvements to bring your property into compliance. Through grumbles and mumbles, our property was always ready for the first spark. Inconvenient? At times. Especially when your wood pile needs to be moved 100 feet from your house. In deep snow, 100 feet might as well be in the next county.

On Saturday, September 14, 2014, we were enjoying time at our beautiful new home in Virginia City. We’d just purchased the house in May spending every weekend moving belongings from California to Nevada, with the final move the following summer. That afternoon, our phones rang with a fire alert for the cabin. With five hours between Virginia City and the cabin, we raced off, not knowing what we’d find.

Coming down the little hill towards Bass Lake, it was always a guessing game about the exact location of the lake and cabin. Not that day. Explosions of greasy black smoke shot high into the sky, one after the other. Above the tree tops, it was evident that cabins were burning, we just didn’t know which ones. Propane tanks exploded like bombs. Finally lakeside, a safe distance away, we found a picnic table and watched the fire burn to water’s edge by sunset. Freakishly surreal, we would not know for three days whether our cabin was ashes or one that survived. Thirty homes vaporized that day.

Lightning strike? Too simple and natural. No. A moron decided to light a deer carcass on fire. With gasoline. A Cal-i-for-nite city dweller. At the bottom of the hill, the winds that day carried the fire up the hill, through the neighborhood and back down to the water. The trees, September brittle, were fuel. The non-defensible vegetation, nestled between cabins providing sought after privacy, were the recipe for disaster. Our little neighborhood of Bass Lake Heights would never be the same.

For three days, the fate of neighbors and cabins was unknown. Finally, we returned by Sheriff car. Already dark, with proper documentation in hand, the kind officer drove us like perps in the back seat to see our little cabin. We weren’t allowed to use our own car due to downed power lines and debris. Driving through, the devastation was that of war footage on television. Cars sat burned out. Houses had been vaporized, with not even a hit of a dwelling left. Smoke drifted up in little tendrils while firefighters hosed hot spots.

And there, in the forest, in our little defended space, she stood proud. Not a singed branch. Not a burned leaf. Our little red cabin with white trim had been saved while cabins just hundred of feet away lay in ash.

Handing us a flashlight, the officer said, “I can’t let you get out. It’s the rules.” As he looked the other way, we hurried to the front door. Standing in our defensible space, through tears, we shared a hug of relief. There is no answer why our cabin survived while so many didn’t.

There were heroes that day. Our neighbor, Wynn, stayed throughout the fire. He helped get bedridden Harry out, carrying him, with the help of another man, to the fire perimeter because the ambulance couldn’t get any closer. Wynn spent hours hosing down houses until the community water system burned. He and a few other neighbors watched to protect against looting and gawkers. A true hero and someone we were proud to call neighbor.

In my china hutch sits a small piece of burnt bark. It was lying on our wooden deck, the only visible evidence the cabin had survived hell. After that experience, she was stripped of anything sentimental and sleeping there was never quite the same. The Courtney Fire had destroyed 30 structures, many vehicles, two cats, and a tranquil neighborhood in four hours. With only one road in and out, being trapped in a wildfire is something every mountain dweller fears.

The smoke in our area means something different to me. Fire fighters risking their lives. Destroyed beauty. Habitat destruction for humans and beasts. Scars, both psychological and physical upon people and land. Ugliness. Stench. Destruction. Devastation. Each time, something is lost that cannot be replaced, and surely, God must be weeping.

Desert fires are a different affair. Each summer, as predictable as the lightning that causes them, they come. Roaring across the plains, they burn hot and fast, whipped by winds. The difference is that by the next year, you can’t tell any difference. The sage and rabbit brush return, along with the peace of grazing mustangs under big blue skies. Natures way of controlling fuel.

Please send a prayer for those affected by the fires burning now. Send kind thoughts to the heavens that families are finding comfort from the angel caregivers of the Red Cross. If you are planning a trip to the mountains, be fire conscious. The forests are ours to love and protect.

Visiting The Palms yesterday, I hadn’t realized Taco Tuesday was a thing. The Palms is the sweetest little secret in my little town. Tucked in the back corner of a tiny Casino, I’m becoming a regular there, planning to support more Taco Tuesdays.

Morning Bible study had given me a lot to think about. Focusing on a woman’s role in the world, the words reflected the values and beliefs I grew up with decades ago. Watching successful marriages flourish throughout my family, Christian values brought the older generations of my family a sense of order in their families. After all, there can only be one captain in times of trouble. If not, mutiny would certainly follow.

Members of the Bible study reminded me of members of the farming community of my youth. Everyone being of Senior Citizen status, we shared our confusion over the state of the world today. Not that we could solve world problems as a group of ten. It was a comfort to realize others in the world share my confusion.

Not that the class participants come from similar backgrounds. Not at all. A married couple from Sacramento. Two sisters from an Asian country. Two sisters from a high Sierra mountain community. Two gentleman raised on the high desert. A Hawaiian. And me. Diversity is a complicated word. With similar skin tones, you couldn’t find a room full of people raised in more unlike environments. Each person had their own set of cultural values, slightly different from the next. God and our little town made us a mismatched family of sorts.

Sharing thoughts and questions brought such depth to an hour. I chose well in this little desert church. Like everything else in town, the simple weather-beaten building on Main Street doesn’t begin to reveal the warmth and friendship just waiting for those that walk through the door.

Ill-equipped with any deep Biblical knowledge , my time was spent absorbing background information on people like David and Job. During my youth, I learned all the main stories, riveting and wonderful. But, smaller, more delicate lessons I never heard. These classmates share Biblical names and their relevance as easily as they breathe. How magical to watch the Bible come alive during our study sessions, creating a morning pleasant and informative.

After class, I had a little time to kill before making my way to The Palms, so I stopped by a new boutique on 85A. Windy West is a darling little shop that carries a collection of casual clothing. In the darling store, I picked out a cute navy romper. I’m going to save it for my Girl’s Gone Wild vacation with Miss Firecracker in less than two weeks.

It was then a sweet woman entered the store, a counselor at a local Mental Health facility. It turns out her puppy has been driving her nuts. Five months old, her main complaints took me back two years to my experiences with Oliver. A puppy is like bringing a newborn into your life. I remember getting up every two hours for nighttime potty breaks for Oliver. Scared little whimpers brought me out of a dead sleep to race to his side. The night he was neutered, he and I slept in the rocking chair. I’m such a sucker for his superb acting skills.

In between laughter and true exasperation, we shared our frustrations about our little dachshund friends. We plan to meet for a puppy play date at some point. I hope that comes true because she was such a lovely woman. I can’t wait to meet her silly little puppy. A counselor friend sounds refreshing and helpful.

When the time arrived for lunch, I was famished. Taco Tuesday didn’t disappoint. Carnitas (pork) Street Tacos were delicious. The conversation was delightful and basic. Always fun to get to know someone new and different. Everyone has a story.

Once home, the nicest thing occurred. I received a review of a story I submitted to a contest. Entitled “The Dance”, it was a favorite story of mine about a young boy, bold and defiant, who became one of my all-time favorite students. I can see him in my mind’s eye, trying this and that to get my goat, which he did, many times. But, by the end of the year, through mutual patience, we became dear friends.

When entering my story, I chose to receive a review by professional writers. I was pretty sure it would be a computer generated review with a few standard remarks, lacking insight or personal reflection. Wrong, I received the following email. A one page review, the grammar and punctuation were irrelevant to me. The following words were worth their weight in First Place Ribbons to me.

“After reviewing your story, we wanted to let you know, we ALL LOVED “The Dance”. Although it wasn’t selected as a winner, we wanted to let you know it touched our hearts. Great Job.”

Not first place winner? Ha. Even better. Writer with fans.

Bible stories in my head, a new navy romper, and tacos in my tummy, yesterday filled my happy heart. It doesn’t get better than that! Have a wonderful day!!!

Not being a fan of lotions and potions, sunscreen is worthless to me. Farming for so many years, lotions interfered with my natural, God-given ability to perspire, evaporate, and cool. I had no desire to hinder a deep rich tan, even if it was the farmer variety. I was lucky enough to have skin that wasn’t prone to sunburn. My tan deepened while working each day, not from hours of idol sunning at a lake or ocean beach.

VST and I were always representing his company by attending various fund raisers. These events were lavish affairs in which one was expected to dress appropriately. In my retired world, I hope never to endure the boredom of another fund raiser in my life. Perfect smiles showing pearly whites, peacock-y princes protected their plastic princesses. Bodies occupied seats for charity while enjoying the booze and tax write offs. I detested these events, but as a supporting wife, I would go as VST’s arm candy.

After a week of waking at 4:00 AM to irrigate 40 acres, teaching twenty 3rd graders, wife-ing and mom-ing, an evening EVENT of any kind was the last place I wanted to be. This was complicated by the dreaded question. What to wear? Hob-nob-ing with the elite of the San Joaquin Valley was stressful. My department store duds couldn’t compete with their polished San Francisco designer looks. Knowing that, I stayed with winter black on black, and summer colors to complement my tan.

That presented another problem. Irrigating for months in the blazing sun, I did have a lovely tan. Not prone to alligator skin or moles, my skin turned a rich golden bronze. The kind of tan the rich ladies bought at the salon. At the time, I had great legs and arms from walking the avenue and helping with farm chores, while they got theirs from repetitions at the gym. The difference was my with tanning pattern. I had a Farmer-Girl Tan. To the ME in my late 30’s or early 40’s, this became more problematic than I find it to be in my present day Age of the Crone.

Farmer-Girl-Tans are troublesome when you want to show off great legs with strappy little kitten heels. My usual farm footwear was sensible sneakers with low socks. This created feet as white as as the driven snow. At Size 11, that’s a snowdrift of blinding whiteness. T-shirt sleeves protected really great shoulders and décolletage just as white as the feet, (I’ve been told mine is FLAWLESS by my lecherous old dermatologist). Longer shorts kept the thighs from tanning. Chosen attire would need provide coverage to these unpigmented areas.

In the winter, the tan faded and clothing covered those areas. Summertime was another story, adding to the stress of planning. VST had exactly the same problem, but, being a devastatingly handsome man, his clothing hid all the white, and his bronze tan, fabulous physique, and stunning grey hair had heads turning.

These days, spending so many hours in the hot tub, my tan is fabulous, with not a mole or blemish anywhere. Using similar one piece swimsuits for uniform coloration, there’s no t-shirt tan or snowy-white feet. Just bronze arms and legs that look great in sundresses and sandals. Aside for a wrinkle here and a bat wing there, one small issue has arisen. I’ve developed a new tan, referred to as The Shark tan.

Sitting in the hot tubs for hours and hours, the front side of everything is nice and tanned. But the back isn’t as bronzed, because of the sitting position. Hence, some parts are tanned, some parts are less so, similar in appearance to the Great White. (Google an image of a Great White and you’ll more easily understand). Obviously, I have way too much time on my hands to even notice this. But, notice it I have. At a quick glace, from head to toe, the tan is lovely enough.

Relaxing in the sunshine, I produce my own Vitamin D, a vital ingredient in the fight against Covid. Vitamin D also helps our bodies absorb calcium and phosphorous. A lack of Vitamin D can cause soft, weak bones or worse, osteomalacia. Who wants that???

Certain sunscreens were pulled from the market this week, containing identified carcinogens like Benzene. Bad stuff. I’ll take my chances with Mother Nature as I bulk up on Vitamin D. With Size 11’s to trip over, I want my bones to have every chance of survival in case of a trip and fall. For one more summer, I’m enjoying sun dresses, sandals and my long hair. Tanned, even if a bit shark-ish, the new look makes the desert heat a little more bearable.

With just a little more than a week until Miss Firecracker and I enjoy our Girls Gone Wild Reunion, Summer 2021 is proving to be full of escapades. Stay tuned for news on the latest.

There is nothing better than a proper party in which the hostess has thought of the smallest details. Decorations on top of pretty tablecloths, with doo-dahs and frill everywhere. Such was the case on Tuesday night as I attended the annual service club dinner honoring new members. Attendees actually dressed up for the occasion, in respect for the service club to which we all belong.

My little town has the sweetest Community Center. Sitting on the Middle of Main and Center, (the heart of any town), its wooden-framed form speaks of a different time and place. Some would suggest the need for a new and glitzy building like the Senior Center here in town. If this ever becomes a possibility, I’d chain myself to the building in protest. There are some buildings that need to be preserved in their old age. This is one.

It’s not Victorian with frilly gingerbread and lace. Shoe boxed shape, it faces Center, not main. Next to the Mazatlán’s, the Mexican restaurant, parking is limited. I parked in front of Old Town Fix and Spin Automotive and Tires, across the street. Closing the doors for the night, Sam, the owner, was at the dinner along with everyone else. Walking up the stairs, while holding onto the galvanized hand rail, I followed footsteps residents have made since the early 1900’s. How many celebrations and town meetings had been held in this old building over the years?

As with every wooden, high desert building, the paint is faded and peeled. Just a fact of life that makes little towns like mine appear shabby. Paint is the first thing to fade and peel off. Once white with blue trim, the harsh climate changed the color scheme to dingy white with light grey trim. Through the weathered door, as I crossed the threshold, tables in a sea of Red, White, and Blue greeted guests. The flooring, (REAL hardwood, not laminate), was scuffed from years of pointy high heels and crusty cowboy boots. High ceilings and double hung windows helped with desert heat over the years. That night, the air conditioning had died again, and fans blew. The 15′ ceilings helped to capture the heat, while fans did their best to expel it.

Wooden walls were wainscoted. And then, there was the stage. Very old curtains hid whatever lay behind. Not in use during our event, ghosts of entertainment-past lingered. The perfect venue for community shindigs. With over 60 in attendance, everyone was delighted to see old friends and neighbors after sheltering in place for over a year. This was a happy event.

Finding a seat next to the club chaplain, I soon realized how many people I could name. Two county commissioners. A city Councilwoman. The chapter President, whom I consider a personal friend. The Secretary. A high-powered realtor in the area. A few neighbors. Not bad for a recluse like myself. Everyone coifed and put together, even though the heat left us melting and sweltering. Panty hose and high heels being requirements of the past, at least we could all relax a little more. My floral dress and flats were practical and yet stylish.

The table decorations were so country I wanted to do a little jig. Mason jars with the tiniest strands of twinkling lights reminded me of springtime fire flies. An evening of fire flies is still on my bucket list, having never seen one. Burlap runners were topped with red and blue ribbons of varying widths. Star striped red, white, and blue. Everything chosen with function and guests in mind. A professional display of patriotic respect for our country.

Within minutes, the darling, intelligent, and oh so bubbly Miss Ninja Neighbor made her entrance. A new member, she’ll be hosting the Annual Yard Sale in less than a month. I’m offering my RV barn for furniture and larger items. Joining me, it was nice to get caught up. She’s one of the busiest people I know, enjoying her own real estate career. Time spent with her is precious and never dull.

To one side, a large silent auction stretched the length of the room. Country at its best, useful and practical items were up for bid. Boxes of bullets worth a premium. Bottles of Crown Royal. Photographs of cattle. An Invicta Watch. Very special wines in bottles (with corks, not screw tops). Hand made this. One-of-a-kind that. Every item waiting to go home with the highest bidder.

BBQ was the centerpiece of the menu, but you probably figured it would be. From a local company, it was delicious. Rolls, homemade beans, and slaw complimented the Brisket and Chicken.

Outstanding in her courage and strength, it was the guest speaker that stole the show. What a gal! Hard to say those words about many public servants. She’s one of the good ones. Working in the State Legislature, she’s had quite a year. Nevada had a great system for many years. Representatives and Senators met once, every other year, for four short months. During that time, new laws were presented, debated, and voted upon in orderly fashion. Those were the days when things worked properly. Both sides worked to make a better middle for everyone, striving for respectful compromise. Sadly, things have changed.

This young profile in courage wouldn’t accept anymore pointless and controlling demands. In chambers, she defied some restrictive rules and paid a heavy price, being censured because she didn’t obey, in lock step with the rest of the sheeple. This gal can think for herself and doesn’t need anyone to do it for her.

Traveling to Washington, DC, she wanted witness the peaceful transfer of power to our nation’s 46th President. Innocently attending the January 6th rally with her family, she enjoyed the day. Sadly, she’s since been singled out as an attendee of the rally. She and her family were not part of the group who rushed the capital, they merely stood in a crowd at a rally. And yet, she now pays a heavy price.

Her days are now filled with “friendly” and continued visits from the FBI and false public narratives about her character and intentions. All this because she was brave enough to love her state and represent constituents in her tiny county. All this because she visited Washington, DC as regular citizens do every day.

As she spoke, strength, courage, and love of country came across in her message. A plea for peace, patience, awareness, thoughtfulness, and courage were included in her words of hope. She’s a public servant who isn’t typical. I won’t forget her beautiful message and smile any time soon. Prayers for her family’s return to normalcy.

The evening ended with a desert of brownies and cookies.

I left that night feeling my healthy roots growing deeper. This is MY little town. Friendships take time to develop, and mine are growing. Small town friendliness warms the heart and soul. I’m so blessed to have found this dusty, weather beaten wide spot in the road I call home.

Through the smoke yesterday, I took a walk around the neighborhood. It’s a 25 minute loop through a maze of houses that all look a lot like Winterpast. Each morning, I spy little improvements or changes that’d be nice to try on my own home, while noticing horse poop on the streets. A common summer occurrence, the nightly neighborhood food and water raids of the mustangs cause damage and distress to us human folks.

In my mind’s eye, I imagine karate-chopping residents bursting out of open doors in the wee hours of the morning in raging efforts to shoo them away. Each night, piles of poop trickled with a splash of urine litter the streets, used as sign posts to guide them back. Even the growl of a protective dog doesn’t detour them. Smart enough they are to have learned the fences around here aren’t only to keep them out, but to keep biting dogs in. These animals are very similar to marauding deer, but deer with brains while being four times the size. Cunning and creatively crafty.

With morning breezes resembling Hawaiian trade winds, I pledged to work a little harder on my morning constitutional. Although Winterpast provides a regimen of daily activities, a morning walk provides the opportunity for cardio training. So, plug along I did, weaving around the piles of poop as I headed on my way.

Mustangs do most damage during the night. A terracotta planter told of their visit, absent of flowers freshly planted the day before. Sprinkler pipes broken. Hoof-printed paths over expensively landscaped rock patterns. Costly garden cloth, installed under gravel to keep sage and tumbleweeds at bay, pulled up and shredded looking for the source of the moisture underneath. Adding the ultimate insult, unwanted deposits along the way. Once, VST observed a wild stallion kick our utility trailer for no reason at all. Just because it felt good and it could. Wild and unpredictable, these are not your barn sour nags, but wild animals.

The neighborhood approach to mustang abatement is varied. Some deep pocketed residents have ended the nightly follies by putting up fencing. Black iron, split rail, stone, or white plastic fencing, installed to keep rock yards pristine and untrampled. A little overkill in my opinion, but, too each his own. The real damage these huge animals can do is to wipe out an entire sprinkler system. With water at a premium and repairs not cheap either, some people have opted for the fencing.

There are other houses at which the nightly war between man and beast is in full swing. Ropes circle landscaping held up by stakes or trees, decorated with plastic bags, strips of caution tape, or reflective ornaments. Anything that moves in the night breezeswill startle the mares, stallions , and foals while these family units pilfer as one. Night after night, more inventive deterrents appear. I pledge to live and let live until my yard is under siege. With little food or water in the front, I think I’m safe for now, but, you just never know. The first time one of these beasts clears my fence to nestle in my oasis, there’ll be trouble.

Extreme heat combined with lack of rain intensifies their search for food and water. It’s all about survival. An interesting fact in desert life is that plants such as sage or tumbleweeds are full of water. Weeding around here is a wet experience, each plant brimming with water. Bare handed, I can’t pick more than one without remembering to retrieve my leather gloves as these plants also have sharp thorns and barbs. It’s amazing that anything could munch away on them as the mustangs do. My hands are sore after getting poked just once.

On my walks, I’ve noticed that my garden oasis is one of the last left in the area. As younger families move in, yards transition into decorative stone quarries. Water is needed for dishes and showers more than for peonies and roses. So sad it is that the delights of gardening are lost on the young. Living with rock landscaping for the last 13 years, I need the soothing comfort of green and colorful things in the gardens of Winterpast. The birds appreciate my efforts, even if Oliver is as irritating as a noisy kazoo with his threatening barks. The bird families have learned his short legs and lack of thumbs limit his attacks as they laugh at him and carry on.

One of these nights, I may sit on the front porch and watch as the equine parade passes by. Memories of listening to the middle-of-the-night clippity-clops of hooves coming down A Street in Virginia City make me smile.

Distant. Clip. Less Distant. Clop. Closer. Clip. In front. Clop. Past. Clip. Further. Clop. Down the bend and towards the Canyon. Clippity clop. Into the night. Never a change in pace, just the study rhythm of their journey towards food, water, and safety. Visualizing their movement past our house toward the canyon, somedays I would love to disappear with them to learn their secrets.

VST was with the group of hysterical-ites, being the first on the street to clean up their overnight gifts. If not cleaned up, the next group will mark on top of the pile. And the next. And the next. You get the picture. Pretty soon, the mess has grown into a mass of poop. Another bit of wisdom I now appreciate. VST knew so much about the many things swirling in that big old head of his. The need to eliminate horse poop ASAP was something he wished he’d never knew.

This evening holds promise of fun. In OTP (Out of Town Park, for those of you new to the blog), the monthly Family Movie Night In The Park is returning, featuring treats provided by Joannie’s Ice Cream and Smoothies. Toy Story 4 is the featured movie, causing a need to review the story lines for Toy Story 1-3. It’ll be fun to sit out under the stars and enjoy the sounds of families enjoying a summer’s night. Things are just better in a small town.

Be grateful for all your blessings. Life is rich and wonderful. Enjoy today.

Yesterday was desert hot. The kind of heat that makes you close the windows AND curtains to keep cool. Summer days are the worst. I wilt. I’m not sure of the daytime high, but by 7:00 PM, the outside temp was still 93 degrees. Coupled with choking smoke from the Tamarack Fire, it was miserable. My beloved big blue sky was a hazy mass of soot and smoke.

One great thing about the desert is fluctuations in temperature over a 24 hour period. Take yesterday, for example. Between the high and low, there was a 50 degree spread. Add a nice breeze and early mornings or late evenings become a pleasant time to be outside.

Considering changing my evening plans to an Olympic binge in my living room, I waffled for a moment. However. I DID make chocolate chip cookies. I DID wash and blow dry my hair. It WOULD eventually cool off. Sometimes a girl just needs to buck up and brave the elements. With cookies, chilled waters, a chair and a picnic blanket, I was out the door just before sunset.

Arriving at dusk, activities were in full swing. Businesses in my little town had outdone themselves providing a variety of activities for the littles. A bounce house. Face Painting. A frozen snack vendor. BBQ. And, a raffle.

The local Jeep dealership lent a brand new Jeep pickup complete with lawn chairs for use as a viewing platform during the movie. Along with the truck came a big bucket of popcorn, a tub full of snacks, and a cooler of soft drinks. Raffle tickets, costing $1 each, allowed children a chance to win this premier spot for their evening of fun. Local businesses also prepared a few child friendly baskets to complete the raffle.

Littles had been encouraged to dress as their favorite Toy Story characters. With a patchwork of families snacking on blankets in the dark, the movie began. The desert rests in absolute darkness. One hasn’t experienced night fully until sitting in the desert on a moonless night. Nevada just became the first state in the nation to create Night Sky Preservation Zones. You can’t enjoy the beauty of true big sky starlight if surrounded by artificial light pollution. Until you SEE the difference, you don’t KNOW the difference.

The movie took me right back to the wonderful times I spent with children on Third Grade Movie Days. As periodic rewards for hard work, movies in the classroom bonded my students and me through laughter, good snacks, and fun. Moving the desks and sitting on the floor, we’d focus on the drama or hilarity of the moment, while gasping or laughing in unison. Last night was a similar experience.

It helped that I hadn’t seen the movie. One day on a lunch time pizza run, I’d seen advertisements for both the local Junior Rodeo and Family Movie Night at the Park. Noting both dates, I vowed to myself that I would attend. Independently alone and on my own, to find a few hours of entertainment in the presence of others, even if they were strangers.

Examples of superb parenting and well behaved children gave me hope for the future. Looking around, I smiled at the adorable cherubs behaving themselves while having fun. There is nothing more enjoyable than that. Throughout the night, not once did I reach for my whistle, retired to my jewelry box so long ago. All eyes were on the movie.

If you haven’t seen Toy Story 4, it gets rave reviews. As a 65 year old adult woman, I found it totally entertaining.

When the last of the credits finished, the park was quickly returned to its resting state, cleared of any sign that people had enjoyed an event there. Not a cup or can was left. People cleaned up and cleared out with some of the youngest attendees sleeping soundly as they were carried to their cars.

Driving at night isn’t something I do very often, always being mindful of horses. In the desert darkness I mentioned before, they are in front of you before you can brake. Sure enough, coming around the corner on my way home, three neighborhood marauders plodded along the center divide. With no urgency to scurry off the road, they took their sweet time to clip clop along. A very good thing the speed limit is 25 mph in town. Even better is the fact that I’m a cautious driver.

I’ll be scanning the local bulletin boards for more small town events. With school back in session, I plan to follow our high school football team and attend some home games. For now, Bible Study and Church await. Have a great day. Take a few minutes today to watch some of our finest athletes do their best to bring home the gold. Go Team USA.

Everyone has one. The neighbor that just won’t let up, even a little. You know they’re very interested in the private antics occurring just over the property line. They have opinions that drift over the fence, one after the other, until you realize their opinions are toxic to a healthy gardening experience. One exists in my utopian world of Winterpast. He lurks just past the sturdy white plastic fencing, cursing my trees and the never ending rain of debris from my 30 foot junk tree.

Being OOLD (old-old), his expansive RV barn stands empty. Age and health robbed him of the ability to hit the roads across America. That’s a bitter pill to swallow, for sure. His building, like mine, is now used for other purposes. He keeps his yard in tip top shape, scurrying out to snip unwanted weeds growing here and there. Being an original owner, his first round of trees died long ago, quickly replaced with youngsters. Scanning the world for dangers that could harm his canine companion, he spotted the immense and dreaded owl that has taken up residence in the very messy and hated junk tree keeping Fido from exercising on the back yard. Thoughts fester in his gut, as he peers out his window, clutching Fido and thinking dark thoughts about THE TREE.

He hates this tree of mine with a passion. To tell you the truth, except that it is the biggest wild Russian Olive tree I’ve ever seen, I’m getting tired of the mess, too. But, not to the point of removal. This 30 foot tree is a desert gem. It glowed for me in the winter sunrise. It’s home to my bird families and the owl. Messy or not, it stays until its death. As one landscaper told me, you don’t remove large trees in the desert. It’s taken them a lot to survive to maturity.

Last year, I was out enjoying the back yard. The apricot tree had finished dropping fruit and stood as stately as a banyan. In the premier position, right of center in the gardens, I was studying which limbs would be removed next, to accentuate its protective shape and shade qualities. The lowest branches are now forehead level over the path. Hazardous to a distracted gardener.

“Hey,” the short word drifted past me on the breeze.

How nice that neighbors were out on such a pretty day! Normally, the only sounds heard were the wind and birds. Wishing I knew the fence neighbors better, I continued puttering around the yard.

“Psst.”

“Hello???? Are you out there.”

After the third attempt, I realized a set of eyeballs were peering at me over the back fence. Never having seen the entire neighbor to this day, if we were in Walmart, I wouldn’t know him. But his eyes, I met that morning.

Being a new widow homeowner of a house I didn’t yet know or trust, nervousness about the unknown would take over at times. So many things could be breaking while I looked on unknowingly. VST would always be on guard for those sorts of things. He was on the hunt for sagging doors or appliances that weren’t humming just right. His knowledge and awareness had saved us thousands in costly repairs. Now, it was all on me. Mr. Bright and Chipper over the Fence had a few worries to add to the pile.

“Hi there! A nice day for gardening, eh?” With pleasantries, I soon understood he was on a mission to test my faith.

Had it been disclosed that the water pipes in my house were Pex Tubing and involved in a class action suit? Was I aware they could burst wide open at any time, raining on my little world? Blah, dee, blah, dee, blah-dee-blah-blah.

Yes. I knew. Disclosed before purchase, that little fact is sitting in the back of my brain. Just as easily as it could fail, the system could continue delivering water for the next 50 years. Part of the great unknown of homeowning. The website for reimbursement forms from the Class Action Settlement ,should failure occur, is bookmarked and ready.

That little fact shared, he went on, being the helpful guy that he is.

“That apricot tree’s a big one, there. Had one just like it. Grew that big and died.”

A stab to my heart without knowing, I tried to nod and smile just a little

“Well, mine is certainly doing well. Has a small crop this year.”

He wasn’t done yet. The REAL reason for contact was next.

“This tree right here? It’s a junker. Watched it grow from a twig. Sure drops a lot of stuff. It’d be great to …. (pregnant pause)…. CUT. IT. DOWN.

Okay, Eyeball Guy. Hold the phone right there.

Trees in my yard, as in all 35 of them, are like children to me. They give homes to my birds and the garden fairies that’ve certainly helped them grow so big and strong over the years.

NO. ONE. WOULD. EVER. CONVINCE. ME. TO. REMOVE. MY. LIVING. TREES. Junk Volunteers or otherwise, Black Olive was safe with me.

PERIOD.

Of course, I didn’t respond to Mr. Fussy Pants in that way. Being neighborly, I thanked him for all his words of happy encouragement, and then promptly returned to my house and proclaimed, “Over my cold, dead body.”

In the last 15 months, I’ve loved trimming my junk tree. Watering it lovingly. I haven’t minded cleaning up the nasty little debris that falls from it’s beautiful yet junk tree limbs. It has thorns I ignore. True, it’s a messy one, but, it’ll live on until it decides to die.

Yesterday, the little man was sneaking around cutting off limbs on the backside of my tree from his yard. Trimming a little much, there is a nice round spy hole from through which we will both choose to observe a stand off. I hope he finds peace in his little world, needing to control the uncontrollable. He obviously doesn’t understand the “Her-ricane” that lives just beyond his fence. I’ll wave as I get into the hot tub, while praying he finds peace and happiness in his own beautiful yard.

A concerned and nosey neighbor. Everyone has one. Now you’ve met mine.

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. . For by it the men of old gain approval. (Hebrews 11:1 NASB). My faith has been tested lately in ways for which I’m sorely ill-prepared. Curve balls can catch a girl off guard, especially when they keep coming, one after the other.

My Mother-In-Love, Joann, was one of a kind. She taught me so much about life. She was a MOM in every since of the world. Not overbearing, but wise. She wouldn’t advise unless advice was requested. Secrets shared with her were honored and kept safe. Over the years, she became MY Joann. I had a Mom, but MY Joann was someone all together different. She had a wonderful sense of humor, but more than that, a strong direction in life. She walked in Faith like no other person I’ve every known. Joann was the embodiment of Faith.

When Cancer came knocking for the second time after decades of silence, she wasn’t shaken a bit. She began a walking program. A deteriorating spine caused her continuous pain, but, on she walked. While chemo made her weak, walk through it she did. Every morning, even in dense Tule fog, she took slow and steady steps up and down the empty country road bordering our ranch. Cane in hand, with hat on her little bald head, she walked until she couldn’t walk anymore.

VST and I adored her. She had not a need or wish that remained unfulfilled. We made a home for Jack and Joann across the drive from ours, and spent long hours visiting on the porch VST build for that very purpose. Porch therapy, we called it. After a day of work and dinner, we’d see them take their seats in the evening breeze, and we’d join them. A beautiful and unspoken devotion between the four of us blossomed as the years flew by.

One day, Joann needed to go to town for supplies. If you’re a country person, you’re familiar with the term, “going to town”. In our case, town was about 25 minutes away. Everything a normal family needs is IN TOWN. In the 1900’s, with no internet shopping, you actually went to the store. Such a concept. Farming gave cause for many trips to town purchasing everything from dog food to oil for the tractor. “Going to town” might involve the funeral of a dear farmer friend, or a trip to the dentist. But, every week, multiple trips to “town” were necessary.

On that Saturday, we all jumped in the car to lunch at Castillo’s, a favorite Mexican restaurant of ours. Needing a few things, Walmart, was our next stop. After a trip around the store, we paid and got back to the car. With her back sore, getting settled in the car took a bit of effort. We’d all belted up when she realized something.

“Uh-Oh. I left my purse in the basket.”

VST was the best son. He never lost his cool or patience. He just unclipped his seat belt and got out to retrieve her purse. Except, he couldn’t. It was already stolen.

The drive back to the ranch was quiet. Joann DID make one statement that caused VST and I to wince.

“No worries. My purse will come back to me. Jesus will make this right.”

In her purse she carried life’s identification. California Identification, Medicare, Insurance, Pharmacy, and Social Security cards, and other documents related to her cancer treatments. Everything she needed to continue receiving medical care was in her purse along with credit cards and $40. She smiled on the way home while humming an old time Gospel hymn. She never cried or fretted. Joann hummed in faith, while the rest of us catastrophized in our brains, with good reason.

Each day, for about a week, VST became less patient, as he made call after call. First, she would need to prove her identity. Difficult to do, as she was born in a little cabin by a lake in Oklahoma. She would need her Social Security number, which she didn’t remember. She would need to wait two weeks for a replacement credit card, her only one. The list went on and on. While VST did the leg work, Joann had one reply.

“My wallet will come back to me. Jesus will send it back.”

After a day or two of this, VST and I weren’t feeling much faith in the matter. However, Joann NEVER waivered in her statement. It was as if her documents had already been returned.

Living in the country, everyone has their own mail box. Mail delivery is at the same time every day, often the highpoint. In the days of snail mail, people would anticipate receiving hand written letters from a relative or the newest picture of a grandchild living far away. Mail was special.

One week after the loss, Joann was returning from her walk. She checked their mail box, even though mail delivery wasn’t for some time yet. I heard a muffled cry from the road, and hurried outside, fearing she had fallen, or worse.

“Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Jesus!” she cried, her arms stretched toward the sky.

Standing next to the road was My Joann. Hands held heavenward, she had the biggest smile. When she saw me, she started waving. She was holding something. Not too big. Not too small. It appeared to be a regular envelope.

That evening, the kitchen table held the contents, as she sat in faith.

“I told you. Jesus would make this right.”

One empty and unmarked envelope. One driver’s license. One Medicare card. Insurance cards. Original Social Security card. One Credit Card. Appointment documentation with dates and times for continued treatment. Everything lost, except the $40, in one unaddressed unsealed white envelope. Her life had been returned to her anonymously, just as in her unwavering faith, she knew it would be. If I hadn’t been a witness to this, I would’ve found it impossible to believe.

Joann didn’t BELIEVE it or WISH it to be true. She ENVISIONED and KNEW it would be returned through her profound faith. In doing so, she never broke a sweat, while the rest of us tried every earthly way to right the wrong that had occurred. She just waited on God’s time.

I hope someday my faith is even a little of what I witnessed with Joann. I miss her every day, always being thankful to her for the gift of VST, the most precious gift she could’ve ever shared with me. She is loved fiercely by her family to this day. VST and I were the lucky ones that enjoyed nightly porch therapy and her embodiment of Faith. Jesus made things right, Joann. He surely did.

After so many months in isolation wondering if I’d ever meet friends, my relationship garden as suddenly bloomed anew. I’m truly blessed. Finding my little country church has not only helped me grow spiritually, but also to grow as a valued community member and friend. This week, it’s evident. I belong in this sweet little town. Home Means Nevada. Winterpast is mine.

It all started when a church girlfriend invited me to play cards with her group at the Senior Center. Filled with eager anticipation, I looked forward to meeting a group of chatty women anxious to size up someone new to the community. A “Newbie” is always of interest with women in the know. I’m no different in that respect. I’d be honored to be their “Newbie”. Besides, they’d clue me in to important survival tactics. Always trust a card-player to know things.

Intimidated, I joined them at the game table. Four women examined their cards as seriously IRS auditors. This wasn’t just any old card game, but an intense coterie of four playing a game called “Hand and Foot”. They explained, in as few words as possible, the game was a form of Canasta. That’s when my heart fell. NOT CANASTA!!!!! I’d failed before I began.

Challenge me to a rip roaring game of “War” or “Go Fish”? I’m your partner! A lightning fast game of Bunco, I’m in. But, Canasta???? One needs to think. You need to remember who holds what and cards already played while using 13 decks at once. Helmet-ed by silver hair, my subdermal blonde roots, originating deep into my brain, were misfiring. These women took turns explaining all THEIR rules, which differed from hundreds of versions of the game. Drat. I couldn’t even study for weeks to understand this. Tailor-made rules.

Watching for an hour, I tried to understand the purpose of the “Foot” and in what order the “Hand” was played. Never mind the rule that you got an extra 100 points if you picked up exactly 22 cards to begin the game. And yes, one of the ladies did get the bonus. Never have I ever, and I probably won’t ever again. These women are way above my mental ability. After an hour, I thanked them for letting me watch. I’m happy to report I have three new friends, along with the friend that invited me.

When leaving, I found the August activity flier on display near the door. Yoga. Line dancing. Exercise. Bingo. Scrapbooking. Art Journaling. Choir. Cooking. Knitting. Quilting. All long with lunch for $2.00. Such a deal. An autumn writing class is needed. I just happen to know a pretty good author that would love to offer her services.

At the Tee Pee Bar and Grill, it was fun to visit Waitress Diane. Getting to know people is an art. Finding my way as a real desert gal, I’m meeting other women that are similarly content. Not a lot of high fashion skirts and stilettos in these parts. Nope. Just casual clothing that breathes as the temperature soars.

The lunch tab arrived way to soon. There’s always much to learn when lunching with a new friend. After 15 months, it’s refreshing to realize I’m not the newest kid on the block anymore.

Women are unique and powerful individuals bringing intelligence, intuition, and grace into their worlds. Distinctive gifts we have to share. How refreshing it is to acknowledge the differences between each other, appreciating the innate beauty and purpose found in each.

Official Song Of The State Of Nevada

_{Lyrics and Music by Bertha Raffetto}

Way out in the land of the setting sun,

Where the wind blows wild and free,

There’s a lovely spot, just the only one

That means Home, Sweet Home to me.

If you follow the old Kit Carson trail,

Until desert meets the hills,

Oh you certainly will agree with me,

It’s the place of a thousand thrills.

Home means Nevada, Home means the hills,

Home means the sage and the pine.

Out by the Truckee, silvery rills,

Out where the sun always shines,

Here is the land which I love the best,

Fairer than all I can see.

Deep in the heart of the gold west

Home means Nevada to me.

Whenever the sun at the close of the day,

Colors all the western sky,

Oh my heart returns to the desert grey

And the mountains tow’ring high.

Where the moon beams play in the shadowed glen,

With the spotted fawn and doe,

All the live long night until morning light,

Is the loveliest place I know.

Home means Nevada, Home means the hills,

Home means the sage and the pines,

Out by the Truckee’s Silvery rills,

Out where the sun always shines,

There is the land that I love the best,

Fairer than all I can see.

Right in the heart of the golden west,

Home means Nevada to me.

******California has a state song, too.

Pales in comparison, IMHO.

Home Means Nevada. For me, a truth.

Defined by these three powerful words, they swirl around my head each day. In so many ways, my identification has been bound by them for decades. Intertwined with Should-s, Shouldn’t-s, Why-Not’s, and Maybe’s, they govern my actions like judgmental sentries as I’m try to decide which one defines the real WOMAN in me. It’s for this reason, the Sisterhood books in my first trilogy will hold bare the titles WIFE, WOMAN, WIDOW, with Widow the first to be published .

Presently, WOMAN is the biggest challenge, giving me a run for my money. Discovering I’ve no idea how to WOMAN, I’d much prefer to Gal, Tom Boy, or trot along with my own version of life. To successfully WOMAN is a tough job, indeed. At 65.5, I’m confused about the requirements and societal expectations of the role for the YOLD (Young Old) female in 2021.

At my age, health is the key to success in any endeavor. Keenly aware of the functions and complaints of the body I’ve been given, I must say, it’s performing well for a high mileage chassis. Grateful for this, I’m aware that at any time, I could spring a leak or blow a tire. Heck, I could drop a headlight. I try to avoid roads that are too pitted or dangerous for an old goat like me. But, in this day and age, road signs are difficult to read or missing all together. I think some might be in Chinese. GPS directions can run a girl astray and stranded on a one way street towards disaster.

In some ways, I might be considered a barn find. Hidden away for decades, I’ve been kept out of the ravages of the elements. Protected and valued by the best husband and family, I know what it’s like to be cherished and truly loved. Truly blessed, I marveled at every dream come true as life unfolded. I value my rare qualities. They won’t be shared with someone that doesn’t fear God and truth, even when inconvenient. I find the Swamp Creatures of the Senior Citizen dating world avoid inconvenience at any cost. It’s their kryptonite. Swamp Creatures. We’ll touch on that subject in an upcoming post. For now, avoid them at all costs.

This is Vintage Vixen is goal driven, again attempting to update the exterior with one new outfit that screams 2021 rather than the late 1900’s. Sporting my zippy new hair cut, I’ve promised myself that I’ll spent at least one hour perusing store manikins, choosing to buy a complete look. There must be at least one headless example of trendiness that would look compliment my plump-ish frame.

Next, a new pair of flats is on the list, as my “Go-Toes” are adorable and comfy for a woman a bit older than myself. I can do better, not needing Red Bottoms to pull off a look. Just some cute flats in which to line dance, with best intentions to learn how and go often. Flats, because I’m finding that at 5’5″, I’m considered tall in the dating world.

A new piece of jewelry, as much as I hate it. Jewelry. I don’t understand sparkly baubles. I overheard two women at Bible study as they discussed diamonds and the women that say they don’t like them. (I’m one.)

“What kind of woman doesn’t love Diiiiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaammmmmmoooooonnnnnnddddsss? (Hello? Me?)

“THEY can’t AFFORD them.” (Not true, in my case.)

“They go with EVERYTHING.” (Not potting soil, or star gazing on a moonless desert night.)

Not intending to buy diamonds, I can at least buy something trendy to complete the look. It can’t involve earrings, though. I’ve no need to punch holes through perfectly good earlobes. Besides, earrings would distract from my eyes. No need. Sophisticated, flowing, and luxurious, my naturally highlighted grey hair hides my ears, anyway. A wasted effort in my case.

Today. One look. That’s the plan. One new sassy look that screams 2021. One head turning look that turns heads as I turn the corner on WOMAN’s WAY. That’s the mission for today.

Autumn is such a better season for me. The bat wings can be captured in long sleeves. The knee droopage concealed under flattering jeans. Turtlenecks do cover up my perfect and flawless décolletage, (the dermatologist raved about mine) but, in life there are trade offs. With the temps still hovering at triple digit level, the Great Cover UP will need to wait a little longer. Shop to Pop!!!!! Stay tuned.

Good morning, DearReaders,

Miss Firecracker and I are having the time of our lives. So much music, only so much time to dance. And, well, there was the small issue of the broken table….It looked sturdy…..

We’re off to a day at the spa today to refresh and rejuvenate.

I’ll be back on Tuesday to discuss Swamp Creatures, The Used Car Lot of Life, and so much more.

Joy

There’s nothing like a few days away to improve an attitude, especially if time spent involves one Miss Firecracker!! Normally isolated, it was refreshing to enjoy a normal vacation, in which all vacationers behaved normally. Bustling and crowded, the resort made me feel I was back in pre-pandemic days, except for the masks. Nevadans must wear them inside, AGAIN.

Miss Firecracker, with her wit and wisdom, is a one-of-a-kind BESTIE of the BEST KIND. There are some people in life that you need, like oxygen. She is mine. Getting caught up on the OOHHH’s and AAHHH”s of life, there were plenty of smiles and lots of laughs. Rooming together, our antics went late into the night, well past my normal bedtime.

Together, we could almost conjure up our late husbands through shared memories. Members of the same service organization, we spent time getting to know each other well. We camped together, for goodness sakes. After a successful camping trip, people become family. Campfires do that, melting the group into one gooey S’more of stories. The four of us shared many camping trips. VST and Baily’s were surely observing from on high this weekend, laughing at our antics, while wishing they could be on the other side of the room, their deep voices booming like thunder.

Miss Firecracker and I are Alpha Females. We draw attention with our stunning beauty and strong attitudes. Controlling our own lives, we’re what you’d consider, A CATCH. Women of Means. Ladies. Seasoned Queens of our own destiny. Quite frankly, we’re lovely. We don’t settle for anything less than lives we’ve planned for ourselves. Independent and fierce, weak men are intimidated. Just as well, because, quite frankly, we’re used to lives with our Alpha Males. Each having been half of a power couple, anything less would bore us to tears.

Visiting with such a friend, I remembered the woman I was when I met her. A “+1”. Arm candy for the member of a prestigious Men’s Service Organization, I was somebody’s Lady. At the time, that was a nice person to be. Today, it’d never be enough. Traveling through widowhood for the last 16 months, I’m so much more than a pretty face. VST always knew and appreciated that. It was ME that lost touch with my strength and courage. Complacent, I became the “Little Woman”. I smile at the ME I was, and some days, cringe at the ME I’ve become. All part of assembling a new and improved self as I pick up the pieces and move on, finding what works and what doesn’t.

On Saturday, Miss Firecracker had planned a wonderful day for us. At 9 AM, we presented ourselves at the Spa for Swedish relaxation. If you haven’t been to a 5-STAR spa at least once in your lifetime, you must. There are spas in every town. At least technicians that give a satisfying massage. But, a 5-STAR spa has all the bells and whistles. Things you didn’t even know you needed, but will need after experiencing them.

Only the finest spas can afford the finest amenities such as a vibrating massage table, set to music. Truly heaven made. In a dimly lit room, like candlelight, the fifty minutes of bliss commenced. My massuer, Lawrence, (no, I could never consider him “Larry”, he was definitely Lawrence), was skillful and respectful, applying capable and masterful techniques. As the music played, the table would vibrate with notes at different frequencies. The vibrations were so subtle they could easily have been missed. Warm vibrating table. Warm lotions. Warm neck pillow. Warm knee support. Soothing fountain’s soothing splish-ity splashes. All wrapped up in 50 blissful minutes.

Lumps of warmed butter, both, we met back in the Salt-Therapy room. White leather chairs with large ottomans lined the dimly lit room. A large cascade of salt water cascaded down one glass wall. Attendants brought iced water for our parched lips. All that was missing were tall hunky guys to fan us. Our spa day was just beginning.

Invited to use the facilities for the rest of the day, we took the elevator to the 4th floor, a step closer to heaven. There, private pools, Jacuzzi’s, waitresses, and an outdoor lounging deck awaited us. Everything clean and beautiful. Private for those of us that had purchased a treatment. Like kids in a candy shop, we tried everything. We were inside. Then outside. Going back inside to explore more, we found a metal door resembling a utility closet. On the door were the words, “Quiet Room”.

Entering, we found peace. Extremely dark, the space was lined with white leather Zero Gravity lounge chairs. Each chair, with the push of a button (and a little effort and giggling), went into position. Yes. Zero Gravity is a real thing, placing feet much higher than head. Positioned this way, we then focused on the stunning video display of the heavens. Crystal clear, the enhanced video showcased the big Nevada night skies. Star lit and stunning. Everything in this room comforted the spirit, all behind an uninviting door marked, “Quiet Room”.

In peace, I leave you for now. Enjoy the soft tones of music. The perfect temperature. Your feet suspended higher than your head in Zero Gravity. Quietly, I slip out of the room. Enjoy your rest, because, tomorrow, I’ll share the rest of the story.

Miss Firecracker and I understand each other. Strange, because we aren’t chronological contemporaries. Our thoughts and beliefs intersect at key points bringing us laughter or tears. She’s a great sounding board for so many of life’s deep questions, knowing when to answer or just give a knowing glance. A friend in need is a friend, indeed. She’s my BESTIE.

After sharing the stars and the moon in Zero Gravity, we moved on to lunch. Like royalty, our own wait staff took orders and invited us to the terrace for Mimosa’s, while lunch was prepared. Sunning ourselves, we never ran out of topics for discussion.

The terrace was filled women of different ages. Groups congregated in the private pool, or sat on terrace lounges. Everyone was enjoying sunshine and the normalcy of a spa day. Nothing normal about this spa, it had been closed for almost a year. Special it was to enjoy something that hadn’t been available for so long. After purchasing a service, the facilities were available to us until 9PM. I didn’t realize we could have returned even if we left the spa. But, then, Miss Firecracker had a full day planned for us.

Lunch arrived, healthy and delicious. After a few hours of pampered bliss, we decided to find the rest of our group. Downstairs, her daughter, Miss Firecracker’s Mini Me, was tanning her beautifully skinny self by the main pool. She’d saved lounge chairs poolside. Making our way through the children was refreshing. Kids. They’ve paid the ultimate price through Covid and the ways of this crazy world. These kids were having fun. Not a few kids. Lots and lots of sweet children.

As a retired teacher, I noticed one very important point for second time in as many weeks. Covid and home schooling has helped parents become parents again. Although the pool could’ve been a watery sea of chaos and unruly children, it wasn’t. The sweetest kids played nicely with each other. Mindful that parents were watching, they behaved. And, yes, I noticed parents that WERE watching. My Movie in the Park experience last week was similar. Parents being parents, but allowing children to be children. Refreshing.

Mini Me is equally as delightful as Miss Firecracker. A bold, fierce, and smart executive, this woman is a witty, funny and beautiful life force. Miss Firecracker, you taught her well, my dear.

Sunning by the pool, the question on my mind was, “Why Have I Not Enjoyed This Resort On A Routine Basis?” Laying in the sun while listening to the guests, I realized a 5-Star experience exists less than an hour away from Winterpast. This will join the list of my monthly activities.

Visiting with Mini Me, time passed and the blazing sun finally got the best of us. Our strength would be needed for the last of Miss Firecracker’s plans. A dinner at the best restaurant in town, with reservations made months before.

Dinner was one I’ll never forget. Served by two waiters, not one, we were pampered and treated to epicurean delights. Of course, Miss Firecracker stole the show, especially when I clued in the waiters that she was, indeed, THE Miss Firecracker. Delicious food. Excellent service. Friendship extraordinaire. In a flash, we were enjoying Baily’s and Coffee topped with fresh whipped cream. A beautiful evening in an exquisite restaurant with my Bestie. It doesn’t get better than that.

VST was always curious about girl weekends, ask, “What did you do?” It’s hard to describe to a man the value of conversing with a girlfriend. Men sit together, often not exchanging a word. But, women. We’re different. We gab, gasp, groan, laugh, cry, commiserate, and gossip. That could all occur in the first fifteen minutes. We nourish our souls with words from a woman friend that just knows. Supports. Cares. Loves. There is nothing better than that in the world.

Our vacation ended too soon. There are the secret stories we’ll take to the grave. We did need to pay for some damages that occurred on our night out. And, there was the issue with security. Glad Miss Firecracker talks a good story. She saved us more than once that night. Memories will make us laugh for years to come. What happens at the resort, stays at the resort. Rest up, Girlfriend. Until the next time, Thanks for the wonderful weekend. You know. I love you.

It’s amazing just to be alive and breathe. If I’ve learned nothing else in the last 16 months, it’s that lesson. With such a full life of doing, VST and I seldom stopped to enjoy our accomplishments. There were always goals looming. Deadlines. Unfinished projects. The last brick.

VST enjoyed long walks every day. Along the way, he always met new and interesting people, reporting back to me on their stories. Mike was one such person.

Mike and his wife moved to C Street, Virginia City from the Bay Area of California. Their home wasn’t a mansion like DunMovin, but rather a conservative little house with good bones. Mike, being a retired brick layer, began his magic. Each day, VST would talk to him about his progress, brick laying being another skill VST knew a thing or two about. When going to town, we’d drive by Mike’s to see how far he’d progressed, as the scaffolding moved from this wall to that.

Mike built a brick garage, and his progress went on, month after month. Soon, he was working on the side not visible to the road. Each time they visited, VST was more impressed with this man that kept going, one brick at a time. Bricking an entire house perfectly showed who Mike was as a craftsman. VST was in awe of the brick layer’s mad skills.

Long ago, newlyweds still, VST shared his trademark secret with me. Living at the ranch, he’d remodeled a bathroom, laying tile flooring one piece at a time. With such perfection and attention to detail , it was finally complete, except for a small missing piece of tile behind the toilet. Proud of his work, he asked me for my seal of approval, and so, I pointed out the missing tile. A project isn’t done until it is. This wasn’t.

“No, Darlin’. Every project has one last piece left unfinished. Finish that? You’re done.” His reference to “Done” meant DONE. Finished. Time expired. “Put down the trowel and die” kind of done.

This superstition became tiring over the year. I finally broke him of this habit during our renovations in VC. Every project was 100% complete. No missing wood or tile. No unpainted surfaces. Not a crack uncaulked. Every improvement was up to his perfectionist standards, even when he was within three months of dying.

One bright and sunny morning, VST saw Mike for the last time. The scaffolding was empty of brick. The house stood as a tribute to the professional brick layer.

“Yup. Just laid the last brick yesterday. Think I might go fishing today.”

Mike died at week’s end. Dropped over of a heart attack. It was swift and final, leaving Mrs. Mike stunned and in disbelief. A man younger than VST, he didn’t know the secret. Always, leave the job one brick shy of complete. VST would have shared that if he could have seen what was coming. The entire community mourned Mike’s passing.

Reflecting on this, I struggle each day to write a chapter just so, or uncluttered a closet while the real beauty of life sits right outside my door. The garden. The birds. Friends. Mountains. The breezes. Oliver and his antics. Projects will never be completed. Mine are all far from the final brick.

Books are the same way. Each day, I move towards completion of “Widow”. Chapter 1-3 sit printed on my desk, as I trudge on. The last word? Ha. That’ll come with my last breath. There are hundreds of stories to live and then write. Great stories aren’t created while cleaning a closet.

Peace hugs Winterpast these days. While he heat broils on, mask mandates foul my mood. Nothing is as it used to be, but the important things remain the same. Stop to remember the important things. Health. Love. Life. Nature. Smiles. Happiness. A quiet soul. Contentment.

Have a peaceful day today. Fergettabout the last brick. There’s always tomorrow.

My RV barn is a thing of beauty. I could hold church inside the four finished walls. With dimensions of 45’x20’x20′, more than one man has stopped in his tracked to hear angels sing when first seeing the barn. Conjuring up visions and possibilities in people, VST and I chose it to protect our new RV, The White Knight. VST got his RV barn. I got the gardens of Winterpast. Buying this home was an equal Win-Win for us both, although I moved here alone.

When VST died, the fate of The White Knight was certain. I’d never driven it, couldn’t drive it, and therefore, wouldn’t be driving it. At 30′ long, it had to be sold. Meanwhile, the barn kept mourners out of the sun at VST’s memorial service. It’s a place I store household overflow, including the deer head I just can’t discard quite yet.

Yard sales are not my thing. I’ve never held one, or even helped at one. The thought of strangers descending on my quiet little world to pick through-cast offs isn’t something I’d choose to do on the best of days. But, this yard sale is different. It’s for my Political Organization, ripe with friends for the picking.

Politics. Such a nasty and divisive topic. Differences of opinion can severe relationships forever unless you happen to stand on the same side of the great divide. Then, it can be a safe topic of conversation on which to bond. Miss Firecracker had introduced me to this group, urging me to join when I moved here. Being in a Widow’s fog a little longer than I realized, it took some time to connect. But, connections are firing now and this is a group of new friends that’ll anchor me even more securely to my little town.

The group has their biggest fund raiser the third weekend in August. A yard sale. My Ninja Neighbor, a new member to the group, is the chairwoman of THE YARD SALE committee. Such an initiation to the group. Yikes. Loving her as I do, I offered my barn to house the furniture items and she accepted immediately. Another unique use for my wonderful building.

Yesterday, my barn became Yard Sale Central. All the earthly belongings of a heaven bound angel found their way into two pickups and a horse trailer, to be delivered to my barn. With three other deliveries, the barn is stacked high with boxes and furniture. What. Have. I. Done????? You know the old saying, “Stupid is as stupid does.”?

During the afternoon, people arrived as strangers and left as friends. I’ve invited new comrades into Winterpast and my life. I’m one of the gals now, and what wonderful gals we are. So many different personalities, all offering words of encouragement and comfort. There are successful gals. Executives. Business owners. Widows. Wives. Mothers. Daughters. Friends to meet at water aerobics. Friends that like the beach and traveling. Friends with kind eyes. Friends that are funny husbands that adore their beautiful wives. A solid core of like-minded people. No longer can I whine that I’m friend-less-ly new to town . A barn and new gal-pals. It doesn’t get better than that.

The dancers in the group told me of two evenings of square dancing every week. One in my little town and one in the little town 30 minutes East. Two nights of more new friends. Music. A professional square dance caller who happens to be my neighbor.

Wizard of Oz-ish, the door of possibilities opens wider as my town little town turns technicolor. This isn’t California anymore. This is a horse of a different color. There’s no place like home, and this is mine. After all, Home Means Nevada.

My secret vision for the barn is a wonderful star-filled evening, complete with a barn dance. In my life, I’ve helped plan two. Both in a huge ranch barn, never did anyone have as much fun. Hay bales for seating, fiddlers and banjo players strummed while everyone danced the night away. Of course, I can’t host a barn dance. My neighbors would never forgive me.

But, wait just a fiddle plucking minute here.

Maybe they would come?!?!?!?

In the blazing heat, a new friend was admiring the finished barn walls.

“This is the perfect place for a BBQ and barn dance!” the dancer declared, sharing her vision. Meeting her just minutes before, she had no way of knowing mine. None. But. She did.

Another gal mentioned that we should have a “Just Because” party in my back yard. What a delightful idea! “Just Because” we’re alive, happy, healthy, intelligent and beautiful. “Just Because” everyone needs new friends. “Just Because” without friends and parties, what would life be? “Just Because” VST and I loved hosting neighborhood parties. Winterpast and I need a housewarming. Coming together in a storm of sadness, Winterpast watched over me while I cared for her as we both watched Winter Pass. Now, we need to celebrate as one, “Just Because”. I’ll be thinking on this.

Today, the unpacking begins. How fun to “shop” in the barn. I’ve already spied a cute garden stand I’m buying. Guess what? I get to set the price! Let’s see. $1? Sold!!!!!

Living alone, I’m very careful about keeping things locked. Especially at night. VST was our armed sentry, always on watch. I never worried about safety, because he had that handled. Although, two years ago, there was an event that rocked Northern Nevada to its core while robbing me of a sense of innocent safety that I’ll never get back. The Gardnerville/Reno Murders of the winter of 2019.

Vacationing at the beach when the first murder was committed, I could hardly believe the headlines. Connie Koontz, 56, was shot dead in her kitchen. She was just the first, with three more victims to follow over the next nine days. Random, innocent senior citizens were shot and killed in their own unlocked homes. A few days between each murder, with miles and counties separating the crimes, citizens felt bone-chilling fear. Things like this didn’t happen in a place where many people didn’t even lock their doors.

Connie’s big crime was hiring a gardening service. One of the day laborers was an illegal immigrant who noticed more than the weeds. Nice home, with an open garage door. He would return to take her life, sneaking in and catching her unaware and off guard in her own kitchen, as her disabled mother slept quietly in the back room. Shot dead, she would still be alive if only she’d locked her doors. If only.

He stole a few things that Connie would have happily exchanged for her life. Electronic gadgets that the murderer’s mother enjoyed receiving. Her “good, sweet boy” was always bringing home unexpected treasures for her. So thoughtful. Such a good, good boy.

A few short days later and a mile south, Sophia Renkin, 74, was killed in her home. The killer entered through an unlocked door under the cover of darkness. Sophia, startled, put up a struggle. While being shot repeatedly, she tried to escape to safety in her bedroom. Sophia was shot with in the face with a .22 caliber bullet. When that didn’t do the job, the killer shot again and again, in the face and upper torso as she fought for survival, but lost. The cowardly killer didn’t even steal anything from her. Just her life, letting himself out the same way he he’d come in.

Sophia loved antique cars and her horse. She’d planned to see friends the next day. When she didn’t answer the phone after being late, the terrifying discovery was made. Now, two women lay dead, while the communities sheltered in place, fearful of who could be next. Not a ring video or witness had seen the murderer, just a random someone out there.

This monster wasn’t through yet. Fifty miles north, three days later, in the early morning hours he struck again. Sherri David, 81, was in the kitchen when the illegal alien opened fire, killing her. Her husband, Jerry David, 81, was killed next as he dressed for the day. Again, the killer entered through an unlocked door, ambushing them.

Sadly, this piece of human debris had worked with the same gardening service at all three properties. The vile rogue snuck into the David’s unlocked travel trailer and stole the guns that would be used to kill four people days before Connie’s murder. The David’s never even knew their guns were missing.

All elderly, these people were vital members of the community. Jerry and Sherri were active members of the Reno Rodeo Association and beloved community members. In their early 80’s, they still rode their horses as often as they could. Connie was cherished as a great mom, daughter, neighbor, and vital part of her WalMart team, while Sophia was a member of three antique car clubs and a civic minded individual. Sophia was taken from the horse she rode for pleasure. Four beautiful elders were stripped from families, friends, and the communities that loved them so much.

Two years later, the confessed murderer gets his three squares a day, while lawyers fight about his mental competency for a trial. No closure for the family. No justice for the small communities that were terrorized by a common thief stealing items to sell for his next fix. No consequences for the greedy mother that waited at home for her “good, sweet boy” to bring her more gifts. We all wait for justice that may never come.

I check my door locks every single night before I close my eyes. Gates remain locked. My neighborhood is very similar to those of all four victims. One afternoon, I insisted that VST drive by each home. Needing to understand these crimes, I assumed the victims must have lived in undesirable locations. Surely this couldn’t have happened in an upscale neighborhood. I was very wrong. Neat and beautiful, the four murder sites were manicured. But, of course they were. They all hired a gardener who employed illegal day workers.

A doorbell in the night conjures up all kinds of thoughts. I enjoy a neighborhood that’s quiet and remote. The only visitors are invited. After seven, it’s rare that I have company. Sad, but true. Last night, the bell rang. Dusk was turning to dark as I shouted out “Who’s there?”

No answer.

Wondering if a neighbor needed help, I slithered to the front window, peering out the blinds to see no one. Having an alcove by the front door, danger could be lurking there.

Calling out again, I received no answer.

Becoming more brave, I went to the sidelight next to the front door to gain a better view.

There, a small note and plant sat on the front porch. Murderers don’t usually come with flowers, do they? Relieved, I opened the door and retrieved the plant and card.

Ninja Neighbor! I love her so. No murderer ringing the bell. This time. Just a little surprise from my sweet firend next door.

Crisis averted. This time.

Remember to keep things locked No matter where you live, Mayberry doesn’t exist anymore. Bad guys can be Americans just like you and me, or a desperate illegal, working hard to get his next fix of heroin. Connie, Sophia, Jerry, and Sherry would tell you the same thing, if only they could.

Oliver is Three Years Old! As he sleeps quietly at my feet this morning, I’m so thankful there’s been a sensible little dog hiding in there all this time. He just needed to grow into his paws. I needed to grow into mine, as well.

In the winter of 2019, I was pining for a dog. Not just any dog. THE DOG. The one that would be my last. A dog like those I’d seen when RVing that did all the cool things dogs do. Listen. Understand. Comfort. Sleep quietly at their owner’s feet. Greet guests politely. Just be a great dog in every way.

VST wasn’t a dog person, wanting no part of the requirements of responsible dog ownership. He wanted no extra responsibilities, added drama, or unexpected costs. He wanted none of that. He saw owning a dog as a negative drain on his life. Period.

In my world, nightly dreams brought an angel dog to tag along. Just a little guy, he’d show up and off we’d go. Each morning, I’d wake wishing that a dog would come into my life. VST didn’t waver. No dog.

Until one day.

Out of the blue, VST decided we should have one more dog. THE DOG. The cool one. He started an active search for our last dog, with ideas in mind of those that would be suitable or not. For a time, Oliver could have been a Yorkie. Why a burly man’s man would choose a dog the size of a postage stage is beyond me. Yorkies are perfect for Yorkie owners. I wanted something a little more substantial.

In truth, I’m a Mastiff gal. The bigger the better. Mastiffs watched our ranch for many years. Thoughtfully gentle, they were appropriately imposing when strangers stopped in. Pony sized, their deep bass barks shook the night at the slightest hint of intruders. VST would patiently lift two 40 pound bags of very expensive dog food into our Costco cart every two weeks. Our security team paid in kibble, we were never robbed.

These days, I’m older and weaker. No longer can I help the backside of a 200 pound dog into a truck bed, or hoist 40 pound bags of dogfood. Mastiffs have a very short life span and a puppy is so much work. VST and I agreed we’d like a dog that would be around for a decade+ after the potty-training ended. We fixed our sites on a small Dachshunds. It seemed the rest of California had done the same and all litters were promised or sold. No puppies were to be found.

Until the week of Christmas. Disappointed by multiple contacts to breeders who had “just sold the last one”, one more time, I Googled “dachshund puppy”. And there he was.

One picture says it all. Oliver was left over. He’d aged out. At 16 weeks, he’d been discounted 50%. A bargain puppy. The breeder would deliver him to our area on Christmas morning in the parking lot of a huge casino. At this point, VST was onboard. The Christmas gift to end all, he’d never need to buy me another present. Oliver was birthdays, Christmas, and the 4th of July all wrapped up in those little green eyes. Oliver was THE DOG.

Over the 2.5 years we’ve been together, there have been days we didn’t see eye to eye. Days he was sneaky and more days that he got caught. Lost hours of sleep, and correction after correction. As many senior citizens have exclaimed, “I’m not a puppy anymore.” Countless hours have gone into training ME to meet his standards. I’m finally the “Mom-oh” he loves. He’s always been the dog I waited a lifetime to meet.

Yesterday, he knew it was his special day. Extra couch cuddles and even popcorn for a treat. All the while, he waited quietly on his leash so I wouldn’t spill my coffee. He didn’t bark at visitors throughout the day. No nipping at garden emitters, or digging in the paths. Outside, he sunned himself and quietly watched the birds. He sat like a gentleman, waiting for his after dinner snack without a jump or wiggle.

At the end our our day, when asked if his was a good one, I’m sure I saw him smile right before his sleepy yawn.

“Yeah, Mom-oh. Time for bed.”

Sir Oliver, Gentleman of Ashworth Hall. One standard, wire-haired, cream, piebald dachshund from Song Catcher Dachshunds in Nevada City. One of a kind. Happy Birthday, Oliver. You know all my secrets. You’ll always be THE ONE.

Small town life. There’s absolutely nothing more refreshing or sweet than living in Small Town, USA. In my town, people wave to each other with a smile. More times than not, neighbors are found chatting in the aisles at WalMart. School bus drivers wave at locals. We all wave to our men in blue. Everyone knows everyone.

It was on the local “town square” of Facebook I’d heard about someone I wanted to meet. “Check out Linda.” “Linda will brighten your day.” “Go Linda.” It seemed the grocery store had employed a new celebrity! Linda!!!!! She was the checker full of golden smiles and kind words bagged up free with every order. The compliments were glowing. This Linda must be a pretty special gal.

I don’t know about you, but I hate to grocery shop as much as I hate to cook. Disliking it so much, I sometimes order groceries through curbside delivery. If you haven’t tried this miraculous little service, give it a whirl. You simply “walk” down the cyber aisles of your store, picking this and choosing that. You fill your virtual basket, pay online, and wait at the door for your delivery. In my tiny town, I can actually watch the delivery person leave the store and make their way to my house. Delightful.

In my experience, the delivered produced has been fresh, frozen foods frozen, and the bread and chips unharmed. Everything as fresh and perfect as if I’d picked it out myself. I’ve even received calls for permission to substitute an item for one that’s unavailable.

With my last delivery, there was an added bonus. Delivery Man John. Just like always, my phone alerted me to the eminent arrival and I opened the garage door. A nice, shiny car pulled up, and out popped John. I knew his name, because it flashed on my phone. “John will be delivering your groceries in one minute.”

Yes, indeed, John did arrive. Neat and clean, driving a car that didn’t make obnoxious noises, he quickly opened the trunk to retrieve the bags of groceries. Tanned and toned, while sharing our small town smile, Senior Citizen John left the groceries in the garage and was off. John got five stars from me. Absolutely another reason I love grocery home delivery. Just sayin.

But, a woman cannot be a hermit forever, and grocery shopping qualifies as an outing. Needing to find out more about Linda and running low on coffee creamer, I grabbed my list and was off.

You’d never know I live alone by looking at my grocery bills. A little of this and a lot of that can add up. Even though one only needs a Bay Leaf once a year, you still need to buy the entire bottle. This is true for every single item in the kitchen. Things expire. Not the Bay Leaves, of course, but other things. Like the entire jar of Bleu Cheese salad dressing bought for dinner with a special guest. Chicken soup, waiting for the day Covid or the common cold comes roaring through Winterpast. Random things age out. My grocery cart is always full of replacements and things to make meals that might sound good someday when I might feel like cooking.

The perimeter of the grocery store is the only place one really needs to shop. Everything healthy is found along the perimeter. But, it’s the inner aisles that hold all extras, so up and down I roll. At least the idiotic “One Way” signs are removed from the floors. Who shops in a traffic pattern? How did this prevent Covid? I’m surprised they didn’t insist on traffic circles, as well. Insanity at its finest and yet another reason grocery delivery is a good way to go.

With a full basket, one register glowed OPEN. In luck, I was the only customer and I started unloading items on the belt. Out of nowhere, and louder than expected, came a happy voice, “Hello there! Welcome!!!! Is your day going well? What are you planning to make with the zucchini?”

LINDA!!!!!!!!!!

Smiling, because I couldn’t help it, Linda and I conversed while she scanned and stuffed my groceries. Putting in my Rewards number displayed my name, and I became “Joy” instead of just “Honey” or “Ma’am”. In the time it took to bag up $87.50 worth of groceries, cheerfulness surrounded Aisle 1. The three customers waiting behind me were enjoying the conversation and adding to it. A little party at Check Out, all because someone was smart enough to hire Linda.

Linda isn’t the thinnest or youngest. She IS the happiest. She shares that happiness with every single person that goes through her line. People notice this and don’t mind waiting for her services. I certainly didn’t mind paying higher prices to be treated like a human being. Her smiles were well worth the added cost of doing business at a real grocery store versus Walmart.

When I asked her if she was THE Linda, she blushed. She knew about the hundreds of nice comments on Facebook. She was grateful for every one of them.

“My customers are just the best. Way too kind. I love you guys.”

Linda. Look for a Linda at your grocery store. If there isn’t one, you be the Linda. The world needs happy kindness right now. It’s out there. Go find it.

Such a nice day Sunday is. Quietly, I’ve started embracing Sunday as my official day of rest. With Bible Study and Church in the morning and Bible Study in the evening, I have a little time to think about the direction my life is heading. I’ve time to listen for the wind, forever looming on the high desert plains.

Winds are mysterious. Around here, the day can be so still not a Cottonwood leaf moves. And then, with a vengeance, they strike out of nowhere. Limbs sway this way and that causing the trees to dance, while the birds hang on for dear life. Then, just as quick, the winds are silent and stillness returns.

Isn’t life like that? Turbulent and scary at some points. Still and quiet at others. Through it all, the winds blow out polluted thoughts and make us cling to our own branches so we don’t get swept away.

Lately, the winds in my life have caused me to clutch tightly my core values. Being shaken down to my toes by the last 16 months, there were some days the winds were so strong, it was all I could do to keep from being blown away. These days, life is kinder. More fun. Happier. Peaceful.

One of the biggest contributors to this is my church family, as they become closer by the day. Attending four times a week, I’m gaining new friends that struggle with the winds of their lives, too. Sharing their stories, I realize how much I enjoy these valued friends that want nothing more than a seat at Bible Study. Friends that harmonize beautifully as choir members. Last night, one of the sweetest gals brought a bag of California peaches to share. Dripping, juicy, tree ripened peaches. It doesn’t get better than that.

Each time I attend another class, I’m strengthened by lessons shared. The strengths of this loving church community are evident. With smoke from the California wildfires choking my little town, Nevada’s big blue skies have been missing for weeks. You can taste the air. Opening the door to the chapel and entering is a great visual for my world without these friends and my world with. Inside, the air is clean without a hint of smoke and the temperature cool, making me forget about the ugly days of August. A perfect environment for seeking truths I need.

Through my journey, I’ve identified with the type of woman I’m striving to become. A Proverbs 31 Woman. Raised this way by farming parents, I thought all women were of this mind set. At times, personifying these traits is consuming and difficult. Young women might find fault with this thinking, for no where here is there a hard and fast rule for 50%/50%. For me, embracing these qualities is making my life richer.

A Proverbs 31 Woman is…….

1. A well-rounded, unique, and rare gem.
2. A wise and intelligent woman.
3. Faithful.
4. Kind.
5. Trustworthy, honorable, comforting, and encouraging.
6. An excellent Homemaker.
7. One who empowers herself spiritually, mentally, and physically.
8. Charitable.
9. A preparer and a provider.
10. Properly dressed for every occasion.
11. Dignified and appropriate.
12. A good judge of character.
13. Business minded.
14. Someone who attains and excels.
15. Strong, graceful, and secure in her position.
16. Above all else, God-fearing. (theodysseyonline.com)

When my life ends, it will have been well lived if those that knew me best remember at least some of these qualities when they speak of me. As the desert winds blow, these guide posts will lead me down a path towards a bright tomorrow.

VST lived by this idiom. Goals ran our lives, living life’s minutes to the fullest. Time is the one thing that, when wasted, can’t be replaced. Some days, watching the minutes pass can be a healthy thing to do. Other days, it’d be nice to stop the clock. Being mindful of the choice made is key.

When he first came home from his night classes at University to share this thought with me, I was confused.

“Archery? Really? Between work and irrigation? I don’t think I’m any good with the compound bow.”

Hugging me, he explained his interpretation of the meaning. Through the years, it became one of the phrases that kept us on track. Our arrow was always aimed and set on the bullseye, even when the target jumped this way or that.

Life was full of schedules and lists. It had to be. Five kids coming and going like the tides. A household. Two professional jobs. Farming 40 acres at night and on weekends. A Bachelor’s, Master’s, Doctorate, and Teaching Credential earned during our “free” time. The care and feeding of two elderly parents. There wasn’t time to drop the arrows and play a round of golf. We were dancing as fast as two people could. Thank goodness we accomplished much in our years together, with his dance ending long before it should’ve.

Now, in retirement, schedules and lists have a different purpose. They propel me forward, even if it is inches a day. In my daily Agenda, completed goals stand as a written record on which to reflect when I think I can’t possibly finish one thing. There are plenty of those days around here. My minimum is three accomplishments per day, with nothing too big or too small. I make the rules. But, three is the magic number for me.

I’ve found if I finish three, then I can probably get six done. When six are done, why not shoot for ten. Life at Winterpast rolls along, arrow by arrow. I’ve always interpreted the idiom in that way, until this morning. Looking up the phrase, I wanted to be sure I wrote it correctly in the title. I use the internet often to check correct word meanings and useage.

Stumbling across another interpretation of the advice, it was again obvious islanders have the healthiest outlook on life. Somewhere in the past, I lived on Molokai. I just know it.

“If you don’t aim at nothing you will not miss at something, so you don’t get frustrated by failure.” 10 Kimo’s Hawaiian Life Rules to Live By — Philipe Borges

Philipe goes on to explain that if you can relax and do things for the joy of them, eventually things will get done when you least expect it. I should try this on Sundays. However, for the Mainland girl in me, this approach wouldn’t quite place my arrow in the bullseye. Somewhere there exists a balanced approach. Perhaps a miss can be the bullseye you hadn’t envisioned yet. Hmmmm.

The one place my scheduling doesn’t apply is in my garden. Each day, I leave one hour to play outside. It might be 20 minutes here or 40 minutes there, but at the end of the day, Winterpast takes at least an hour a day to stay looking her best. With $10 a day for water, and constant grooming, my hidden desert oasis brings me joy. I never consider it too much work or a grind. Gardening is, in itself, the reward.

Writing is the place in which heavy scheduling is needed. September 24th and the release of “Widow”, my first book, hangs over my head. Each day, as deadlines approach, more of my attention is focused on writing, editing, proofing, and correcting. There are places in which you need a Bulls-Eye. The first book in a trilogy is definitely one of those.

Arrows are simple and clean. Just a lethal tip, a strong shaft, and delicate fins. With the strength of focus, a single pull and well executed release, you can plant your arrow where you choose, or just enjoy its flight. It’s up to you.

Enjoy something fun today. Life is short.

Treasures abound in the barn. The annual rummage sale for my Political Group is next weekend and donations are arriving. Not being into yard sales or thrift stores, it’s a new experience being on the receiving end of cast offs. Dropping off cast offs at the thrift store, relief is found in an empty trunk. This time, the cars are leaving boxes at my barn door for the sale to be held in less than two weeks.

The sale won’t be at my house, but at the neighbor’s. At least, that’s the way the plan started. The furniture and larger items can stay in the barn, with volunteers handling the actual sales. I’m providing help before and storage. The plan, anyway.

There is a certain curiosity that arises when receiving mysterious and unmarked boxes. What could be inside? Something irresistible? Just the knickknack that’d look great on a shelf? An old cashmere sweater? A designer purse? There is a certain pull, like that of a harvest moon, enticing hoarding tendencies. And just like that, cast offs become beloved treasures anew.

Being blessed with a new girlfriend, I haven’t been working alone. One donation filled a horse trailer and two pickups. An entire household of goods that had once belonged to my new friends’ mother-in-law. She’d lovingly packed the entire house when her friend and M-I-L passed away, and now remembered what was in each and every box as we unpacked and sorted. A raw deal for her.

You just never know what you can run across. Like a 1960’s fold-away hairdryer in the cutest case, as new as the day it was purchased. It looks like it came from Mabel’s Primp and Tease off Main Street. An oddity that brought back memories of a household of five blonde sisters getting ready for Easter Sunday. Curls and Curls and more Curls in the days long before hand held blow dryers and electric curling irons.

A few days before we started unpacking, the sweetest couple had come to drop off their donations. Before they left, the gentleman quietly told his father’s camera was with their donations. If I could, would I please put it on a table with valuable collectibles? It was something special but the time had come to let go.

Sure enough, the camera surfaced. In a well loved and worn leather case, the camera must be 75 years old. Just what family happiness had been captured by this gem? How easy to forget what excitement picture taking was back then. Posing. Smiling. Hoping for a great shot. Waiting for the pictures to be processed. Such a treasure and connection to the past. Yes. It’ll go with the valuable items. We’ll make sure we take very good care of it.

Every thing you could imagine making up a physical life sits in my barn. Beds. A mattress. Bedding. Towels. Linens. Pots and pans. Games. Videos. A television. Two recliners. Dressers. Clothing. Shoes. More shoes. Purses. Jewelry. Even purple tights. If only the items could tell their stories, what stories they could share.

I’ve found some cool purchases. A very old, silver box with wooden lining sat at the bottom of a box. Engraved on the top, it reads M.A.G.A. 1957. Just what did this acronym mean in 1957. Magical Association of Girl Astronauts? Mythical Agency of Gifted Artists? It hold a different meaning for me in 2021. Magnificent. Articulate. Gardener. Aglow. Two years old when the box was a new treasure, I was learning to stand on my own two feet. Sixty-four years later, I’m learning that all over again. A special treasure to someone who kept it all these years, it’s shiny again after a little silver polish. Inside the wood-lined box sit two pair of antique clip-on earrings, older than the box. A treasure meant for me now holds personal significance.

A little angel holding a bird now nestles between my patio plants. A cast iron plant stand sitting in the corner. A little red cross next to my kitchen angels. Little treasures I didn’t know were missing until I found them.

Do I need to bring home more clutter? Does anyone? But, my group IS holding a fund raiser. I better do my part.

With days to purge, I’ll find items to add to the sale. The group has never made more than $1500 after hours of work. I hope we break $2,000 this year. There’s some great stuff for sale. Things and Things and Things.

Living alone is something I hadn’t experienced until April 9, 2020. Never, in 64 years, had I lived by myself, personably responsible for every aspect of life. When VST died, there were those that asked me if I was afraid to stay alone. Maybe they had reason to ask. Peering through the widows fog that surrounded me, I faithfully answered, “No”.

Faith in personal safety exists most strongly when it hasn’t been breached. Personally never robbed or physically threatened, locked doors have always been respected. Forgotten belongings left out in plain sight have remained untouched. Strangers have turned into friends without harboring hidden agendas of torture or murder. I’ve been very lucky. In Virginia City, such lucked continued, while VST protected us with his watchful eye.

Lulled into a sense of security, we lived in the chaotic world of tourists. Coming to see the sights they’d drive up the mountain to get a taste of Grandma’s World Famous Fudge. Blasted by steam, they rode the Virginia and Truckee Railroad, Queen of the Short Line. Feeling the zephyr winds blow, they’d touch a piece of history in a way like never before. With all of those senses heightened at 6200 ft., there was little energy left for robbery or mayhem. Things left outside remained there for days, weeks, or even months, never disturbed.

Some neighbors, when we’d first arrived, didn’t even lock their doors. An owner of a 1875 Victorian would often find tourists coming up her steps, thinking her house was a museum, and she the caretaker. She finally realized the lock on the front door was there for a reason.

A tourist once asked what time the gates closed. It would have been great if there were gates to shut. When did the town close? Only on the worst of white-out blizzards that shook Dun Movin, rattling her 33 windows. While snowing sideways, winds would blow drifts off our driveway depositing them down the hill. Awakening every sense, we remained alert and prepared as storms rolled through.

In late summer of 2019, with Wyoming still in our hearts, we’d just returned home. Laundry by the washer and the rig still packed, we turned in early. Snuggling into the comfort of our own bed, we’d just nodded off to sleep when VST sat upright. A noise. He’d heard a noise. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. From the absolute quiet of a VC night, we both heard footsteps on the lower deck. Just one person, quietly moving to the outside stairs leading up the hill to the back of the house.

VST grabbed his sidearm. A Smith and Wesson 1911 that I found difficult to even lift. Heading to the kitchen, he went to investigate. The house was dark and still, while the glow of a flashlight was visible as light bounced off the fencing through the kitchen blinds. VST watched as the light traveled up the stairs next to the kitchen wall. The glow betrayed the advance of the intruder creeping towards the back of the house.

By this time, I was cowering behind VST, both quiet as mice, waiting for an exchange of gunfire that might occur when the unwanted someone burst through our back door. Through the blinds, we could see the light outside the living room window, and then, directly in front of our back door.

Not being able to quiet myself any longer, in my most bad-ass voice, I yelled, “Identify yourself. We know you are there. Who is it?”

VST yelled, as well, “We’re armed. We know you’re there. Who are you?”

“County Sheriff. Identify yourselves and open this door. Drop your weapon and put your hands up.”

Was it a bluff? Was it REALLY a sheriff? We hadn’t seen a patrol car.

Holstering his gun, VST approached first, keeping his foot as a wedge against the door. Relieved to see the uniform, we allowed the officer to enter.

Wyoming had occupied our hearts and minds for two weeks. The neighbors knew we were gone. When seeing lights in the house, they feared a break-in and called for backup. In Virginia City, the sheriff still comes, armed and ready to deal. We didn’t know whether to buy the neighbor breakfast, or go wake them from a dead sleep to rant a bit. Thanking the officer for coming out into the night to make sure Dun Movin was safe, we locked our door. Cuddling together on the autumn night, we were grateful for watchful neighbors and very brave deputies.

These days, my life alone is different. Officers are too busy to come for a well-being check. New neighbors have blinds that are drawn tight. Oliver, now three years old and a real dog, sleeps through the night, never even giving the hint of a growl. With all locks secure, I ask the angels to watch over us through the night. Protected by faith, peacefully I rest.

A medical alert device sits by my bed. A small bedside safe holds a lethal defense weapon. Sleeping soundly, I’m not alone. Ever. Loved ones gone before watch over me, comforting me as dreams come. Sentries of angels, joined by a couple English Mastiffs for good measure, keep Winterpast from harm.

A sense of peace is a fragile thing for which we should all be grateful.

***********A special Thank You to our First Responders. You are unsung heroes that run in when others run away. Your bravery and courage are so appreciated.

Sunday evenings at 6PM, the parking lot at the Baptist on Main fills again. After the morning Sunday School and Worship Service, people return for a more informal study visit with the Pastor. Each class holds an hour-long lesson, bringing the Bible to life. Real life applications and testimonies are shared, while everyone benefits as our little country church grows.

Attending every meeting, we’re all on a first name basis by now. Sharing crochet patterns, card games, and recipes, the members are enjoyable company. Working to live a better life, there is much common ground. It’s comforting to find that others have similar problems. The struggle is real.

One lovely aspect of our fellowship is prayer requests. There is no shortage of sadness in this world of ours. Names are added to the prayer list, as we ask that their situations improve. Just this week, a woman claimed a healing of her back. With pain-free relief, she came to church glowing for this pain had robbed her of many activities for a very long time. So many suffer with the illness of a spouse. Taking VST’s hand as we walked through our own nightmare, there was never a more terrifying or lonely feeling. It’s an honor to carry sorrow for friends needing comfort.

Last night, a young couple I hadn’t yet met with sat near me. Adorably in love, they blended their families in marriage the first week I visited the church. Similar in age to VST and I when we married in 1988, they’re everything new marrieds should be. Loving. Supportive. Eager to build their new life together. Good parents. Faithful spouses. Glowing.

Last night, they came overflowing with troubled sorrow. Her fur baby of 18 years had been injured earlier in the day. In pain severe, they transported her 30 minutes away to the nearest vet emergency room to find there’d be a six hour wait before the dog could be seen. With temperatures hovering at 100, she’d be more comfortable at home. All day, they watched over her, not knowing what else they could do but make her comfortable. Slowly the pain subsided and she rested. They’d visit their normal vet the next day, hoping for the best.

Small and sweet, our town lacks many services that residents of a larger city takes for granted. An ambulance ride to the nearest hospital East or West is 30 minutes. EMT’s and Urgent Care can take care of the initial assessment, but, patients with serious illnesses or injuries needing hospital care are in a precarious situation. The big city to the West does offer Life Flights, when minutes count the most. Pets are not that fortunate. Vets are open M-F, 9-5. Dental services are offered M-F, 9-5. We all hope for no weekend emergencies, because in our little town, there are none.

Bride-girl went on to share about her job with the county Sheriff’s office. Not a deputy, she explained that she had a more troubling job. She dealt with securing records and evidence. Grizzly and gruesome evidence. Pictures. Stained items. Murder weapons. Grief soaked relics of horror. It was her job to account for every one and carefully file them away for their date with justice. As she told of her work, the weight on her shoulders was evident. The toll it was taking, obvious. This sensitive and lovely woman was carrying quite a load. Sorrows of crimes that couldn’t be undone kept her awake at night. Seeing the unthinkable, she worries plenty about the safety of our community.

As I listened, I realized I could help a little with her burden. I’d help her carry her load. What better place than in a little country chapel to sit quietly and listen? She didn’t need a Miss Fix-It. Just a listening ear in which to off-load her overflowing fear and frustration.

Reality isn’t always pleasant. I found out there are over 100 sex offenders living in my “little town”. Our county finds home for 75 of them EACH MONTH. Not something I wanted to hear, but something I needed to hear. It’s easy to get lulled into a sense of security, when the truth is, one needs to be aware of surroundings. Bad guys don’t always look the part. Look at pictures of Ted Bundy.

In a matter of minutes, she’d shared a bucket of trouble. Through our talk, the two spoke as one unit. Enchanting to behold, I only wished I could revisit 1988 when I had VST by my side, the world spreading before us with possibilities.

Our visit was wonderful. Just like that, two more friends added to my growing list. Now, when entering the chapel, friendly friends greet each other. We exchange updates on personal news. Ask about community events or the details of the latest Covid victims. We visit. A lost art. No noses stuck in cell phones around there. In fact, cell phones don’t ring, but laughter does. Better than anything television has to offer, for sure.

Think about carrying sorrow for a friend. Their load is as heavy as yours. Listening leads to healing. Grab a little baggage from a weary traveler. You never know what stories they have to share.

If we ever cancel a month, can it please be August???? Sorry to all you August birthdays, but every year that goes by, it’s August that becomes more unpleasant. Summer holds such potential on the first days of late June. Happiness. A still frigid dip in the pool. The first cutting and the scent of fresh mowed lawn. Mature rose bushes, blooming in all their glory. Fruit trees flowering with promise of a bountiful crop.

The 4th of July sparkles. Fireworks. Barbeques and late sunsets. Softball games at Out of Town Park. Yes, summer is a fine time. As a teacher, I’d look at the first days of vacation and think, “My summer is ripe with possibilities.” All wonderful things I’ve celebrated this year in the high desert. The key word. DESERT. Well folks, the bloom is off this rose. Summer needs to wind up and head on out the door.

The hills have been brutalized by weeks of triple digit heat. Brittle and dry, they sit waiting for a fire. In the high desert, fires burn hot and fast. Whipped by ferocious winds, the flames spread like –well — wild fire. When we first came to Nevada, I’d never given much thought to the height of sage brush and the other bushes that thrive on public lands (the REAL and ONLY BLM — Bureau of Land Management). Sage can grow really tall (4′ – 5′) being quite the fuel for fire. Add in Cheatgrass. Rabbit Brush. Russian Sage. All help to fuel infernos of the high desert.

Unlike forest fires of California, most desert fires are allowed to burn until there is nothing left, unless, of course, buildings are in harms way. In a year’s time, its hard to tell that a fire ever occurred, as the cycle starts over again.

Yesterday, the smoke was so thick and suffocating before sunrise, I truly thought the fields around Winterpast were aflame. Some ash fell, while we choked from the California fires that are raging. To the North and East, the smoke catches the prevailing winds, headed straight for my little town. If wearing masks because of Covid isn’t bad enough, many people are wearing them to protect themselves from the smoke, as well. Staying inside is the preferred activity.

With weeks of dismal news, smoke, virus particles, and news of neighbors fallen sick, I must say my creative juices have been on hold. Every day counts down to September 24 and my chosen date for release of my first book. It’s with a heavy heart that I must admit, my progress is not what I’d hoped. Still aiming for September 24th, I write on, but in all reality, my publish date may need to be pushed back to the end of November. I want my first attempt at publishing to be the very best I can offer, including attention to punctuation and grammar. To those wishing for more political correctness, I apologize in advance. Probably not.

Every day, I work a little here and a little there, piecing together the story I have to tell. I hadn’t factored in the additional emotional toll it takes to tell the story once more in detail. Some days are easier to get through than others. No one quite prepared me for year two, mysterious and lonely in a way all its own. Healing such a very long time, no matter how strong one is. I’ll keep you posted of my progress, and appreciate you, my dear readers, so much.

Oliver is not enjoying August anymore than I am. Being an August puppy, he just passed his third birthday and is now an adult. He goes outside in a playful mood, but immediately returns to the door, looking confused. He knows smoke smells of something wrong but can’t quite understand danger is hundreds of miles away. His mood isn’t the best, either.

With a month left until the first day of Autumn, the countdown to falling leaves, apple pie, and pumpkins is on its way. Airing out my sweaters, I can hardly wait to enjoy crisp cool days of yard work and preparations for the first snow of the year. Fall is my favorite time of year, with plans in place to attend at least one high school football game. Just two more weeks of August, and we can pack up for another year.

Whatever you find yourself doing today, be grateful if you can breathe fresh air. Be grateful if you have a quiet back yard in which to dance with the flowers. Be grateful for friends, family, and our wonderful country. Remember, when days are too hazy, stay inside and be lazy! Until tomorrow, take care.

Salad for thirty chopped and tossed, I headed out in the early evening hours for the monthly meeting of my coterie. This group of like minded people have become my friends. There, just as in church, I’m slowly pairing names with faces, meeting more people every time I attend a function. It was for this group I offered the use of the RV barn for storage of the yard sale items, which will occur Friday and Saturday at Ninja Neighbor’s house. Pray for her, and when you do, just mention Ninja Neighbor. God knows and loves her.

The meeting was held at the high school library Tuesday night. With school starting the next day, the custodial staff was putting the finishing touches on building. Halls were blindingly shiny, almost begging me to slide down them sock footed. The bathrooms glistened. Windows were without smudges or streaks. Everything ready for the first day of school. This year, that has a different meaning. A return to normalcy.

I must say, my heart ached a bit. I miss teaching. More than teaching, I miss the kids. Children are wonderful people. Creative. Whimsical. Able to think outside the box. Resourceful. Loving. Extremely kind. Respectful. At least my classes were. For the first six weeks of school, I’d wonder why I’d picked the teaching profession. By the end of the year, I could have taken the entire class to Hawaii and had a wonderful adventure. A lot happens in a school year. With respect and patience, learning is an adventure of growth. My own truth, for sure.

There are teachers more clever than their years. Those that can charm a class to do whatever she asks of them. Learning minutes are too precious to waste on the silliness of misbehavior. All students need to row in the same direction, which takes creative thinking. This teacher’s got it. She keeps a corded phone in her classroom of 1st Graders. When someone is caught doing something good, she makes a call. She reports the good behavior to Superman, Batman, or Mickey Mouse, all for the children to hear. She doesn’t raise her voice or demand her littles comply. She leads them to great behavior and discipline. The world needs a few more of her kind. I’d love to be in her class.

Meeting at the high school library, with tables and chairs placed, a food table created, hungry members, and our officers enjoying salad and fajitas, the meeting began. Just the usual stuff. Pledge of Allegiance. Minutes of past and present meetings. Treasurer’s report. Officer’s reports.

There was a request from a member for a need of drivers for Veteran’s that can’t drive West to get medical treatment. A van and gas are provided. Even lunch. The only thing needed is the ability to drive and a few hours a month to volunteer. Such a big need, fixed by someone with time and a big heart. Lots of problems in our country are made better every day by kind and generous people doing the smallest favors for another. Just listen in your own town. People need your help.

Finally, Miss Elite US Woman of Achievement 2021 spoke on domestic violence. Standing with her beautiful sash and massive crown, she delivered her message. This gorgeous blonde spoke of her own experience with domestic violence, which led her to advocate for other women not as strong as she. She told of her own struggle with an abusive first husband, and the grief he still causes her today. Abuse takes many forms. Mental. Physical. Financial. Social. All torture to the woman who often suffers quietly, telling no one. As she talked, not an eye strayed from our stunning orator. She took her ongoing nightmare and wove it into something positive and beautiful using her own experiences of loneliness and terror. Rising up, she’s a lion fighting for the rights of other abused women.

With a vision for Northwestern Nevada, she is weaving a safety net of services for women who have no voice. The battered and abused. Each night, she studies law classes as she gets closer to earning her law degree. All while making a home for her family and working at her real job. A statement on how to step up and step out to help others. Everyone has 24 hours in a day. Use them wisely. An hour is a terrible thing to waste.

Listening to her speak, it was obvious her arrows are hitting the bullseye she’s set for herself. Even as a working mother with a full and rich life, she’s found time in her busy days to do for others. A service of love. A service BECAUSE.

Her inner beauty, by the end of her presentation, radiated throughout the room. A stunning exterior, but a phenomenal soul . Touching hearts, she sparked minds between the stacks of library books. We can all do SOMETHING. Maybe we can’t reach national beauty queen status, but, we can all do something to make the world a better place for someone else. Volunteer, if only for the smallest of jobs. You just never know when you’ll be the most beautiful person in the world to someone in need.

The neighborhood is abuzz with the excitement of today’s yard sale. Yesterday, Ninja Neighbor started bright and early. With the cavalry pulling in to help, her front yard turned from a normal drive way into Thrift Store Central. Working together, the most strenuous task of putting up the tents to the less demanding tasks of unboxing and pricing were completed. Slowly, the massive collection went from neat and tidy boxes, to an array of items spanning many, many tables. Yard sales are fascinating although still not my thing.

One of the more interesting treasures found was a small wood lined silver box. Hinged to hold small items, the tarnished top was engraved. M.A.G.A 1957. When I first saw the box, I took it inside and polished it to a gleaming finish. I googled the inscription, trying to get an idea of what the initials stood for. No luck. Even though the date meant nothing to me, MAGA did.

Along with the box, I found other goodies. A cute wind chime with a cardinal on top. A butterfly vase. A new bird house for my growing avian population. Garden gloves and a trowel. Some clip-on earrings. Little trinkets discarded from one home and looking for another.

The weather couldn’t have been more perfect. Gentle breezes never turned into more. The temperature for the last few days has been pleasant, giving us hope that fall is truly around the corner. Under the comfort of the tents, we all unpacked, sorted, priced, and placed the items on tables. Everything you could imagine waits for buyers. From a stationary bike peddle device to leg weights. Humidifiers. Christmas plates. An angel collection. Clothes galore. Shoes by the hundreds. Bedding. Towels. Furniture. A sleigh bed. Glass ware. Tomorrow, the shoppers will have a ball sorting through and grabbing items, all priced to sell.

While working yesterday, one man stood above the rest. Our President’s husband. Through all the work, he’s been there to help ladies with normal tasks men often do. He’s one of very few men that have helped with this event. Pleasant and respectful, it’s nice of him to be there as an extra set of hands and strength. Thinking of the MAGA box, I asked Madam President her birth year. It wasn’t 1957, but her husband’s birth year was. 1957. Without hesitation, I knew what I needed to do. The box didn’t really belong to me. It belonged to him as a Thank You for his help. And, that’s where it went. Happily.

Through the entire day, Ninja Neighbor was her most beautiful self. Never, ever rattled, she continued on with her work. Even though this huge amount of inventory took over her entire driveway, she remained cheerful, working well after dark to be ready for the today. She’s just that way. Energetic. Beautiful. Sassy. Funny. Delightful in every way. Surely I hit the neighborhood jackpot when moving in next to her. She is dearly loved by all that are lucky enough to know her.

The Service Organization will put money raised today to good use. Community scholarships for deserving High School Seniors. Dictionaries for 3rd graders. Constitution booklets for 5th graders. Items for the local Veteran’s home. Items for the local food bank. The unsell-ables will be donated to a local charity to help people in need, a benefit in so many ways to our little town. All monies have been raised with a cheerful heart and great attitude. It can’t help but be used for positive outcomes.

While we worked, the most amazing thing happened. For weeks, our skies have been grey with heavy smoke. The sun at rise and set glowed an eerie magenta as it peeked through the haze. Yesterday, without notice, the winds aloft did an amazing job of cleaning. Big blue skies returned. A stunning day, the surrounding mountains were again visible.

Neighbors peaked out of their windows to check out the hustle and bustle of activity. I now know more neighbors than I did yesterday. Wonderful people no longer strangers but friendly faces. A yard sale brings out the best in people.

I’ve been waiting for the right time to meet the widow down the street. Yesterday was the day. Comparing notes, my heart went out to her. Listening to details of her widow’s journey of six months, I was grateful for my experiences in Year 2. Remembering all the struggles of last summer, they stay put in my rearview mirror. The seemingly endless paperwork needed to shift a life for two into a life of one was overwhelming. Widow’s fog is great for one reason. Forgotten is a lot of pain, bewilderment, and frustration in dealing with the loss of a spouse. I hope we become friends now that she has more time. I’m sure we’ve much more in common than the Ins and Outs of widowhood.

The gentleman who faithfully walks his dog twice a day cruised by making note of our activities. A 4th grade boy rode his scooter up and down the block, offered to help in any way he could. More help arrived and by 5 pm, most of the merchandise was organized on display. Ninja Neighbor pulled it off without a sweat. A bundle of positive energy, our group is blessed to have her as a new member.

This morning, the throngs of shoppers will descend on our quiet little neighborhood. The neighbors have all enjoyed a presale viewing to get the best deals. Cashiers arrived early this morning and are making sales even as I write. Our goal is to break $2,000. Think good thoughts. Come by and say Hi! if you have time. You’ll find us in our the lovely little town at the wide spot in the road.

Oliver is already sleeping soundly at my feet. Grateful his food bowl is magically filled every morning, he always enjoys breakfast, searching for every last morsel. After he’s sure there isn’t one last piece of kibble hiding somewhere, he’s happy. Chewing on his favorite bone, his eyelids get heavy and off to puppy dreamland he scampers, while cozied on the bed under my desk. Life is wonderfully easy for Oliver. Living in the present, most of his moments are worthy of a grateful mind. His tail is always wagging.

Reviewing my week, I think back to all the miracles that’ve occurred , and how grateful I am. Too often in our busy lives the littlest things can pass by unnoticed. An afternoon without smoke. A gentle breeze full of cool air. A 56 degree morning. A ripe tomato. Friends that greet you with open arms and a smile, genuinely happy to say Hello. A strong hug. A grocery shelf full of toilet paper or water. Every minute of every day, we can all find a single blessing. Someone to thank. A situation that could be worse, but isn’t. The list is endless.

I’m thankful that in my little town, people still exist that love God and Country. Ninja Neighbor, dead tired after her heroic efforts on Yard Sale Day #1, was cocooned in her home when I knocked on her door for some friendly advice yesterday. Her home is cozy and inviting. Curling up on opposing couches, I talked and she advised in a way only a true Ninja Neighbor and Friend could. Lovingly, her words settled my mind on troubling matters. A blessing in every way she is to me.

Ten hours earlier, we’d shared a breakfast of farm fresh eggs and sausage at her table, wondering what the day’s profits would be. Non-breakfast eaters did last minute adjustments to the array of goods which spanned NN’s entire front yard. An estate sale of bargains. In April 2020, I couldn’t foresee the group of new friends I’d meet in my little neighborhood. Through the years, VST was our Ambassador of Good Will. It was through him I was blessed to meet Miss Firecracker and her Bailey’s and Cream. Ultimately, VST was the one that made sure Winterpast would be a place for me to grieve, heal, and grow. Loving me so deeply, he prepared a future for me when his was cut short by cancer. Day by day, my roots grow deeper into Winterpast, this place I love so much.

Generosity flowed during the first day, with $1100 in sales. With a slow and steady pace of customers, items drifted off to enjoy their new lives, like an adult version of Toy Story. Today is expected to be even better. As I walked through the tables, things I donated caught my eye. Retrieving none of my cast-offs, I did find a few new treasures. Yard sales. Who knew???

A new restaurant adventure awaited me at lunch. Farm House Vittles off Interstate 80 was a nice change from Tee Pee Bar and Grill. On the opposite side of town, the refined and dignified décor doesn’t quite match their name. Although still part of a Casino, the restaurant has a street entrance. Staff was attentive and efficient, delivering me breakfast for lunch. I’ll add it to the long list of restaurants that’ve keep me well fed. Since January 2020, hundreds of cooks, waitresses, and staff have brought me meals when I’ve been too sad, tired, lonely, or depressed to cook for myself. Yet another group of unsung heroes.

A day wouldn’t be complete without a wonderful conversation with Miss Firecracker. Oh how I miss her sparkling eyes and tantalizing wit. Thank goodness for phone conversations. We share so many secrets, as great friends do. Supporting each other, we always find a listening soul and a helpful heart on the other end of the line. Widowhood has been a journey the caught us both off guard. Friendship has been the scaffolding that’s helped us stand strong. You know, Miss Firecracker. You just know.

Today is a day for writing, reflection, and packing. In a couple days, I’ve planned a solo retreat just for me. Everyone needs to get away, so I’ll travel to my favorite Northwestern Nevada resort. You’ll find me poolside, soaking up rays to deepen my fading tan, or asleep in one of the plush fluffy recliners in the spa listening to soul southing music under Bose sound canceling headphones. I plan to enjoy the seclusion of the spa from 9 AM to 9 PM. Massaged, moisturized, and fed, I plan to rest up, while working on the book and blog. Oliver will enjoy his time with friends at Puppy Camp. I haven’t told him yet, so help keep the secret.

Being grateful doesn’t take energy, strength, or creativity. It just takes focus on beautiful moments that happen every day. Not extravagant gifts or events. Just everyday things that, when strung together, make life more beautiful than an exquisite string of pearls. Have a blessed day today and Be Grateful.

A man without a woman is like a ship without a sail.

Is like a boat without a rudder, a fish without a tail.

A man without a woman is like a wreck upon the sand.

And if there’s one thing worse in this universe,

It’s a woman,

I said a woman,

Yes.

It’s a woman without a man. _{Alfred Williams, 1907}

VST was mine for 32 years. I have a spoon rest in my kitchen which reads “Lucky Girl”. Reminding me of how blessed I’ve been in life, even though somedays can be pretty darn lonely.

Turning back the clock to August of 1987, I was a stunning, bright, and beautiful young single mother tending to two little boys. Madder than a wet hen at life and my predicament, I went through each day quite certain that I’d never need anyone more than myself. For goodness sakes, I had a full set of Corel. Indestructible dishes you could drop, throw, kick, or knock around with no chipping or breakage. I had matching towels in various colors. I had my own lawn mower and garden tools. No. No. No. I needed nothing, especially not a mate. How foolish.

On the other side of town, VST was pretending he wasn’t damaged goods, as well. VST was a head turning bachelor from all outward appearances. In the morning, he jogged for miles. After work, he rode more miles on his bike. His new home gave him a sense of pride and hope for the future. HIS future would be without the complications of a relationship with a woman. Bachelorhood fit him perfectly. He kept his body in tip top shape. Eating right, enjoying his three children, and making new friends, he didn’t need anything more serious. No. No. No. He needed nothing, especially not a mate. How foolish.

September 5th, at a class reunion, we clashed like two opposing weather fronts. Having been high school friends over a decade before, things were complicated now. Five children complicated. Besides. No. No. No. We needed nothing, especially not a mate.

He proposed eleven days later.

I said yes.

Thinking back to our time together, our partnership wasn’t the trendy modern day romance with all chores weighted and split 50/50. We both had to wear many hats to make things work. There wasn’t a way to divide things 50/50. Besides, how boring it would’ve been to have a checklist life. Sometimes it was fun to change lanes and trade jobs. When he was unable, I’d pick up his duties. He’d do the same for me. We both gave 100%. Not looking at each other to analyze percentages performed, but, both looking ahead as we pulled the load together. And a load it was.

As a single guy, VST was never a ship without a sail, a boat without a rudder, or a fish without a tail. He managed to cruise along at a good clip, enjoying life. He’s set his compass heading and trimmed his sails to perfection.

I, as that single mom, was on my own course. I think we moved along parallel journeys quite well, considering the storms we’d endured. We didn’t run aground or get stuck in the shallows. We kept our lives running in shipshape condition.

Looking over the 32 years, the love that kept us afloat was something we couldn’t have imagined. Love that was patient. Kind. Without envy. Not boastful. Not proud. It didn’t dishonor others. It wasn’t self seeking or easily angered. It kept no record of wrongs and didn’t delight in evil. Rejoicing in the truth, it protected us. Always trusting, strengthened by hope and perseverance. Love was a wonderful place to be. A blessing I shared with VST for decades.

Now, it’s my turn at the helm. So glad I’m not that 30-Something girl anymore, insistent life would be better alone. This Senior Citizen isn’t ready to abandon ship due to rogue winds of loneliness and despair. Nope. I’m enjoying blue skies and happy trails. Life is good. Such a lucky girl was I to have shared the journey with my VST, and lucky still to possess the strength and vision to chart my own solitary course, for now.

My youth was not normal in any sense of the imagination. For you city-types, you’ve no idea what can happen on any given morning on a farm. You can lose a drive train on the tractor during harvest, blow a tire, birth a lamb, and irrigate all before 6 AM. Trying to be prepared for anything, life comes fast and furious from every angle. You put out fires as fast as they come your way.

One day, your vineyard looks healthy with a great crop. A rain storm comes activating dormant fungus, causing your crop to wither and die. Mites and spiders are in a war to the death. When mites are sucking the profits out of tender leaves, you spray. Then, spiders die of starvation. The mites explode in numbers and laughter, with the predators gone. The cycles are a dance the outside world cannot and will never understand. Farming is a universe all it’s own. You need to possess a skill set that the average city dweller just doesn’t.

Number 4 in a group of five daughters, each birth held a bit of disappointment. Every farmer dreams of having a team of boys to help with the work. My dad got girls and girls and girls and girls and girls for 16 years in a row. By time I came along, the entire community was rooting for the long awaited boy. Nope. A Christmas present of ruffles and bows.

My mom, Esther, was a seamstress, master chef, butcher, gardener, bookkeeper, law enforcement patrol, and part runner. She was an amazing woman that could’ve run an entire country if my dad had asked her to. She kept her girls in dresses and patent leather shoes. Easter bonnets and Christmas curls. The community named us “The Skoegard Girls”, because of the sheer numbers. Remembering our names was too much. At one point in life, we were each in a different school. From Kindergarten to College, we marched through life, respectable, Good-Girls. I don’t know how Mom kept her sanity. By the time I came along, I raised myself a good deal of the time.

Mornings were always busy. The olders drove across town to the big college we’d all attend someday. The youngers stood outside in rain, snow, fog, or sleet, waiting for the big old school bus.

Meals were on time, balanced and hearty. Everything was grown fresh. Meal preparation for seven was something about which my mother never complained. She never a repeated meal or served left overs, because there was nothing left on the table by the end of each meal. There was no waste. Not a hint of “I don’t like it”. Everyone was hungry and ready to enjoy the delicious food she prepared.

There are two meal time visitors that stand out as memorable. I’ll share them both with you, my beloved readers.

My dad, Elmer, was known around the county for being able to fix anything broken. If wiring or welding, or wire welding was needed, Dad was the go-to guy. His side business was called Implement Hospital, and he supported our girly shopping trips by fixing the neighbors plow or spray rig. Over the years, he was exposed to every single chemical known to mankind, including, but not limited to, Paraquat, DDT, Cyanide, Seven, and a host of others that make people freeze with horror. He didn’t shrivel and die of cancer, nor did any other the other hundreds of farmers I knew throughout the years. He died of Alzhemier’s at 93, longing for the opportunity to give one more city kid a tractor ride.

Lunch was at 12:00 noon. Sharp. Anyone needing something fixed knew Dad would be at the kitchen table enjoying a meal with his girls. If something needed fixing, people knew to come to the house to find him.

On this particular day, my mom’s sister pulled in driving her luxurious car. This particular aunt didn’t visit on a regular basis. As she got out of the car, she had a stressful expression on her face. A woman was on a mission.

“Hi there. I’m sorry to barge in on lunch, but I need you to fix something for me, Elmer. Something important.”

Now she had our attention. Farm wives didn’t have their own personal tools or shovels. They were cared for by their attentive and protective husband’s. Everything they needed was handled, while they did woman things in the house. My dad, being the exception, could cook, clean, or help with the laundry with the best of them. But, today, his expertise was needed for another problem.

Out of her bag, she pulled out something that brought us all to tears and a collective roar of belly laughs. For, in her hand was her favorite bra.

“Elmer, could you weld this? My wire broke.” To this day, this memory makes me laugh again. The thing is, my Dad replied, “I’ll try, Marie. You can just leave it on the counter.” He was always the guy to help in any situation. And the matter of fact look on Aunt Marie’s face saying she KNEW that Dad COULD weld it was priceless. He did, by the way, fix her bra.

The other visit involved a very colorful neighbor who came to find my Mom for help with a sticky situation. Bertha was one of the most wonderful women I’ve meant in my life. Hair died a Hazel/Red, she flamed. Kindness in a waist cinching girdle, she had an hour glass figure, the envy or talk of the neighborhood. Bertha’s makeup and hair were always perfect. She was in church, front and center, every Sunday with the brightest of smiles. Bertha was a memorable angel in my life.

Well, on this particular day, she had a scarf around her considerable smaller hair-do. In those days, hair was done big. The bigger, the better, and Bertha had the hair to go Big.

“Esther, I need you help,” was her soft plea as she entered the kitchen to find us practicing lunchtime manners.

Removing her scarf, she had perfectly formed curls on her head. It seemed that the new rage involved wrapping hair around curlers, after soaking hair in gelatin. That’s right. Jello. She had used too much. Her rock hard curls sat stone-like on her head. We all lost it. Laughing so hard I thought we might all choke. And with that, Bertha started to cry through her own laughter. She had done it now. Her hair would never recover.

Dirty looks from Mom AND Dad stopped the laughter. My little sis and I had to just look away. At any moment, we would start again, and it would be curtains for us. At the ranch, you were never disrespectful to adults. Ever. But, let me tell you, it was the funniest darn thing I’d experienced for a very long time.

Life on the farm. Rich. Wonderful. Eventful and Unplanned. I can’t speak to city life, because I’m a country girl, through and through. Lunch is ready. Don’t be late, or you’ll miss out.

Good Morning, dear readers. Grabbing a vacation during the last dog days of summer, I find myself sitting poolside as I blog. Technology and vacations blend nicely, allowing me take you along. Yesterday was a day to rest and recharge. Absolutely glorious.

Laughing on the phone with Miss Firecracker while poolside yesterday, I did ask her the all important question.

“What exactly am I resting and recovering from as a retiree?”

Not finding exactly the right answer, we both decided it is because it’s rest and recovery we need. Period. Widowhood is a brutal journey. Good enough answer for us.

The resort I’m staying at is like a trip to Tuscany. Attention is paid to every detail, with the hotel shining. Marble floors are spotless and gleaming. Soft, romantic music is playing when you enter your hotel room. So inviting. A huge soaking tub awaits those of us that love bubble baths. A television hangs on the bathroom wall in case you want to enjoy your favorite TV program while you soak. A walk in shower with two, not one, invigorating shower heads. Marble countertops. Marble floor. A Keurig machine for coffee. A frig to keep waters icy cold. Every little detail has been considered to make sure guests are comfy and cozy, even if the vacation is just a 2 day get-away from retirement.

An early check-in granted, I was sitting poolside by 12:30PM. Children did cannonballs into the deep end, while their parents soaked in the hot tub. The smoke here as been so thick you can taste it. A mask is actually needed in these conditions for more than Covid. Lake Tahoe, a most beautiful and pristine spot, is burning. Not wanting to know the heartbreaking news, I’m not sure if South Lake Tahoe has been evacuated. Please pray for our little mountain towns. Lake Tahoe is a dangerous place to be caught in a fire, with few escape routes available.

With sunshine darkening my fading tan, it was lovely to fall asleep for a little while on the lounge. Relaxation for one.

Avoiding sunburn, a real nap followed the poolside cat nap. A cool, dark room was the perfect setting.

At 5:00 PM, I ventured back to the pool, to find the wind whipping. Having chased many of the tourists away, I found a comfy pool out of the wind and got caught up with girlfriend chatter. Blessed. Just blessed. CC and I exchanged all the latest news, and there is plenty to be shared with you at a later date. With laughter and squeals of delight, we both agreed, life is wonderful. In 42 years, CC has been there for every delight and trauma. She’s been a best friend, roommate, confidante, partner in crime, and advisor. We’ve helped each other with our children since they were wee ones. Through it all, I’ve adored her.

Not wanting to dine in a restaurant in this coupled world, I hit the delicatessen and ordered a Prime Rib Dip with fries, and a scoop of Vanilla Gelato for desert. Enjoying dinner back in my room, I got caught up on the days news, and more beautiful music. Ending the night with a two hour conversation with a new friend and neighbor was perfect before it was time to dream of Vacation From Retirement — Day 2.

Not everyone can jet off to a resort these days. I’m truly lucky. Vacation is a state of mind. Find some wonderful Andrea Bocelli, pour a glass of red wine, dim the lights, and there you’ll be, vacationing in your very own mental resort. For me, today hold the SPA experience. I promise, I will divulge every single detail tomorrow. About the Spa Day, that is.

Arrivederci!

Yesterday was a day to relax and enjoy the spa at this most beautiful resort. There are spas, and then, there are REAL spas. This is in the later category. An indulgence that is so special, it must be savored, every minute a treat.

My day started with room service breakfast, a vacation favorite. No. It isn’t cost effective. In fact, the prices are nuts. But, to have a hot breakfast delivered to the door goes hand in hand with vacation.

There was a problem connecting to Bluehost for blogging in the morning. Technology wasn’t agreeing. However, with a simple phone call to a techno-nerd, things were up and running, giving me the ability to report on Day 1. Sitting by the window, overlooking the magnificent pool , I felt as if I’d traveled to another country. The resort lists prices by night on their website. On a busy weekend, the room might cost $700, luxurious beyond compare. By shopping for off days, it was a little over $100 a night. It pays to investigate these things.

After blogging and breakfast, it was time to walk to the spa. Elegant and swanky, two attendants waited at their marble perch for patrons to arrive. Proper reservations in order, another attendant guided me into the inner sanctum of serenity. Wearing black tunics and leggings, the attendants were sleek and attentive. They ushered me to the locker room, giving me an amazingly thick and luxurious spa robe. My adventure began.

Up one level by elevator, the door slid open revealing tranquil nirvana. No glaring lights. Delicate scents of lavender. Everything neat, tidy, and restful. I made my way to the Himalayan Salt Room and melted into one of the white leather chairs of which I have spoken previously. Whatever the Himalayan Salt does, sign me up. A wall of water created a delicate splashing sound, while the low lights invited peace. It was there I waited for my masseuse.

Being a redneck farm girl, all this pampering is new to me. I didn’t grown up with manicures and pedicures. Facials weren’t a weekly event. And a massage?????? That wasn’t part of country life. A gym experience involved walking the avenue to irrigate the vines. Picking up pruned stumps in the spring and tossing them in the trailer while walking at a snail’s pace up and down 109 vineyard. Painting, cleaning, trimming, pruning. Always in tip-top shape, plenty of physical work kept us that way. No, a spa is something fairly new to me.

When sceduling my appointment, an interesting question came up for consideration.

Male or Female Masseuse?

Yikes.

The me of old would have cowered and demanded a woman. But, the new me, brave and bold, cared not, casting fear to the wind. As Doris Day whispered in brain, Que Sera Sera. What ever will be, will be. Now, sitting in the Himalayan Salt Room, I questioned my decision while waiting for my treatment.

Reuel called my name (pronounced Rule). Collecting my bag and nerve, we were off down the darkened hall into our own treatment room. Professional and proper, we discussed my ideas for the proper massage. Explaining that my Senior Citizen self didn’t want a forceful experience, he totally understood. I was left to situate myself under soft blankets on a pre-warmed table, softly vibrating with the music.

As experiences go, there are little day spas in ever town. In strip malls or a converted house. Peaceful little places in which to experience a nice massage. This spa is above and beyond, offering the finest equipment to enhance the experience. The spa table was just one example.

For 50 minutes Reuel got rid of ever crimped muscle and doubt that I’m a true fan of the male masseuse. Sharing a tip, he took folded towels, and placed them under my shoulders as I lay face down. This relieved stress on my back, something I plan to do at home once in awhile. Slathered with creams, lotions, and potions, I drifted into the soft background music. 50 minutes evaporated quickly, and it was time to enjoy the rest of the spa.

Taking an elevator up one floor again, I entered the Caldarium (Latin root — room containing warm water for bathing). Filled with relaxed people, a private pool and hot tubs await completed the scene. Walking right past all that, I headed straight for the Relaxation Room. The last time I’d been to this room, Miss Firecracker and I were enjoying the day together. This time, I went in alone.

Tranquil and serene, this dark chair-lined room featured a video display of the Northwestern Nevada night sky on a screen high on the wall. The chairs flipped easily into Zero Gravity. To explain, you sit down, press a button, and your feet are then way above your head. This takes all pressure off your back, positioning you perfectly for the show. Again, soft Zen music accompanies the stars. There are salt candles and a wall of water creating peace. No yappy women came to ruin the experience. Just me and the heavens. I think I fell asleep for just a minute or two.

After time had passed, I was off to order lunch. Miss Firecracker had done the smart thing on our last visit, ordering the Crab, Avocado, and Pita Salad for lunch. Oh. My. Goodness. I will be recreating that recipe at home. The freshest crab. Ripe California Avocados. Cherry tomatoes. A creamy dressing. This was an amazing lunch taken on the peristyle, alone. Inside, the unmasked throngs were poolside in their robes. No one took the time to go outside for a bit of sun or social distancing. While a bit smoky, the 75 degree breeze was delightful for sunbathing. Thirty minutes of sun a day provides us with much needed Vitamin D. The patio was mine to enjoy alone.

Finally, dropping down two floors, I’d hoped to enjoy the private women’s facilities, complete with steam and dry saunas and a bubbling hot tub. Sadly, women yapped incessantly until I could take no more, causing me to return my room for a nap. Women. Just shut the front door, ladies. There is a time and place for continuous gabbing.

The rest of my day was complete with intermittent trips to the pool for some sunshine and more room service. Some people can’t even enjoy a meal alone. I took an entire Italian vacation all by myself and enjoyed every minute. Truly, it seems I’ve been on a Tuscan holiday. Ready to find out about Oliver’s run with the pack at Puppy Camp, we’ll trek along the Loneliest Highway back to Winterpast. Back to the mail and yard work. On towards tomorrow.

Arrivederci, faithful Readers. Have a wonderful day.

_{by Douglas Malloch (1877-1938)}

The tree that never had to fight

For sun and sky and air and light,

That stood out in the open plain

And always got its share of rain,

Never became a forest king,

But lived and died a common thing.

The man who never had to toil,

Who never had to win his share

Of sun and sky and light and air,

Never became a manly man,

But lived and died as he began.

Good Timber does not grow on ease

The stronger wind, the tougher trees,

The farther sky, the greater length,

By sun and cold, by rain and snows,

In tree or man good timber grows.

Where thickest stands the forest growth,

We find the patriarchs of both,

And they hold converse with the stars

Whose broken branches show the scars

Of many winds and much of strife,

This is the common law of life.

This morning, I happened upon this beautiful poem. The version I read was credited to an anonymous writer. Googling the title to be sure the writer of poem wasn’t known, Douglas Malloch was credited. I wonder what challenges Mr. Malloch faced causing him to create this beautiful piece? As a writer and poet, my best work comes from the darkest days.

Conversing with the stars, there are no better companions than those with battle wounds. For those in life that don’t stand for something fall for everything. Battle scars are always messy. Lethal adversaries steal away our most precious comrades. Cancer devastated my life in that way, as it has for so many. Covid now robs us of peace of mind, while politicians tear away our freedoms.

Remember today, anything worth having is worth protecting. Our way of life in America is the best in the world. If you don’t believe that, you’ve obviously not found it necessary to escape, penniless, into the dark of a Russian night in 1977, trying to escape back to the America you miss so much. You have not stood in hours waiting for two kilograms of horse sausage because you consumed any eaten protein in weeks. You haven’t seen two women bloodied and fighting over the two last rotten apples in a barrel. You haven’t seen the void eyes of uniformed children, brainwashed in the ways of their government. You haven’t lived communism, as I did.

Our oldest citizens know sacrifice, hunger, and love of country. They lived through the Great War. They were the original GREEN citizens, everything repurposing, reused, and recycled. They valued quality, because things needed to last for a very long time. They had mad survival skills, because, they needed to survive some terrible times.

We find ourselves in that situation now. There is one big difference. In order to be Good Timber, we need to find other like minded patriarchs with whom to converse with the stars. Our thick stand of family and friends help to protect from the winds and strife we face.

Just some thoughts as I go to clean a little country church this morning. Stay strong in whatever life is throwing your way. Keep moving forward. As a famous prince would advise us, you just need to Better Up. Have a great day.

The Friday of long ago signaled the beginning of the work weekend for me. There was no long awaited visit to the local brewery, or dinner with friends. Friday was the beginning of our farming weekend; the ranch a demanding mistress. While others were planning to sleep in and enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee by the pool, we were up at our usual 4:30 AM to get started with a long list of chores.

4:30 AM, present day. As I sit here writing, I wonder who in their right mind would accept my crazy schedule? Even Oliver barely tolerates it, except that food is involved. He’s already back to sleep in his cozy little work bed. Some days, it seems it’d be a good idea to publish at a later hour. However, I’ve found that the complications of a normal day provide roadblocks for creative writing time. So, my schedule remains. For now.

Schedules and appointments have been giving me a little trouble. It seems a few distractions have gotten in the way of my normally boring life. Finding a new and active normal while adding interesting activities isn’t as easy as it seems at 65. Covid and widowhood be damned, I’m creating my real and authentic life. In the midst of that, I’ve finally met someone that has the time, means, and curiosity to join me once in awhile.

Friendship is the basis for everything good in this world. Friends support each other when they’re down. A blue moon is a terrible thing to waste, and once upon a blue moon, a neighbor stopped by my porch on a summer’s evening. A neighbor I would have never met, except for a common friend who decided an introduction just couldn’t wait a second longer. Exchanging cards at a political meeting where like minded people gather to share positive visions of our country, we first met. Just a “Hi”, “Nice to meet you”, “Bye” type of meeting.

Life can be unpredictably crazy sometimes. Just when you think things can’t be stranger, there’s a new twist. A widow lady gardening her roses in the back yard. A widower making sure his pines have enough water on hot summer days. Two very private neighbors tending to their respective gardens while healing from the ravages of cancer and loss with just 733 steps between their front doors. Parallel grief. A zig, a zag, and an unexpected intersection at “Hello”.

Membership in the “Loss of a Spouse Club” is horrific and unwanted. It brands your heart in a way that inexplainable to someone that doesn’t have similar scars. Married friends want to understand in the worst way, while we hope it never happens to them. Somethings are too impossible to fully explain. It helps when someone already knows. He knows.

So add a new friend into the mix of hair appointments, pedicures, and a mini-girl-get-a-way, and appointments have been vexing me. Yesterday I got my hair cut. Today, Oliver goes to the mop-shop for his. Then, we’ll settle into a weekend of rest and reflection, no longer racing to cram three days of work into two.

I hope your weekend is delightful. Do something a little different to spice things up. Until then, Happy Friday.

There’s nothing better than an invigorating challenge of Tug of War. Teams form on either end of a large rope, pulling for their side. Sometimes this is done over a mud pit (if you happen to be a redneck like me). Other times its on grass, but always with a center line to cross. When one side pulls the other over said line, they win.

Many days, life is just like Tug of War. Two opposing sides intent on forcing their will onto the other, each insistent that the opposing side comes along. Teamwork is important, with combined strengths helping to secure a “win”. These days, it seems the world is one giant battle to death. Each side holds tightly to their opinionated end of the rope. Opposing sides play over a giant chasm of no return. And, pull they do with all their might.

In the game of Tug of War, A fun trick to play on the opposing team to to simply drop the rope as a team. Pulling with all their might, the other team falls in a heap, not expecting such a random move by the opposition. In life, we can drop the rope, too. Change the subject. Agree to disagree. Change the channel. Flip the script to something new and different. Truly, think about it before forcing opinions on a very serious medical decision with anyone. Unless you have their complete medical history, you don’t know the entire story. Just drop that rope and find something else to discuss. Dropping the rope can be a freeing experience.

The thing that comes to mind most right now is opinions on vaccinating against Covid. At times, I need to turn off the noise, having picked up my end of the rope for personal and valid health reasons. In a free America, one used to be able to do that. In this “New” America, choice is no longer worth fighting for. Everyone must step in line, no matter your own health complications. Just do it. Some of us can’t.

That being said, upon waking Saturday, my throat was sore. Even a sore throat no longer has the same meaning as it did two years ago. After much research and preparation, I flew into action, sheltering in place while taking a group of anti-viral vitamins and minerals. Minor sniffles and congestion followed. Mr. Widower of the Pines (WP) mysteriously came up with the same symptoms. Strange how viruses can travel 733 feet. Puzzling and mysterious.

Commiserating, whining, and sniffling, we weathered the storm, not sure if we’d be alive today to talk about our experience. Thoughts of any possibility other than death were wiped from our brains by the crazed media. Our symptoms were mirrored in each other as we waited, not knowing if this was The End.

Now, men always have the worst symptoms, as any woman over the age of infancy knows. True enough, these are scary times, and having a cold is no picnic for either sex. But, we all know, men have it worse. So, we waited and whined some more. With identical symptoms, we could at least enjoy meals together, while sniffling and sneezing.

The big difference between us was that HE went to get a Covid test. With results taking three days, (absolutely unacceptable, except that we live in the middle of nowhere), we had plenty of time to plan our last hours. Plenty of time to reassess and continue to embrace our medical decisions. Plenty of time to watch how the other responded to illness and physical discomfort. More time to talk about gardening plans and the differences between roses and pine trees. We bravely waited it out.

Owning a simple Oxygen meter (Amazon – 14.95), we made sure our Oxygen levels were above 90% at all times. Temperatures were routinely checked. Prepared with every cold remedy known to humankind, the medicine chest was stocked with a variety of medicines to fight different symptoms. We drank orange juice and enjoyed chicken soup. We kept warm and took lots of naps.

The results came in yesterday. Low and Behold!!!! Thank you, Jesus!!! A gift from the heavens. Not Covid. Not the plague. Not pneumonia or gout or shingles. The Common Cold shared between two old farts. I must say, we were both a bit disappointed, as we’d have loved to work on our natural immunity. But, Covid was not in our destiny. With a restocking of supplies for the next bug that comes along, we’ll be just fine.

So, with the Tug of War over vaccinations raging, WP and I dropped our side of the rope to dance in delight at our good fortune. No Covid. In doing so, the opposing team lost their footing and fell in a heap on this round. We probably won’t pick up the rope to play again, too busy preparing to take care of our own medical needs.

People need to turn off the news and take a breath. Medical decisions are private between a patient and doctor. There shouldn’t be a game of Tug of War about private medical decisions based on very real contraindications. Medical decisions are as individual and private as fingerprints. Life was so much more pleasant when that boundary was respected.

I’m thrilled to say I’m on the mend. With fall yard work just around the corner, I have gardening techniques to review. Winterizing procedures to follow. Soup to simmer and leaves to rake.

Be careful out there. Colds and the flu can be equally as miserable and dangerous as Covid. Stay safe. Once and awhile, just drop the rope to celebrate when it’s least expected. It’s fun to watch the outcome. It’s even more fun to dance with a new partner.

The mega yard sale of two weeks past was a wonderful success. Finding enjoyment while helping with preparations, many interesting developments transpired BECAUSE OF the event.

During prep week, I made many new friendships just waiting to grow. Several members of our group substitute for the local school district. I don’t know that I could ever return to the classroom, but, you never know. I certainly respect these ladies for doing just that. Many of my church friends came to enjoy the sale and find treasures of their own. A good time was enjoyed by all. By the end of the second day, the group earned almost $2,000.

One gentleman dropped off a fabulous camera that is now mine. $100 years old, I would love to see if I can get it to work. Just the intricacy of the little knobs and levers fascinates me. Opening and closing it, it reminds of of days gone by, when items of quality were a thing of beauty. This camera was a father’s loved possession. What moments of pride did it capture? Graduations? Weddings? First steps? I can feel the happiness vibrate from the case and am so glad it’s mine. It will remained loved.

There was something else wonderful that occurred. I didn’t know it until yesterday when a dear friend contacted me worried that I had moved the blog. Again, I apologize for any disruption in my posts. Last weekend, I had technical difficulties, as well as the onset of a cold, which is getting better each hour. Thank goodness August is over. Dreadful month, that one.

Before the yard sale even began, I discovered little treasures. I found a sweet little cross and two angels. There was the silver MAGA 1957 trinket box that went to the husband of our chapter President for his help. His birth year is 1957. He helped so much with the sale, it was the least I could do to share the little treasure I found. The 100 year old Kodak camera, beautiful and full of good energy.

And then, there was the bird house.

On the eve of the sale, I’d been at Nina Neighbor’s helping with last minute arrangements. I’d seen most of the items for sale, but, out of nowhere appeared an adorable little bird house. Small and quaint, it reminded me a little bit of my old farmhouse. But, it also screamed Winterpast. I was drawn to this little house and immediately put it with my other treasures. New and shiny, it was just too adorable to leave. Into my back yard it would go. A new bunch of nesters would find safety in the attic of this little yellow house with pale blue trim. I’d find a special location.

Fast forward to yesterday. When returning an email an sweet friend and fan who just happens to have intimate ties to Winterpast (her parents loved Winterpast before me), I discovered it was SHE who donated the house for the sale. The daughter of the previous owners of my home randomly gave her friend, Ninja Neighbor, this little house. Her intentions were that it would raise a little bit for the cause, nothing more. It was supposed to be in the back yard of Winterpast all along.

Tell me there isn’t a special message in all of this and I would tell you to think again. There are so many things in this world we don’t understand, this being one of them. Her happiness over the situation was delightful. Her mom delighted in caring for Winterpast, making it a home for everyone to enjoy. There was but one destination for her donation. With hundreds of buyers at the sale, there were a thousand different routes her little bird house could have flown. But it didn’t. It came to its rightful home.

Look for miracles all around you. Little affirmations surround us with love each day. Friendship is the most beautiful thing in the world. When all else fails, the love of a friend can get us through a tough day. Bored? Just put a birdhouse within sight of window. Entertainment on wings. Have a great Wednesday!!!!

PS–To my sweetest friend,

Thank you for the addition to Winterpast. It will forever be V and F’s little house in the Wilde’s! Your sweet mom is surely giggling. I hear her in the wind. J

I had it all planned out. A day in the bigger town just West of here. An outing of fun after suffering through my cold. A quick Doctor’s visit, shopping, lunch, and a bit of adventure. Exploration and discovery while having a fun day. Well, all of those plans were thrown out the window when my cold went even more south, ending any thoughts of fun. I’m house bound a little longer.

Just so you know, my cold is much worse. Much, much worse. Dreadful. Devastating. Debilitating. A sinus-choking event. I feel better sharing this with you. After I made light of many illnesses, mine blossomed. I shouldn’t have gloated.

All plans for a solo trip into the big city were scrapped. I’ll need to plan for another time. Summer’s nearly evaporated in a puff of thick “California-burnin'” smoke. People have been checking to see how the big fires in California are affecting me. Some days are not so bad while on others the smoke is thick.

My heart breaks for South Lake Tahoe. It is truly one of the most beautiful places in the entire world. We need to pray for our forests. Last year, my boat trip was one of my first adventures. A day I’ll remember forever. Glad I did it, because things there may never look the same again. I’m tired of hearing about climate change in regards to fires. It’s an easy way for those in charge to shirk their responsibility. Having lived in the area my entire life, it was something we all watched, waiting for disaster to happen. In the final analysis, it was years of extremely irresponsible forest management contributing to the fires. Dense and dry fuel. Forests were never managed properly. At the end of a summer of drought, this is the result. A loss that won’t be replaced in our lifetimes. God is surely weeping.

With Eastern forests still thriving, when we’re well again, we’ll find a way to escape smoke and explore. The Ruby Mountains. Elko. Ely. The Loneliest Road in America. The 55′ Ichthyosaur. Gem fields. Crystals for the finding. Antique bottles to found. So many adventures we’ll have trouble choosing. But for now, Kleenexes and orange juice for me.

There’s been thoughts of a day trip to Bodie, the town time forgot. Bodie is on the eastern side of the Sierra’s. A once bustling gold-mining town and California State Historic Park, it sits quietly near the Nevada border. Original buildings and a cemetery are in a state of arrested decay. After its glory days as a mining hub, the town was finally abandoned by the time of World War II. Many of the buildings were left furnished with couldn’t be carried out. In 1962, it became a National Historic site. Truly a fascinating place.

So many fun day trips for me to plan. I need to shake my cold and get moving. For now, Oliver understands. He’s been the best dog in the history of dogs. Yesterday, he slept hours, finishing off his day by turning in at 5 PM for the night. Not a peep from my little buddy until this morning at 4:30. As long as I respect his meal time, he rolls with the plan, whatever it is. I’m lucky to have such a great dog as my bestie.

Making it through this little bug, I’ve been enjoying a batch of Doris Day movies, including The Tunnel of Love and April in Paris. So fun to watch talented actors and actresses on real movie sets. No computer generation or animation, old movies are works of art, preserved for our enjoyment. Thank heavens for the days of political incorrectness and decorum. Some things were so simple back then. Two sexes with complimentary yet opposite attributes. Charming and normal.

So, with a box of Kleenex, I’m back to bed to rest. Please stay safe in this crazy world. The common cold can lead to bronchitis and pneumonia just as easily as Covid. It’s also just as contagious and dangerous for people with compromised health. Do us all a big favor and isolate for two weeks if you suffer from any kind of virus. We didn’t catch our colds gardening in the back yard or taking a walk. Someone was out running around while spreading viruses for us to catch. Not appreciated at all.

Remember, illness is bad whether you are a man or woman. When you experience it first hand, it’s never good. More tomorrow.

Moving to a new town in April 2020, there was only one couple I knew. Miss Firecracker and her amazing husband, Bailey’s and Cream. Their love of this wide place on a dusty little road was enough for me. Few other’s opinions would’ve convinced me their town was better. It was a huge leap of faith to move to Winterpast 17 days after VST’s untimely death. Alone, I came in faith.

Faith is defined as having a strong belief in God based on spiritual apprehension rather than proof. In this use of the word apprehension, I refer to “understanding or grasp”. It’s belief that everything will turn out as planned, even when you have no proof that it will. Sometimes, you need to Let Go and Let God. Although every bit of common sense said I shouldn’t move to this little town, faith guided me towards the support and love of Miss Firecracker and Bailey’s and Cream. When I first arrived, Covid had terrified the world, so there were no waiting hugs and welcome baskets. It was too dangerous to risk. And so, the best hug of all came from the four walls of Winterpast and, of course, my four-legged bestie, Oliver.

Oliver has seen a lot. He understands everything, accepting his place in life as a very lucky dog. His biggest wish in life is to be part of the pack. He understands his job as watchdog. He keeps me safe from marauding hawks, toads, and vermin. He warns me of dreaded walkers and falling fruit. Oliver works for food and hugs. A wonderful trade. Oliver’s my cherished family member.

I spent a good part of 2020 on a personal journey through widowhood. Never, did I ever…… So many ways I could end that thought. The most profound way is this. Never, did I ever experience such deep loneliness and need for other humans. Never, did I ever realize how important it is to have family to turn to. Never, did I ever so deeply appreciate the bonds of friendship.

In early August 2020, Miss Firecracker lost her Bailey’s and Cream to cancer. And then, there we were. Two instead of four. Half rather than whole. It was she, my first new confidante in a very long time, that would be waiting for me at the Tee Pee Bar and Grill with her million dollar smile. Those meals were priceless. Her opinions on life and love, even more so. How I wish we could’ve stopped time. Together, we cried, healed, laughed, schemed, ate and repeated. Family, she and I.

When she moved in the spring, I was finally all alone in my new town. It was time to strike out on my own to find new friends. “Give a call when you’re sick” kind of friends. The kind of friends that smile from the heart when they see you. Those that ask, “How are things going?” and have time to listen. Political comrades. Readers of the blog. A family kind of friends. It was up to me.

It was then I found my little church, different from the moment I first walked in. A small group of church members supporting each other through tough times. Covid isolation hadn’t been easy for any of us, and being able to meet again for fellowship held new meaning and importance. God fills this chapel. I’ve been there at different times of the week. It matters not. There is a calm and comforting feeling in the building before scripture is even added. As the weeks have gone on, I’ve realized how much I love these new friends. It was this week, I realized they are becoming family.

I’d been attending everything they had for over two months. Sunday morning Bible Study, Sunday service, Sunday evening Bible Study with Pastor C, Tuesday morning Bible Study with the ladies, and Wednesday evening Bible Study with the Pastor. The Bible has come alive while listening to normal folk talk about applications in normal life. Each time I attended another class, I went away knowing a little more about my heart in ways I hadn’t expected.

And then……. I caught the cold. Not the Mother-of-All-Colds, just a nasty, sneezy-sniffling kind of cold. Not wanting to this little bug to circulate through the pews, I sheltered in place like we’re supposed to do when ill.

The phone calls started. All my favorite people from church called me. Just quick little check-ins because they’d missed me. Little did they know, I’d missed them, too. Today, Pastor C called. Just the sweetest man, on a calling to spread The Word, was checking up on me, a friend, to make sure I was okay.

A friend came to my rescue with Meals on Wheels. Making sure I had everything needed to get well, she hovered at a respectable distance. Giving me space to rest and recuperate, I only needed to holler for anything needed. In the blink of an eye, I’m a visible and valued member of the community. My absence is noticed. I’m loved and it feels wonderful.

Friends are family we choose. In sixteen months, the number of people I’ve added to my high desert family has grown. No longer a new town, this is now my home. No longer alone and lonely, I’m lucky have so many great friends that notice an empty church seat. A sweet neighbor guy who keeps me in chicken fried steak and gravy. And Oliver, forever at my feet as I sign off. Stay well, cherish your friends, and have a great Friday!!!

As the fires rage around Lake Tahoe, evacuations are in place. If you haven’t visited, you have missed one of the most beautiful mountain areas anywhere. World class skiing awaits. Mountain sports of every kind. Fresh air and pine trees. At least that’s the way it was before the fire.

I remember the times I’ve needed to evacuate due to fires. The worst year was 2013, while VST and I were enjoying our last years of employment in the Central Valley of California. While living on our mountain-top hideaway, above the fog and smog, fire preparedness is always a Top-5 task.

Folks move to the foothills to live in the wilderness. The reality is, without defensible space, your mountain hide-away can turn into a deathtrap. Defensible space is 100 feet of cleared space in all directions of your home. In a small foothill neighborhood, if everyone complies, you soon live in a small treeless city. This becomes exactly the type of environment people hoped to escape. Many people resist, loving the privacy provided by plants like mature manzanita. Fuel-filled and explosively flammable. Manzanita grows dense and is full of oil. In a fire, it burns hot and fast, often destroying homes to which it provided with privacy.

On our mountaintop, we had the view of all views. Our backyard lawn dropped off the cliff like an infinity pool, and there we were, suspended like two old crows. Space defended, we could see for miles.

In the spring of 2013, a different kind of evil was brewing. A neighbor couple was about to lose their home to foreclosure. Not being of sound mind, they concocted a wonderful idea. With enough fires set in our foothill community, it would be easy to start one by THEIR house and burn it to the ground. No one would suspect a thing. The insurance money would set them happily on their way to a better future. With that bit of evil brewing, the fires commenced.

For two months, at precisely 4 PM every day, a new fire would begin. These fires were set in very dry conditions with manzanita ready to explode. Each day, I’d notice a deadly plume of smoke as a new fire began. Calling to report the new fire, I felt something to which I was unaccustomed. Terror. Like being the ultimate Scarecrow. How fast could the fire travel? Would the afternoon winds carry an ember to our property? Was our defensible space defendable? How many firemen would be injured, or worse? Would anyone lose their life? Could I become trapped in an evacuation traffic jam? All questions asked each day as a new fire started. One a day for almost two months.

This evil duo lived down the hill from us. As their plan came closer to our doorstep, so did the evacuation order over our cell phones. We were to make sure all pets and livestock were moved to safe ground. Being prepared, we had a plan in place, already knowing what picture albums and personal belongings needed to come along. Clothing and shoes for the first week. Cash. Credit cards. Insurance papers of all kinds. Legal documents. Everything was neatly organized and waiting for our turn at disaster as the daily fires continued. When we finally needed to go, the vehicles were stuffed and down the hill we went.

It’s a tough thing to leave a home behind. Being prepared, there’d been extra time to include things we hadn’t considered important or may even, essential. Old paper medical records from the 1900’s, before every cough and sniffle was digitized. Dental records. Address books. Every spare place in the vehicles was stuffed. Still, there were things we just couldn’t grab, because the fire was coming.

Driving away, a fog of smoke and ash made it difficult to breathe or even see. Due to the number of homes in the mountain community, large bombers were deployed, as the skies rained with huge loads of orangish-pink fire retardant covering everything. Helicopters dropped thousands of gallons of water on each day’s fire. With hard work and determination, only one house was destroyed during those two months. No one died.

With great detective work and undercover agents literally hanging out in the trees, the culprits were finally caught. The nightmare was over, but not without emotional scars. It’s hard to sleep at night when you aren’t sure if a copycat fire will be set. The two received 30 and 40 years respectively due to the wonderful work of the agents. Unfortunately, due to the insane laws of California, the monsters have been released to live wherever they like. Evil walks among us, folks. It truly does. (More information — Google Yosemite Lakes Arson Fires, Madera County, 2013)

The fires of today are even worse than those VST and I experienced in 2013. Forest mismanagement and the ravages of bark beetle and drought have left mountain residents vulnerable. Escape routes are not usually large boulevards, but pitted, gravel roads, not designed for heavy evacuation traffic or emergency equipment. Evacuation centers fill up early. Large animal transportation and care is limited. Horses need to eat. A lot. Sometimes it’s necessary to simply turn them out, making sure contact numbers are written on hooves with black sharpies. In a fire, human family members come first. A missing cat or dog may need to fend for itself until the owners return, if they can.

Disasters come in all sizes and shapes. Evacuations can be necessary for any number of reasons. Are you ready? Do you have a go bag equipped with a week’s worth of medicine and copies of important phone numbers and policies? Have you planned with a family member in a different area in the event of a disaster? Do you have numbers written down in case your phone gets lost? All things easily done when things are normal and calm.

Please pray for those evacuated from their homes from flood, fire, or the other natural disasters happening today. These families are experiencing something unforeseen and horrific. Not knowing if there’s a home to return is a horrible feeling. Losing everything near and dear is devastating. Thank goodness for the kindness and generosity of Americans. Keep praying for rain where we need it and none where we don’t. These are trying times.

If you had fifteen minutes to pack your life into a car, what would you take? Thoughts about this are somewhat important in these crazy days. Hard to tell if the 1,000 year flood or the 100 year fire will come knocking. Maybe The Big One in the form of an earthquake. Here in America, we have an abundance of belongings leaving some to define themselves by the toys they keep. But, in an emergency, What Would You Take?

The answer to that has changed over the course of my life. I remember the Loma Prieta Earthquake of October 17, 1989. Ironing while watching the Oakland A’s play in the World Series, the broadcast was interrupted by a terrible earthquake in the San Francisco Bay area. On a crystal clear seas side day, the television transmission started shaking and went to snow. From that moment forward, the news held horrors as camera angles showed downed bridges and overpasses that had squashed cars and drivers into mangled pancakes. For days, first responders raced at full speed, saving those they could, and making note of those for which there was no hope at all.

My parents owned a vacation condominium in Santa Cruz, California, hard hit by the jolt. Family lived in the little town. Phone calls let us know our people were shaken but fine, but would the condo still be standing? It was too dangerous for anyone there to check.

The next morning, the three of us jumped in the car to cross over the coastal mountain range to assess what damage had occurred. What did I take? Batteries, flashlights, a change of clothes. Oreo Cookies. Two packages. Why? Because everything is a little better with chocolate. Oreo cookies are an extreme comfort food. Would I have done better taking something more sensible to help those in need? Probably. But, the cookies went instead.

As we drove the three hour trip, damage was obvious along the entire route. Huge hay stacks had toppled. Roads had cracked. Buildings were at precarious angles. The closer we got, the more damage we noticed along the highway. The little coastal town we all loved so much was in a state of shock.

At the condo, a second story plate glass window had popped out and fallen straight down in a single sheet to cut through a 2″ x 4″ redwood deck like butter. If someone had been sleeping in the lower bedroom and run out of the sliding door, they’d have been killed. The free standing fireplace had danced across the floor. No doubt, the condo had been jumping up and down during the earthquake, but amazingly, it remained standing and sound.

Houses had slid off foundations. Roofs collapsed. Windows shattered. Power lines were down. Roads buckled. The famous Santa Cruz Book Store was a disaster, with every title laying in heaps like rubble on the flour.

One young family was without a home, as theirs had fallen apart. My parents immediately made the condo available to their use for as long as they needed a place to stay. Without thinking of logistics or risks, they handed the keys to their ocean view hideaway to young parents of two adorable kids. With nothing but the clothes on their backs, they were in shock from the disaster, but also from the kindness of two senior citizens from the Central Valley of California, doing what they could to help.

What would you take? What would you give? How could you help? We all need to consider that questions, because disasters will come. It might be our turn to suffer or our turn to help. Only God knows.

Carefully construct your list. Don’t wait. Have a flexible plan. Stay prepared. If Covid taught me one thing, it’s that the smallest disaster can cause the most profound shortages. Don’t become complacent. We’re all only one sneeze away from more empty shelves.

With that said, enjoy the beginning of Autumn. Here in the desert, the skies are trying to return to the deepest blue. The days are noticeably shorter. The pre-sunrise temps are hovering in the 50’s, making morning yardwork crisp and delicious. If you are lucky enough to awake to an unevacuated day free from disaster and smoke, be grateful. Happy Sunday!

With the Twentieth Anniversary of September 11 just around the corner, I would kick myself if I lost the chance to tell a wonderful story. I’m shocked at how few know about acts of human kindness that shine brightly next to the stark horror of that day. The Story of Gander Newfoundland is a jewel among the heartbreak and rubble. Just a quiet little story that will make you smile.

For passengers on 38 wide-body aircraft flying West over the Atlantic, 9-11-2001 was an ordinary day to travel. Movies were watched and meals consumed. Flight attendants were carrying out mundane tasks, along with caring for the needs of the passengers on these 38 jets. Pilots were checking logs and readings, with everything in good order as they made their way West towards the US. Everything was smooth, quiet, and routine.

38 Jumbo jets. About 6,600 passengers and crew. All going or coming by airplane. Unaware.

On the ground, in Ganger, Newfoundland, the population hovered at less than 10,000 residents. All going about their daily business, they didn’t know what would be asked of their tiny little town.

In an instant, all the serenity vanished as the United States of America was attacked in New York City, Washington, DC, and Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

Radio alerts to all 38 jets, instructions for landing as soon as possible came through loud and clear. These jets were rerouted to Gander, Newfoundland. They would be grounded for an unknown period of time because something tragic happened. Not much information was shared. Just a urgent need to clear all airspace as soon as possible.

For six September days following the horrendous attacks, passengers, pilots, crew, and residents would become a family. Every one of those 38 Jumbo jets landed at Gander International Airport with all United States airspace closed. When the news came that visitors were “Come From Away”, home kitchens came to life. Closets opened and pillows were fluffed. The townspeople came to the rescue to make Gander a home away from home for weary travelers. 6600 of them. Across town, casseroles by the thousands were cooked. Bedding and sleeping bags were needed. Regular townspeople became chefs and waitresses. Everyone came to life to welcome the strangers who had “Come From Away”. The town made it work for those that had no choice but to disembark and wait while airspace remained closed.

Donations poured in. Breakfast would need to be prepared and ready. Everything travelers would need must to be provided, for suitcases would remain in the holds of the aircraft. Prescriptions, diapers, underwear, toiletries. All for 6,600. Traveling animals would need food also. Everything was carefully considered, while few slept in the tiny town.

When the jets landed, passengers needed to stay aboard over 24 hours. Then, one by one, the jets unloaded passengers into waiting school buses for transport. The terror that must have been felt by passengers and townsfolk alike. Passengers didn’t yet know what had happened as those onboard had been told nothing. Townspeople were still trying to absorb the shock of it all.

A prestigious pilot named Beverly Bass was one of those stranded. She happened to be the first woman pilot to become Captain in American Airlines. A love story bloomed between two lonely Senior Citizens. Heartbreak coated everything. Mother’s whose sons worked in the World Trade Center held hands and prayed. People of a different skin color or language were embraced as family. Drama of every type waited to unfold.

How did I find out about this?

Years later someone brilliant decided to write a musical about this amazing story. Called, “Come From Away”, it will be released for purchase on Apple TV on September 10th. Please look for it, you won’t be disappointed. I would expect that on Saturday, we’ll all be feeling the familiar heartbreak while watching coverage of the day. Watch something brilliant and wonderful the night before. The lyrics in this musical are beautiful and unforgettable. Turn up the volume, as every word is part of the story that transpired. If you want to listen to the soundtrack before, go to YouTube. There are uninterrupted versions of all the songs taking about one hour of time to listen.

My favorite story is about Beverly and her love of flying. Called “Me and the Sky”, the last words of her song make me cry every time. The one thing she loved the most caused horror and devastation and came between her and the sky. I loved being a passenger as much as Beverly loved flying. How our world has changed! What was lost, youngers can’t truly understand.

I do plan to visit the Dover Straight. Someday, I plan to go there with someone I love dearly. I want to eat a dinner in Gander and leave an hefty tip, leaving some smiles in the town. There is so much to be learned by this story. Please do some research. It will make your heart glad to be human. Remember, there is always something we can do to help, no matter how small. Have a wonderful day.

A little country church along a wide space in the road has proven to be my peaceful spiritual retreat on Sunday mornings. Upon entering the church, one can feel the presence of the Holy Spirit. Comforting to a weary soul, this little building is much more than dry wall and windows.

“Pastor, there’s something I feel when walking through the door. It is REAL. RICH. It fills my heart,” I shared with him on Sunday.

“Joy, it’s the Holy Spirit,” he answered, as if he’d given that same answer one hundred times before. Goosebumps flashed across my arms. But of course! The Holy Spirit!

Since I started attending, the friends I’ve made have grown in depth. One of my favorite women reminds me of an older sister. Willow is tall and beautiful, looking much younger than her 70-Something years. She is the first to pass out hugs on Sunday morning. Sadly, her hip is worn out, and needs a replacement. On Wednesday, she’ll undergo surgery which will put her out of commission for a bit.

One of Willow’s extra duties at the church is changing the message on the church sign once every two weeks. She asked if I might be able to take over that job. I can easily do that when I go to clean for an hour on Thursday morning. Just like that, I’m closer to being a real church member than ever in my life. It feels great.

Sunday was wonderful day for three people to receive Holy Baptism. That morning, during Bible Study, running water could be heard filling up the baptismal font. The Baptistery, or designated space within a church for baptism by immersion, is located in an area beyond the stage. There, people are submerged underwater, symbolizing a life before accepting Jesus, a death, and rebirth after accepting Jesus as Lord and Savior.

Two steps up, the church has a stage on which the choir and band sit. At the back of the stage, here’s a wall with a space missing in the middle. Through this opening, a stunning mural of Pyramid Lake can be seen. From any angle inside the church, the mural takes on an entirely different look. Gazing at this mural so many times before, I never noticed the baptismal font below. The Pastor and those baptized are clearly seen entering the pool and then, under the water through a plexiglass window.

A young couple and their boy of 10 years had been visiting services for some time. It was father and son that were baptized on the same day, in the same baptismal font, one after the other. When both were done, they hugged while still in the water and there was more than one person crying at that precious moment. Nothing is more beautiful than a little man looking up to a bigger man in adoration. The timing only made it more breathtaking.

Sunday’s have come alive for me. It isn’t a building. It isn’t a certain religion, or a new dress and pair of shoes. It’s God and his only Son, Jesus, that make Baptist on Main sparkle. It’s parishioners with love turned on and their cell phones turned off. It’s singing slightly out of tune or rhythm. It’s generosity and prayers of healing. It’s all wonderfully uplifting.

This confirmed the spiritual nature of my little church wasn’t something I’d misread or wanted so much that I’d made it up. I smiled from my heart. There is a place in this crazy world that still makes sense after 2,000+ years. People gathering that KNOW the truth while being happy to share. People embracing others in need of a hug. Just a dusty little building on Main which comes alive with the Holy Spirit several times a week. Another magical place in this wide spot along a dusty little road in the town I call home.

####

Please note, I shared incorrect information with you yesterday.

Correction.

“Come From Away” will be available for purchase on Apple TV starting September 10th. I’m not sure of the price, or other places it might become available. The soundtrack and many videos on the subject are available on YouTube for free with commercial interruptions.

Please forgive me. 20+ years as a teacher. Argghhhh. I should’ve double checked my info. My apologies. A special Thank You to the Coastal Goddess in the Classic Convertible with Tresses Flowing. I love you.

Twenty Years of Tears. Every September 11th, for the last 20 years, we’ve all cried throughout the day. Such horror and heartache. So much lost that day, we grieve. How can it be possible that such hatred walks among us? Evil took to the sky on that brilliantly blue Tuesday morning, changing our way of life forever more.

Flying used to be something I loved so much. People were kind to each other on flights. Dressing respectfully, it was a treat, not a right. Airline seats were bigger. Without cellphones, there was a chance your seat mate would be an interesting chap with a story to share. Flight attendants, called Stewards or Stewardesses back then, were wonderful and helpful, because they were in the air where they wanted to be. Before or after the flight, captains gave out golden wings to the children and asked them if they wanted to see the cockpit. Times were innocent because no civilized human being would have ever thought of using a plane for a weapon. 9-11 changed all of that.

People were expected to be on their honor, because, Americans were trustworthy people. Rules were made to follow, especially in an airplane. No one would’ve dreamed of harming anyone, let alone a plane full of innocents and children. No. The simplest of human decency and kindnesses made those days magical.

The week leading up to 9/11 is a tough one for me. Last year, my first widowed autumn, I was in the dumps. Each day, I’d run to Walmart to buy something small just to get out of the house. It was then that would see them. Kids and coaches. The first group I would notice was the High School Cheerleaders practicing high kicks and flips. This group of girls was out every day in In-Town Park, doing their best to follow the instructions of their watchful coach. School was closed. There would be no football games or competitions, but these girls showed up to work with their coach day after day. Just a group of girls working on their skills as a team.

The second group ran. They ran and ran and ran. The cross country team coach and his runners paced themselves as they ran along Highway 85A. With rhythmic footsteps, they followed one another on a mission. Bringing up the rear was their coach, watching to make sure everyone was okay. Again. No school track meets. No race to be won, except personal ones. They ran as a team for the sheer love of running.

Two teachers working with their students, doing what teachers do best. Caring for kids. Being a good example while helping everyone to strive for personal excellence in an empty arena. Great teachers are angels with a clipboard, and most teachers ARE great teachers. No one I ever knew taught for the paycheck.

It was September 9, 2020 when an idea came to mind. A random act of kindness. Sitting at my desk, I wrote a handwritten letter to each coach. I didn’t know them. That mattered not. The letter explained the impact their team had on me. I challenged them and their team to choose a small way in which to make something better for someone. In each envelope, I slipped $100. The letter remained unsigned.

On the morning of September 11, before school, the letters were left with the secretary. One addressed “Long Distance Track Coach”, the other “Cheer Coach”. Smiling, I crept away feeling better.

No. I never heard whether or not they chose to do something good with the funds. I know in my heart, they did. I know kids. I know teachers. The release and healing was in the giving. That was reward enough for me.

On this, the week leading up to 9/11, I’ve planned two Random Acts of Kindness.

#1. I’m delivering a letter and $100 to the auto shop in town. There, I’ll ask the owner to apply it to the next single mother’s bill. I remember being that mom. A broken car would’ve been something else I wouldn’t have been able to afford. It’s not a new car, but, I can do a little to help someone trying to do their best. The owner will know just who it would help the most. Who knows? Maybe he’ll donate some, too. Kindness has a way of rubbing off on people.

#2. $100 will go to the Senior Center to cover lunches for 50. That should be at least two days of free meals! Who doesn’t love a free meal? It’ll give everyone something to smile about. Again, maybe someone else will get the idea and do something else kind.

Small towns are a place we can all make a big difference. Kindness comes in all forms. Time donated. A neighbor helped. Sometimes just a wave and a smile can change the day for someone sad. 9/11 is a day for kindness and everyone has some small way to show it.

Please don’t ever forget. Don’t ever think enough years have past. Don’t ever think enough tears have fallen. Don’t discount kids and their ability to process something horrific. Kids need to know, too. Horror happened that day. It wasn’t just some people that did something bad. It was pure evil that attacked our country and way of life. We all need to remember what we lost and stop to think about those that died that day. We all did just a little.

Now, go do something kind. It will make your day!

One day, on the way to Walmart, I was caught off-guard while waiting behind a fire engine at a red light. On the back of truck was a bold sign. STAY BACK 343 FEET. Puzzled, I wondered if I was already breaking the law, as I was waiting about three feet from the truck’s back bumper. I’d never paid attention to the signs on the back of a fire truck, immediately wondering how the number was chosen the. Three hundred forty three feet is quite a distance to stay back.

As it turns out, many firehouses have a similar sign on their trucks. 343 is the number of fireman lost on 9-11. THREE HUNDRED AND FORTY THREE BRAVE YOUNG SOULS. This is a small way of honoring and memorializing the kind of men that run towards danger while assisting those in harm’s way to run from it. On that fateful Tuesday in September, 343 of them dashed into the World Trade Center to help others, only to be taken away far too soon.

The morning of September 11, 2020, I chose to REMEMBER with my town’s fire fighters at their station. Everything was in tip top shape, as the doors were opened to visitors for the program put on by our local Veteran’s association. The floor was so clean you could see your reflection. Everyone was in starched dress uniforms. Our local high school cadets guided elders to their seats and handed out programs. They also took temperatures of those entering the firehouse, which was the custom a year ago.

Our state governor, who isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, had ordered that all 9-11 remembrances be canceled due to Covid. Thank goodness for a Fire Chief that didn’t listen to the governor, but rather held his remembrance for the town. A Day of Remembrance can’t be cancelled because it is inconvenient or named a super-spreader event. Thank goodness some people haven’t forgotten. There are those of us that will NEVER forget. An hour’s worth of time to bow our heads in prayer for what we’ve lost isn’t a lot to ask.

That morning, the firetrucks were out front with lights flashing. The two largest rigs had their ladders extended with the biggest, brightest, and newest American Flag ever. As it waved softly between the two trucks, it spoke to the love of country felt by our dusty little town at a wide spot in the road. It made me proud to be living in such a beautiful little town.

During the program, solemn and quiet in nature, it became clear that our young local firefighters had lost older brothers. Maybe they hadn’t met in this life, but brothers they were. Grown men shed tears as they talked about friends that succumbed to cancers years after working the pit. In fact, the best friend of our local fire chief was in hospice care, waiting to put down his hatchet and gear in exchange for a halo and wings. One of the firemen sang “Amazing Grace” a cappella. Again, tears fell.

They spoke of the bravery of the brotherhood that took trucks from all over the country to New York City, providing help in any way they could. American men and women dropped everything to support those in need in any way possible. Distance doesn’t matter to true heroes during a disaster.

Last year, there were about 343 of us town folk that showed up. Just a guess, but I bet that number was close. I’d expect this year, there’ll be three times that many, because it’s the 20th anniversary. The doors open at 8 AM for a program that will start at 10 AM.

Wherever you live, there’s a local firehouse. These brave people give up family life to work long shifts. Sometimes just waiting around is the hardest work of all. When an unplanned illness strikes, it’s often the EMS from your fire department that run to help. They save lives and property. They miss many family events, as their shifts are often a string of 24 hour duty days away from home. They help in community events. They are silent watchers, keeping us safe. Face it, we all love firemen and they love us.

On Saturday, we need to remember the families of these brave men and women who died trying to save others. We need to remember and honor the firefighters that lived and worked through unspeakable horror trying to find and save victims. Those that lived through the funerals of their friends, day after day. Those that struggle with nightmares and illnesses they suffer through now.

STAY BACK 343 FEET. Remember those who ran those 343 feet and more on a beautiful September day.

The next time you are in a restaurant where first responders eat, through a $20 at their meal. Take a cake or cookies to a local fire station. Wave at their bright red truck on a day YOU are lucky enough to be enjoying normalcy. On Saturday, please give a prayer for these 343 American angels. Our world would’ve been a better place if we could’ve just kept them around longer.

Everyone has a story about where they were when they heard the news. My son had just left his duty station in New Jersey as an Air Man and young husband heading for California. My second son was in England working as a linguist. My parents were coming home from a very long trip. I found myself, like any other day, stopping by a convenience store to get my daily dose of Diet Coke before heading to my classroom.

In 2001, I was a 3rd grade teacher at a little community school. With 20 students to keep me hopping, I liked to be in my classroom each day by 5:45 AM. There were papers to correct, lessons to plan, and parent meetings to hold. Being a morning person, it made sense that my day would start early and end when the kiddos went home and I could become a farmer for the evening. A win/win all the way around.

That morning, the owner of the truck stop had the news blaring on the television. At that point, it wasn’t certain what type of plan had crashed. Dark smoke was rising out of the building and confusion was everywhere. Racing to get to school while listening to the news, the second plane crashed. It wasn’t an accident. By the time I entered my classroom, it was obvious. Something horrible had just happened, and with the potential for more than 20,000 deaths. No one knew how may souls were trapped in the flaming buildings or how many would be able to leave.

That beautiful day in the San Joaquin Valley of California, school buses arrived with children a little more somber than usual. Kids huddled together on the playground. Some parents kept their babies home. I would have. When the school bell rang, my little Room 20 family and I were together. We quietly recited the Pledge of Allegiance. I asked them to join me on the story carpet, a place of community and comfort for us. I sat down on the carpet and we all talked about what news was unfolding. Something bad happened in a far off city called New York. Our map came down to show the distance away from the safety of our school.

Third graders are some of the finest people alive. They are bright, intuitive, and thoughtful. They are made of heart, fire, and skinned knees. They love learning and want be good. They were the people I wanted to be with that day, and I was the person that they were glad to call teacher. And so, we brainstormed. What could we do to best use our time? What would keep us focused on good thoughts and deeds. We came up with a plan.

There were doctors doing their best. Firefighters saving others. Shop owners offered what they could. Policemen and women would work extra long shifts. We would write letters and draw pictures and send our love. Because right then, we had love and prayers that needed to be put to good use.

I was never more proud of class than that one on that day. They were brave and strong, even when they saw the teachers crying in the office. They were good and followed every rule. They drew their best pictures. They wrote in their finest printing. And, they remembered to give me lots and lots of hugs, which was a normal and wonderful part of school back then. At the end of the day we had a manila envelope full of love to send on its way.

Addressed–To the Doctors, Nurses, Police, Firefighters and Helpers on 9-11-01. New York, New York, it would arrive with thousands of others. On their down time, I saw tv coverage of the first responders sitting in a nearby church to read random notes of love from American children just like the ones in my classroom. Our letters had made it. They went on the Wings of Love from my kiddos.

As the years went by, there were less school hour remembrances of that day. Less talk about the horrors that happened. Less talk of the evil deed planned and executed by men from real countries we were not allowed to mention. Finally, there came a day when 9-11 was a normal school day with no mention at all. That was the day I knew I didn’t fit in the profession any more.

September 11, 2001, (my last as a teacher in California), I attended a special memorial in Clovis, California. Sitting deep in thought, the tears flowed as they had every 9-11 since the first. Attendees that day numbered 1,000, but it was two that came to find me that mattered. A beautiful young woman and her handsome boyfriend came up to me as I was bowed in prayer.

“Mrs. Hurt?”

Looking up, I recognized the young woman as a past student, now in her late teens. I needed to focus on the smile, as that’s what I’d recognize first.

“You need to give me a hint. I have a feeling I knew you many years ago.”

She smiled and said, “Mrs. Hurt, it’s Annie. You were with me on 9-11. I wanted to Thank You. That day has meant so much to me through the years.”

Of Course! Annie with the beautiful eyes. Annie with the impish grin. The smart and wise Annie of Room 20, grown up and yet the same girl from so long ago.

Just like that, it was 9-11-2001 all over again, but this time, the roles were reversed. It was she who comforted me. How blessed I was to have been with my 3rd graders that day. Did I mention they are the best people on this earth? Do something special tomorrow. Just don’t forget. We can never forget.

Amazing grace, How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved.
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come,
‘Tis grace has brought me safe thus far
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

When we’ve been there ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we’ve first begun.

Thank you for visiting today. I’ll be back Monday.

It’s hard to believe that just a year ago, I wasn’t blogging. No early morning trudging off to my studio to sit in the dark and write. For three decades, I lost my words. Exchanging them for teaching, farming, children, sawdust, and a guy named VST, I went to silent mode. Collecting stories to comfort my soul, I waited for a time they could explode in endless streams of vowels and consonants. For the last year, it’s been a dream fulfilled, as I watched my readership grow. Over seventy countries. Six continents. Reading me. Incredible.

Four seasons have passed. Through milestones and anniversaries, my words pulled me through widow’s fog and the darkest of winters. They pulled readers along, curious to see what stories unfolded. The writer of September 24, 2020 was a different woman than this writer today.

In the last year, I’ve had the opportunity to become the person I really am. With no one to shout “You should!”, “You shouldn’t”, or “How could you?”, I quietly became the woman I’m comfortable with. In no way a great example of a writer or anything else, but just a woman that likes herself. I’m really proud of that accomplishment, because, for many years, I lost myself. On very quiet days, a new part of me wanted to speak. My readers allowed her to have her say.

To anyone that isn’t a morning person, my schedule is insane. My eyes flip open at 4:30 AM. After a night of dreams, the stories are front loaded and ready to pop out of my fingers and onto the screen in between sips of coffee. It’s quiet. I can hear the noise of the far off interstate. Wind rustling the cotton wood trees. Cheryl standing watch, right outside the window. Oliver sleeps at my feet. It’s my time to create something for me, while recording something worth remembering.

“She stood in the light, turned a new corner, and burst all at once into bloom. The branches above her, the shadow at her feet saw her newness and gave it room to grow.” (I Am Her).

The autumn shadows are long, while he best time of year has arrived. For me, it’s fitting that my second year as a writer begins.

My muse, responsible for the beginning of my blogging journey, created a daily podcast for others. His thousands of listeners waited for his daily publication. I did, as well. Monday through Friday, his recording began in the morning, taking three to four hours. He researched and created his work of art five days a week, without fail. In other areas of his life, he wasn’t as organized. That was one place he could shine, and he did, until his light went out. One day, he put down his microphone.

I know what it feels like to have words trapped inside. Trapped words make me bitter and foul. Widows need to grieve. Words are meant to be shared. Stories are meant to be told. Writers gotta write. Women need to grow. It’s really that simple. In my quiet morning hours, I find new parts of me that want to speak.

Most of all, in my life, I’ve wanted to be a published writer. From the time I was a little girl, I knew that someday, writing would be a big part of my life. A person is never too old for their journal and pencil. At this point, it’s up to me how far I go.

With that being said, the progress of my first book, “Widow” is very slow. Not realizing the time this takes, I was very optimistic that it could have been done by September 24th. With self-publishing, there is no task-mastering agent to crack the whip. I’ll give you an update one month prior to publication. A few little detours, such a a pine loving neighbor, have complicated my days. As protective as a mother bear, I’m defending time for my words, making sure writing remains a large part of my day. Living the life I want, the future is getting brighter every day. What a journey!

Today, think about your passions. Take time to do something you love the most. Rearrange your schedule to include all the things you love. We all have 24 unrepeatable hours. How will you make yours count? More tomorrow.

I get goosebumps from the tiniest of perfect things. Cheryl’s leaves as they turn in this brilliant season. Star filled Northern Nevada nights, so clear you could reach out and touch them. Ninja Neighbor’s BBQ drifting over Winterpast on a early evening breeze. A phone call from a dear friends living far away. Prayers answered for safe and love-filled days as my life’s journey continues. The scent from a bar of the finest milk chocolate. I journal about the best parts of each day. A playful glance. A beautiful sunset. I add to it all the time. I’m rich with wonder. (Rearranged from I Am Her, M.H. Clark, Justine Edge– Amazon).

In our lives, there are a million tiny, perfect things around us. From ants to the mustangs that roam my streets, life is brilliantly beautiful. Each day, I’m to live in the moment and enjoy the riches of the right now. Focus my brain on the day at hand, because, tomorrow may never come. As VST would often remind me, “Can’t go nowhere on yesterday’s train”. Sorry. Even though he was a Dr. of Psychology, we loved speaking Red Neck to each other gleefully twisting the English language in private.

Woefully behind in every chore in my life, these days, I need to resort to asking for help. The gardener is spreading decomposed granite over the front yard on Saturday. Two weeks ago, he pruned and cleaned, making it look splendid. I’m so lucky to be finishing The Front Yard Project of 2021. A delightful thing, not so tiny, but for now, definitely perfect.

The back yard will be next. After a light pruning, along with one good clean up, I’ll be ready for the first snow. How I dreaded winter last year! My first alone, it seemed to drag on forever, with one heavy snow storm after another. This year, I look forward to soup in the crock pot and long days to work on my first book, “Widow”.

Just the other day, I found my favorite fleece pajama bottoms on sale at WalMart. If you haven’t tried them, you’re in for a treat if you like soft, plush, comfy bottoms for under $8 a pair. Warm and yummy. Perfect for lounging on the couch while watching old movies. Or WRITING. Or just staying cozy on a winter’s day. All a bargain for the price. A tiny little delight that Walmart even had them for sale with now-normal shortages and empty shelves.

On that same trip, I found an adorable dress. Who knew? $20 for a dress that would have been over $75 at a department store. Again, tiny, perfect little surprises in a day.

Oliver has been wondering about his new schedule. I’ve been in and out of the house more. Just when he thinks he knows his routine, I change it again. He’s such a funny guy, always in a happy mood. His tiny perfect thing is his dog biscuits. With two meals a day and his bones, he works cheap and keeps a good attitude. A toad free yard makes his life complete, while he’s on patrol, making sure those nasty birds behave themselves.

One of the most special tiny perfect things was watching “Come From Away”, a Broadway musical about 9/11 and Gander, Newfoundland. What a wonderful production! Two of the songs get me every single time I hear them. “Me and the Sky” is about Captain Beverly Bass and her flying career. “Stop the World” is about Nick and Diane Marson and their love affair, beginning in Gander. They’ve now been married 19 years. Adorable. You can read about their story on You Tube, along with the story of Gander, Come From Away, and Captain Beverly Bass. You can find the play on Apple TV, which is one of the stations on Roku, or offered by app. If you have a smart television, it may be offered there, as well. You can also find “Come From Away” as a book. Check Amazon.

Just tiny perfect things found in every single beautiful day we are lucky enough to be alive. The autumn is a lovely time of year. Be sure to freeze moments with pictures. We’ll never be smarter, prettier, or more alive than we are right now. Live life. It’s the best.

Threads of my little town weave their way through my heart every day. It’s been over a year since Aloha Maiden started taking care of my hair. Before then, it was hit or miss. Visiting this shop or that, my heart remained in Fresno with my hair stylist, Da Girl. For over thirty years, we shared gleeful squeals and heart wrenching gasps, as we dodged or embraced every twist and turn life threw our way. We raised our kids together. We became first time Grandma’s while always remembering we were beauties, first and foremost. I miss her so much.

When I moved, battered and nearly broken, my realtor gave me some Welcome Home presents. One was a haircut at the local salon. My little town is strange. Just when you are sure there’s nothing here except dust and sage brush, another gem pops up. People drive through to get from Point A to Point B, never stopping to investigate. Good thing. We like it the way it is. Plenty of hidden treasures for us.

Salon 360 tends to the beauty needs of all kinds of women, making them lovely. They cut or add hair. Change the color. Add eyelashes. Share the latest beauty tips. They massage and listen. The women of Salon 360 are angels with scissors and snips. I went to seek help for tired toes.

Not just were the toes tired, they’d found a life of their own. Just a wee bit wild. My cold had derailed my normal appointment for a pedicure, and as everyone knows, nails wait for nothing. Aloha Maiden had her job cut out for her. On Mondays the shop is normally closed so we had the place all to ourselves. The luxury of massaging chairs and swirling water was not lost on me. As the hour ticked by, both feet were restored to a presentable look. She is an artist.

Chatting away, I realized that over the last year, Aloha Maiden has become such a friend. She helped me through my first days in town. She always remembered to ask about my “Word of the Month”. For my new readers, I will explain.

Each month after VST passed was more unthinkable than the last. On the first month, I realized the only thing that would help me navigate from one day to the next was a focus word. Something that would remind me of a value shared between VST and me, representing who we were as a couple. Month One happened to be three words. Okay, Okay. This word thing was my idea, so I could change the rules a little. Three words. Food. Shelter. Clothing. In those first few days, if I didn’t remember those three words, I could have walked naked and hungry through the snow to get the mail. Yes. I had to get dressed, eat, and stay inside during the April snow storms of 2020. A representative word was chosen each month.

Food. Shelter. Clothing.

Friendship.

Love Everlasting.

Adventure.

Faith.

Happiness.

Truth.

Aloha.

Rejoice.

Respect.

Optimism.

Acceptance.

Each month, while the old me was falling apart as the new me was rebuilding, I’d use the word of the month as a life raft carry me through. Each word held thousands of memories VST and I made together. Each one was a little retreat in which I could rest for just a minute and catch my breath. Acceptance came in the 12th month, in which the words after that became mine, and mine alone. When I became overwhelmed, I would think of the word and start replaying representative memories.

Christmas 2020 was going to be a sad and lonely day, being another first. As the months rolled toward winter, for each word, I bought one present. Some being personalized, they remained sealed when they arrived. Wrapping them with love, I wrote messages of encouragement on the outside, along with a note to myself. When Christmas came, I had gifts to open, and notes from the journey along the way. I can’t tell you what a beautiful experience that was. A way to cradle myself on a private and beautiful Christmas morning with the most special memories and words. With me, it’s always the words that get me through. Aloha Maiden recognized that from the start, and became part of my 12 months of love and hope.

There we were, just two locals talking about high school homecoming and other red neck news. Nope. No longer an outsider. No longer the grieving widow. Just the pamperer and pamperee enjoying the latest news.

Pedicures are a new experience for me. Pampering is something foreign. Not a monthly line item for this farm girl. Well, not until now, anyway. Massages are wonderful. Pedicures between friends are a delight. Salon 360. Named well, because as soon as one treatment is done, I want to turn around and head right back for a different treatment. Have a great day! Find some happiness along the way!

Hard to believe that I am looking at my second holiday season at Winterpast. Last year, Miss Firecracker and I had the most beautiful Thanksgiving dinner for two. Roast turkey and all the fixings, we laughed and talked like there was no tomorrow. It was a really wonderful day, one that we both worried might not be so great. 2020 was brutal for us both, as it was for so many families. That was the year we both lost our husbands to cancer. In weeks, our lives were shattered.

Last year, the governor had limits on the number of people that could sit at the table. Who, in their right minds, would have believed that in the USA government would dictate our holidays? Certainly not me.

This year, sharing Thanksgiving preparations with WP, invitations for eight were created today and will be sent out in today’s mail. How fun to meet more new people in our little town!!! Family and singles will be joining us for turkey and toasts. New friends that are still strangers to me will enjoy the day at Winterpast. Miss Firecracker is making new friends in her life, too. It will be hard to top the time we spent on that autumn Thursday in 2020.

It amazes me that all our creative needs can be found on the internet. By just Googling “Thanksgiving Invitations”, many ideas appeared. It just so happened that the perfect idea was among them. Easy peazy.

I don’t know how much you depend on a calendar, but, I find them deflating. Just when you think you can catch a breath, there are fifty more things your could jot down each day. Just exhausting. I much prefer a day with eight hours empty and waiting. I usually have at least five chores waiting to be completed. If really energetic, I can add five more. Much less taxing than looking with dread at scheduled events.

WP is a scheduler. He computerizes his life’s log while I prefer to use pencil and eraser. He knows what life holds for the next four months. I prefer to stick to the next week. Less erasing that way.

That being said, I do have a spa date on Friday. Facials and a wonderful day away from yard, computer, Oliver, and the phone. Just a quiet day to reflect and rejuvenate. Made even more decadent by the fact that I will come home to a yard in progress. The gardener promised that the decomposed granite should be spread, finishing the front yard by Saturday night. I’m looking forward to the Himalayan Salt Room, and the Serenity Sleeping Room with the zero gravity chairs, low lighting, and Zen music. Deliciously cool and quiet, I can hardly wait to sneak a little nap.

Finished off with a spa luncheon, the day should be perfect. The last time I visited, they served the best salad. Avocado, Dungeness Crab claw, fresh corn, jicama, and lettuce, with pita chips on the side. Not just any Pita Chips. Ones that I’m pretty sure were 50% butter. Soft and warm, they were the perfect compliment for this salad, which I intend to order again.

This time, I’m getting a facial, another new experience for this red neck girl. Massages were booked up four to six weeks out. Luckily, I’ve been blessed with great skin. Surely not from lotions and potions. Just lucky in that way. Never had problems with unwanted moles or deep wrinkles, although my 65 years are evident. What if there ARE some fabulous products that can make things even better? I have been blessed with so many good things lately, I’ve no right to ask for another miracle. It will be nice to close my eyes and get moisturized.

Soon, the Halloween decorations need to come out. It turns out all the kids never come down my street because they hang out at WP’s. He actually turns on his porch light to attract them. I’ll move the action to his place and chip in for some candy. We ought to be able to have some fun watching the kiddos come and go.

With only ten weeks until the holidays really kick into high gear, it’s never to early to start thinking about your guest list. Goodness, I am becoming my mother, fretting about these things before the first day of fall is here. Blame it on the Halloween decorations at Walmart and the early purchase of candy for the kids. With shortages, you can never be too prepared. Have a great day. J

Wednesday nights I go to church for inspiration. I’m never disappointed. This week was no exception.

Funny how in any organization the same people do all the heavy lifting all the time. Worker bees just carry the load, because, most times, it isn’t too heavy for them. At Baptist on Main, it’s hard to tell who the workers are because they’re always smiling and relaxed. Their contributions are a gift to the rest of us. Surely God is pleased.

There’s the cleaning crew, of which I’m a member. Meeting on Thursday mornings, we sanitize and scrub. A secretarial duties. Bankers and bill payers. Lawn mowers. And one fill-in sign attendant. Me.

I’m helping one of our church celebrities. A fabulous hugger, she smiles broadly, welcoming every new visitor with her broad smile and a warm “Hello”. I certainly remember our first meeting. She notices when someone is down and does her best to provide comfort. Her life has had some bumps along the way. Like everyone, she knows sorrow. At the moment she knows pain, being one week past a complete hip replacement.

Aging, we may all need some new parts. Hard to say. Along with pretty decent skin, I also have good joints. Not much mileage on the knees or hips, they move properly and without pain. VST wasn’t lucky in that department. He suffered for years with crippling arthritis which attacked all his joints. He had a elbow he couldn’t straighten and a paralyzed hand. Knees supported by cumbersome braces. A neck that didn’t turn without pain. Through it all, he chose his medical course, never replacing anything. Strong willed, he did life his way.

This very huggable church lady asked a favor of me. Would I? Could I? Might I consider changing the inspirational sign on Main Street for her until she felt better? Of course, I would, could, and happily accepted my new job. With inspirational quotes already selected until year’s end and full a box of letters, this is an easy job that may change someone’s life. Driving on main, lost souls may read our message and come on in. Of course, I’d love to help.

Before Wednesday’s service, the choir and band practice for Sunday’s worship service. Free music, friendship, and the holy spirit BEFORE the pastor starts at 6 PM. Informal and family like, we’re studying Proverbs. If you read one Proverb a day, you’ll finish in a month. If you read 5 Psalms a day, you also finish in a month. I’m learning so much through our Bible studies. Somehow the pastor always chooses topics that speak directly to my spiritual needs, applying the words to 2021. Funny how that happens every time I worship there.

My new job is an important one. The sign and letters are very old and fragile and care needs to be given when handling them. Attention to spelling is a must. There was no apostrophe for God’s, so I needed to improvise and turn a comma upside down. When I was finished, the message read PUT YOUR HOPE IN GOD’S UNFAILING LOVE. A good message for us all to remember.

This week, the Pastor began the service asking for testimony from our small gathering. People were eager to share the blessings received. How uplifting! Messages of despair and relief. Everyone in the group was smiling, while the pastor agreed that we need to have a Testimonial service once a week. It was better than any medicine. Just listing to people talk about good things happening in their lives. Praise God for his blessings, big or small. Smiles and laughter transformed our group. Positive attitudes are what we all need right now, in this, the darkest of days.

In my life in the desert, I’m so thankful for every falling leaf and soft breeze. The moonlight last night was enchanting. Sneaky mustangs pose like lawn ornaments, munching on manicured grass. Neighbors are out more, enjoying the night’s reprieve from the last of summer’s heat. The Widower of the Pine’s driveway is a new hangout spot under the stars. Being a gentleman, he’d never let a lady walk back home alone in the dark, and so he takes my hand and leads me back to Winterpast. A God that loves me. Family. Friends. Oliver. A happy heart. A lovely neighborhood. What more could a red neck girl want?

That’s my testimonial for today. Find your grateful heart. Talk about it. Tell someone. There is nothing better than sharing something wonderful with a friend! More tomorrow.

Wednesday evening, leaving the church at 7:15, the day was gone. By the time I got home, it was dark. Autumn is my favorite time of year.

I’ve been searching for a way to help my community. It certainly isn’t through politics, which is a run away train headed for disaster. My service organization a great place for like minded people to gather and visit, but to think we could change anything at this point is foolish. But, Baptist on Main is another story. Churches are meant to do important things to help, no matter how small.

I love arriving early to Wednesday service. While the choir practiced their gorgeous selections of Sunday, I caught up on a little reading. I chose the Songs of Solomon, that being the place from which I chose the name Winterpast for my home. Such beautiful poetry, I wish I could come up with a visual of Solomon. Later that evening, Pastor C talked about Solomon’s life without knowing what I’d been reading earlier in the evening.

Deep in thought, I was interrupted by one of my favorite parishioners, Song Bird. She and her husband are dear people who bring light and smiles wherever they go. She sings in the choir, while her husband plays the drums in the band. When I met them, she’d been suffering with severe back pain for two years. One day this summer, she got up and it was healed. She took off her bulky brace and has had no more pain. Just like that. Such a blessing.

She had been wanting to get in touch with me about a request. There are many elders in the church that are shut-ins or just at home recuperating from surgeries or illness. Would I be interested in forming a committee to find services for church elders in need? Just like that, it clicked. That’s a worthy cause. My worthy cause. What more worthy cause could their be? Yes. I would love to help.

Another wonderful woman came to join our conversation who happens to work at the Senior Center. She is also one of my angel ladies, the three of us forming a Coalition of Love and Light. Hang on, our dear Seniors, the cavalry is forming. We’re on the way to help. If you aren’t lucky enough to live in a small town, I can assure you, you are missing out. Small town folks are aware of others. Broad smiled waving occurs when you pass one another on the street. People take walks and stop to chat. Neighbors know each other’s names. Garage doors that are up invite visitors. Garage doors that are down too long invite a knock at the door to make sure everything is okay. Privacy is respected but friendships are encouraged.

On Fourth of July, our town’s boutique packed up in the back of a box truck and moved to Out of Town Park. The community had gathered at the park that day to enjoy food, friends, and fun, while anticipating fireworks at sunset. With a set of steps, women could shop during the day. The shop owner sold almost everything she brought. The local booster’s club from a small town on America’s Loneliest Highway brought the best pulled pork sandwiches I have ever eaten. A variety of crock pots held homemade pork. A dad cranked out curly fries from a small peeler, deep frying them one potato at a time. The list goes on. Small town life at its best.

In the middle of the little church, as people arrived for the service, three women stood with heads together thinking of all the wonderful things we could do for our Senior Citizens. Sometimes, it only takes a phone call to make someone’s life better. Meals on Wheels, a number for Social Services, or just time to talk on the phone. I already know I want to start a writing group at our church. Everyone has amazing stories. I love to read as much as I like to write. Teaching people to write is the best fun of all. Yes, there are many helpful things to do in our little town.

Pastor C asked us to begin with testimonials of good things in our life. Song Bird had the most adorable story to share. Unwanted calls irritate her. Day in and day out, the phone rings, like it does for us all. “Is the head of the household in?” Who of us hasn’t been in the middle of something important when this happens. It was making her irritated, which in turn was not good for her back. In the shower, one morning, God spoke to her.

With divine inspiration, she’d listen to the callers, and then, THEY would listen to her. She had something to ask them and she planned to do just that.

“Carl, Do you know Jesus as your personal savior?” “Jennifer, have you accepted Christ?” “Bill, do you KNOW Jesus?” She had a plan. At least one time a day, she would witness for Christ. Done.

Never stop looking for ways to make your community better. It could take something as simple as offering neighbors some excess peaches, as one member did. Put some garden produce on the front drive with the word FREE. Sit outside in the evening and saying Hi to everyone that passes by.

Think about saying YES the next time the community needs help. New friends make an old like sparkle a bit. I’ve certainly found that to be true in this dusty little town on a wide spot in the road in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada.

I’ll be back on Monday. Thank you dear readers!!

Country people are grounded in time and truth. Of course, I over-generalize and am probably a wee bit prejudice. Being a red-neck girl, I gravitate towards boot cut Levi’s, cowboy boots, a western shirt, and a great Stetson. Saturday, I experienced the closest thing to time travel possible through an annual dinner.

It was a day to turn on the radio and begin scouring, on a mission to finish fall cleaning by Nevada Day, (the last Friday in October). Always very confusing, Nevada Day is sometimes the same day as Halloween, causing families to make the choice between attending big parades or taking the kiddos to Trick or Treat. Living in a small town, both dates are loved and celebrated.

Fall cleaning includes everything from changing out the AC filter to washing the base boards. Living in the desert, the wind blows. By the end of summer, it’s quite a job to get everything holiday ready. This is a great time of year to donate to my favorite thrift store, or just throw stuff out. Each room is tackled seperately.

Planning my cleaning schedule, I was interrupted by a phone call from a woman from my past. Almost old enough to be my mom, she raised her children on a vineyard very near our home place. Always light-hearted and fun, her kids knew how to play, while being lucky enough to have their very own pony. From now on, I will refer to her as Pony Mom.

Pony Mom birthed three children, but she also owned a small horse. Not just another animal, this was the fourth child. It knew when to be an older sibling and watch out for the kid brothers and sister. It knew when to be patient and put up with the kids, or when to call it a day and return to the barn. This pony was invited into their house on at least one occasion that I know of. Named Sugar, she had an willful identity all her own. I never knew her to hurt anyone intentionally, but have no doubt, she ruled her own little world.

Ponies are like the cutest of small children. Their behavior is often like that of an indulged child. Quite frankly, they can be brats and get away with a lot because of their cuteness. Once in awhile, Sugar visited our ranch. She’d tolerate all the extra rides and attention until deciding her visit was over. Trotting just faster than six stair stepped could run, she’d head down a row of vines, make a turn at the avenue, arriving to the safety of her barn. Great kid’s ponies are not trained but a gift from God. Sugar was just such a pony.

As kids do, we all grew and their family moved to another ranch miles and miles away. We’d run into them over the years, always marveling that all of us did okay in life. The country is a great place to raise free-range children. We learned to problem solve and create our own kind of entertainment. Bronzed kiddos, lean and inquisitive about the world, we snacked on bell peppers and cherry tomatoes from the garden. Summer time brought Elbow Peaches, named so because of the juice that would run to our elbows as we ate them right off the tree. Sitting under a vine, we’d plan our lives while reaching up to pick fresh grapes. If we were really quiet, we were be totally hidden from view while watching the world go by. The simple life of farm kids, magical by any standard.

Answering Saturday’s phone call, to my surprise, it was sweet Pony Mom. During the conversation, she made reference to some ancestral names shared between our two families. We’re probably distant cousins. We talked of people from the little country church that my Great-Grandparents helped build. The elders are slowly disappearing now. Women who cooked for funeral dinners for neighbors are all gone. The church community is different now, being more modern.

We talked about the American Historical Society of German’s from Russia. A small museum in Fresno, California houses historical records and heirlooms from valley residents who made their way from the Volga region of Russia to the Central Valley of California starting in the late 1800’s. Our ancestors did just that, traveling through Ellis Island. We marveled at the difficulty of the trip, amazed at how strong they were. Many people died as they walked across Poland to catch a boat to freedom. Those were MY people. I assure you, there was no white privilege when forced to leave their home or face exile or death.

Chatting with Pony Mom, there was no indication of our 20 year age difference. Our birthdays, both being in December, didn’t matter. It was the memories and history that made us laugh and remember such a sweet time in our lives.

After finishing the phone call, I had to hurry to get ready. I was about to attend an annual dinner for a gun club in a little town to the East. Not sure what to wear, I dressed as I would for church in a dress and party shoes.

The dinner was like every other annual business dinner for a club. The difference was that the door prizes were very expensive firearms. With raffle tickets costing $5 each, everyone was full of excitement as we waited until the last piece of homemade cobbler was consumed before winning tickets were pulled and announced. Winners would start the paperwork for ownership in the legal way at the local gun store. No firearms or people left early, all awaiting their chance with Lady Luck.

Members attending the meeting were my people. Looking around, it was if I was a teenager again, attending a function in my home town. This was one of the biggest events of the year. Local ranchers gathered to talk about such things as the drought and the price of beef. They talked about small town shops and gossip about those that bought thousands of dollars of raffle tickets. Five such people joined me to become dinner friends. California escapees all, we were all on the adventure of a lifetime living real life in the wild, wild west.

No, I didn’t win anything, but one of the ladies at our table won a pistol. Not bad for a $5 investment.

Driving back through the desert night, it was a perfect ending to a perfect day. The high desert of North Western Nevada is a place where time may not have stopped, but has surely slowed a little. A place where men can be men, and women love them just the way they are. A wonderful place that I call home.

Without faith, life wouldn’t be worth living. Some days, I envision VST up there in the heavens tossing a football with his buddies John Mora and Derick Wilson. With no pain of any kind, there they are having a Touch Down kind of day. I hope don’t peek down here to see the sorrow and suffering of the world. They lived enough of that when they were alive.

Through the years, I learned so much from him. Very seldom did he play the pity card. If there was a problem, it was identified, analyzed, and repaired. No problem was too big or small. As I’ve said before, one of his favorite lines was , “Can’t go nowhere on yesterday’s train”. Truer words were never spoken.

People would ask him how he accomplished everything in his daily life. Through our farming years, he raised five children to adulthood, made a home for his parents across the drive, while keeping the mastiffs in 20 pounds of dogfood a week. He made part runs and did 100% of the repairs on very old farm equipment. He completed three University degrees, the last being a Doctorate in Psychology. He did every bit of tractor work on the farm, with each trip on the tractor being 16 miles long, going at a snail’s pace. He made 30 trips to Hawaii over 17 years, and made time for boating trips to the California Delta. All this while working 7-6, running a multi-million dollar John Deere franchise in the Central San Joaquin Valley.

VST had three main careers in life. Farming, private business management, and social work. He flipped houses on the side. Between 2014-2015, we moved a bulging trailer of our belongings to Virginia City, one weekend load at a time. Fifty two weekends, fifty two loads, each one carefully packed by him. Leaving for the six hour trip on Friday night after working all day, we’d enjoy the time together. On Sunday, sad to leave, we’d head back home to return to our day jobs.

Over our 32 years together, friends and family would ask “How is there time for you to do all of this?” He would smile his dimpled smile and say, “Well, there are 24 hours in a day.” He squeezed life out to the last second. While doing this, he was calm and collected as he rested on his faith in God. Comforted by the ultimate knowledge that life wouldn’t throw anything at him that he couldn’t handle, he made touch down after touch down right up to the finish line.

Some days, finding faith is tough. Crafty is the devil. Some days, the madness of the world is astounding. I’ve found that turning the television to the off position is a start. Such things on display! Decency isn’t fashionable or current. What a shame.

K took a beautiful picture on the morning her dad passed to the other side. The sky was dark that day. Scary and ominous, she captured a moment we all felt. We were losing our rock. Our leader. Our hero. He couldn’t stay and somehow, we’d needed to find a way to let him go. God chooses, certainly not us. What wasn’t captured was the brilliant blue sky later in the day. These days my winter has passed and life has become the most brilliant of blues.

With faith, I moved to a town in which I knew two friends and my realtor. I bought a house that I didn’t know. I had two vehicles that I trusted would not break down, leaving me stranded. I drove miles through deserted desert having faith that I wouldn’t be abducted and murdered. I found a way to sleep soundly at night. I risked new friendships with total strangers, putting faith in a smile and kind eyes. But, most of all, I put faith in God’s love for me. God carried me through the flames of grief and I wasn’t burned. Through those days, he surely knows my tears. A true comfort in this crazy world, my faith increases every day.

To be a successful farmer, you need to have faith. Buying the farm in March 1990, we were excited and nervous about the venture. Although we grew up in a vast sea of vines, we had never owned one, let alone 16,500 of them. Being 100 years old, thank goodness their wisdom and perseverance helped us through. The vines knew what to do and they did it. The first week we owned the ranch, there was an early winter frost. The temps dropped to -11 degrees Fahrenheit. For California, that’s unheard of.

A long time girlfriend, a little jealous of our adventure, called me the morning after the frost.

“Do you think the frost last night killed your vines?” All the vineyards were still dormant, but no one really knew what damage the severe frost could have done. Worry about that very thing had robbed us of sleep the night before. We could have just purchased 40 acres of dead vines.

“No. No. No. God has this covered. The vines will be fine.”

Just like that, we felt better in our faith. On March 15th, bud-break occurred. Tiny little leaves came out everywhere. By April 15th, little bunches of grapes bloomed, and the race to harvest was on. Soon, the frost was just a distant memory, as our first Sunmaid raisin crop was on the ground, drying in the San Joaquin Valley heat. God had us covered all along.

Whatever the trouble, find your faith. Everything will be okay, even when the darkest of clouds block the blue sky behind. Remember to use your time wisely, for time is a terrible thing to waste. The days are short. Get hopping.

Gabby Petito died alone in a National Park. There should’ve been someone there to help her. In reality, 22 years of age is still a trusting kid. I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing her. I wasn’t there for her first steps or Kindergarten graduation. Pretty sure Gabby sailed through her milestones like all children do. She’d started a career as a “nutritionist”, but longed for an adventure. Living her dreams, she bought a van and converted it into a camper. Sharing her words with the world, she blogged across America.

In case the story has escaped you, Gabby was the victim of a homocide while visiting Wyoming. Murdered. We haven’t been told the entire story yet. Violent stories usually feature two angry people throwing wood on a flaming relationship. There are details that’ll never be revealed. It appears Gabby was in over her head, just like I was at her age. Those that COULD have helped didn’t know the entire story either. If so, things wouldn’t have ended this way.

Battered women have so much in common. We are quiet about the situation thinking we can handle it. We think each time will be the last, but in reality each time gets worse. We hope we can do better so the violence doesn’t come back more wicked and strong than the last time. Most battered women never get up the nerve to say “Enough is Enough”. It takes so much strength to tell. Even more strength to walk away. I know. In 1983 I did just that with a little boy under each arm.

Gabby was in a police car for a time. Four or five professionals talked to her, and then, Brian. Over an hour was recorded on police cameras. She was safe for a tiny bit, looking child-like in the back of the patrol car. Of course, Brian looked like a choir boy. In the end, Gabby was found to be the villain, Brian the victim. Brian got a hotel room from a victim advocacy group. Gabby was told to take 24 hours to think about things. She was safe, until she was dead days later. The policemen are victims, too. Their hands were tied by what they could and couldn’t do legally. It’s all displayed on You Tube for the world to watch. If only things had gone differently. Gabby might be safe in the loving arms of her dad.

Gabby had strength. Evidenced by her courage, her heart yearned for adventure and a writing career. It feels amazing to watch blog readership grow. In one year, I have IP addresses from over 70 countries. Just little, old me typing away at 4:30 in the morning. With no advertising, 65,000 computers have logged onto my site. Friends write to check up on me when I go off line for a day or two. I matter to a few other people in the world. People I’ll never know. Just a few months ago, 70 people a day were reading. These days the number is around 440. I know Gabby’s blog was much more successful than mine, and she must have been so proud. Even though Brian didn’t believe in her, she believed in herself. She thought she could so she did.

It’s dreadfully painful when your partner doesn’t believe in your abilities as a writer. Her boyfriend didn’t. I’ve experienced that. For many years, I shelved my stories in a mental vault. Steered by “Shouldn’t” and “How could you?”, I allowed my stories to wait. I’ll never wait again. It took me 65 years to discover who I am as a writing woman. Gabby knew this much earlier in life.

Camping for weeks on end isn’t all glamor. It’s hard work. Setting up camp. Breaking up camp. Long hours of driving. No one really knows how vast and diverse the US of A is until you drive across it. Planning the trip of a life time a few miles at a time, she was hoping to earn money working at her favorite National Parks. Odd jobs here and there could extend their trip. She would write about every last detail.

When I was her age, I was awaiting the birth of my first son. My destiny changed my life’s path. Gabby was charting her own course. Beautiful, happy, and just plain lovely, she had the world at her fingertips until it was robbed from her and her loved ones.

Being a mom, my heart goes out to her family. They must be gutted. In a fog worse than any I’ve ever experienced in my life. The light of their family is gone forever. Pointless. Needless. Violent. Forever. All in the high beams of Headline News.

I long to hit the road in a van like hers, knowing what it’s like to live on the road for weeks at a time. I long to sit by the side of the road and watch the bison, elk, and antelope. The big blue sky of Wyoming dwarfs that of Nevada, and stole my heart long ago. No comparison to any other place in the world, in my experience. She died in a place I plan to visit someday. She died doing what I can only dream of. She lived as my heart wishes it could. On the road. Gabby and I had a lot in common, and yet, we never even met.

My heart goes out to Brian’s family, as well. Mental illness and violence are horrible things that plague many families, including my own. Struggling white sons have a lot on their plates in this crazy world. Vilified by the imaginary sins of their white fathers. Hard work labeled by the lazy as “White Man Privilege”. Trying to pick out their own path, step by step, the methods their parents used to create a life are not the same today. Many young men have no clue what their life’s direction should be, and so they wander. The 20’s are an age of confusion. An age to try different scenarios. A time to play at adulting, when in reality, they’re just kids in bigger bodies. Under the microscope of adults that don’t quite understand today’s world, they smolder.

Pray for everyone involved in this, the saddest of stories. With time, justice will be served. It’s not ours to judge, as we’ll never know all the details leading up to this tragedy. Battered women suffer every single day in silence. No doubt you’d be shocked at those you know already. Really listen to your friends. Support them. Hear them even when the words they utter are different than what you observe. No woman or man deserves abuse at the hand of another.

Gabby Patito. Rest in Peace, Sweet Girl in the Rainbow Angel Wings. You’ll be missed. Every best seller you were destined to write will wait for us in heaven. Wyoming rainbows will remind me of you. God Speed, Gabby. We miss you.

_{Reinterpretation of Circle Game by Joni Mitchell}

Just last year this gal came out to wander

With some stories trapped inside my head,

Fearful, I loved my new home and strange town

While tearful for the falling of my man.

Then this gal wrote twelve months ’round the seasons

Describing lonely widowhood to all

Friendship, love, and writing of adventure

Promising to make all my dreams come true

And the year, has gone round and round

And this gal’s life has left her unbound

I’m blogging ’bout my Winterpast and time

I can’t go back, I can only look

Ahead towards what I know

And go round and round the months

As they turn so slow.

Fifty two weeks and four long seasons gone now

Since first I put my words upon the screen

My book takes time, surely it won’t be long now

As I drag my feet feet to slow the process down

And the year has gone round and round

And this gal’s life has left her unbound

I’m blogging ’bout my Winterpast and time

I can’t go back, I can only look

Ahead towards what I know

And go round and round the months

As they turn so slow

Through the year, this gal is now more settled

My dreams and writing rose to carry me through

There are new dreams, a sweet love, new and plenty

Before my last revolving year is through.

And the year has gone round and round

And this gal’s life has left her unbound

I’m blogging ’bout my Winterpast and time

I can’t go back, I can only look

Ahead towards what I know

And go round and round the months

As they turn so slow.

#####

To all my beloved readers,

On this the one year anniversary of my blog, THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart. This has been a most rewarding experience as I share my thoughts with you. Thank you for following my journey. I love you all. Joy

The last twelve months have taught me a lot about myself and my writing habits. I write best while drinking my first cup of coffee in the morning. This occurs long before regular interruptions of the day begin. I need quiet solitude, with only the irritation of a headstrong little dog to bother me while keeping my feet warm. Needing space for my thoughts to flow, I love this time of day.

I’ve tried writing at other times of day to identify my creative zone. Over the years, I’ve learned 3:00 AM is even better. That crazy hour being too much even for me, it’s become a habit to leave my journal on my nightstand for those inspirational moments that awaken me from a dead sleep. If you are contemplating a blogging future, try writing at different times of the day and use what works for you.

Last year was full of firsts for me, all rich with details about which to write. I’m hoping this year will be the same. Writing my first book, the opportunities to learn about self publishing has been overwhelming. Online, one can find many webinars about various subjects in the field of writing. From contests, to blog sites, everything needed to start is available at your computer screen.

I find myself swamped at times, and decided I needed to try something new to better organize my days. Well aware that there is more than ample time for everything I would like to do, I picked out categories that were necessary parts of any day. Sleep. Personal time. Writing time. Friends and family. Household and garden chores. Time for spiritual growth.

Drawing a pie chart with 12 slices, each one represented two hours. With a little thought, I created a picture of what my day could be. Juggling hours here and there, a balance came into view. Something for which I’ve been searching but have yet to find. A balanced day. Once the big picture was more visual my scheduling became easier.

In my second year, when sitting down to write, I envision inspiration and creativity. Writing with a purpose, I intend to write myself a salary this year. Calm and relaxed, I want to entertain and inspire my readers, giving them the best product I can produce. I’d love to work at least 20 hours a week. Right now, I write about 14 hours a week, so there’s room for improvement. I also want to have some down time over the weekend to rejuvenate. Following a loose schedule, my job as a writer should fit into a balanced life.

Through the next twelve months, I’ll consider myself successful if I publish at least 340 blog pieces, along with my first book, Widow. Research will help me monetize my writing to produce an income. A business plan will organize my financial goals. A weekly writing class guiding elders would make my life bloom even more brightly.

Year One helped me declare that I AM a published writer. Writing IS life, as a very wise 5th grader told me in an essay during my last year as a teacher. Writing is everything interesting, invigorating, and awesome in this world. Stories are everywhere, just waiting to be told. Beauty and tragedy beg detailed discriptions. Readers gotta read. Writers gotta write. Simple as that.

Biology was my first love. As a child, the animals at the farm were fascinating. I learned life by watching their interactions. They’re forgiving and deal with each other in sensible ways. If they don’t get along, they stay away from each other. They take turns eating in a way that makes sense to them. In every way, animals are logical and remember important things that keep them alive. They only stress about serious stuff in the moment.

On the farm, animals are usually there for one reason. It’s not the best idea to get to attached, because, well……. most of them are there for one reason. I never had to wonder from where the food in the grocery store came. I knew. In participating in the processing of food, I learned about major organ systems and what an animal looked like on the inside. My nose was always right in the middle of the exciting stuff, with Dad explaining the inner workings of an animal body.

4-H gave me opportunities to grow animals for sale at the fair. From a scrawny lamb into a blue ribbon winner, many days went into feeding and general animal care. Rabbits and chickens were also raised for the same purpose. The fair was a time to miss a week of school to hang out with kids from all over the San Joaquin Valley of California. Kids slept in the hay with their animals, keeping the pens spotless so they could. Steers were bathed and brushed daily, while the sheep were fluffed. Even the chickens and turkeys got baths. When you see animals at a fair, rest assured, they don’t look or smell like that on a working farm.

In college, when it came to labs and dissection’s, I was a natural. Learning the names of hundreds of muscles and nerves in many different types of animals my love grew. But, I suffered from a major lack of confidence. When looking around at classmates that had come from private high schools, I convinced myself that I would never be smart enough to become a doctor. Wrong-oh. I would have been a wonderful doc, just needing to work a little harder than the others. As a second choice, I earned my MRS degree, marrying the March of my Senior year in 1977.

Through the years, my Bachelor’s degree in Science helped me to be a better teacher. A love of all things medical has remained with me through the years. Doctors are fascinating people. Sacrificing a normal life, they take an oath to “Do No Harm”. They live for messy problems that make the rest of us squirm. Nothing causes alarm, but rather a determined focus to find the cause of the trouble and fix it. They’re interesting and worthy of respect.

At a community meeting, WP and I had the rare opportunity to sit with a trauma surgeon who is running for Governor of Nevada. Dr. Fred Simon, M.D. He also runs a successful Italian restaurant that serves breakfast, lunch, and dinner. While doing those things, he mentors teens, while caring for his own family. Two hours wasn’t enough to pick his brain about so many things.

In the last two years, he worked in a Covid unit and had lots to say about that subject. Very interesting to hear information from someone who was in the trenches. Very openly, he talked about things behind the scenes. Scary to listen, and not for the reasons you might think. Medicine is a business. The Pharmaceutical Complex is even a bigger one. Money leads. Follow the money. Yes. Covid is a deadly and horrible virus. No question about that. There are many different ways to treat a patient with Covid. Not all of them involve dangerous drugs that cost $3,000 a dose. The cheaper versions have excellent results. The only difference? $$$$$$$$$

The big take away from the Doc was this. DO YOUR OWN RESEARCH. Make a choice for yourself based on what you learn, not on what you see on the news. Look for ways you can strengthen your body with nutrition. Take anti-viral supplements, easy to find in any town. If you are overweight, get out and do something to change that. Get enough sleep. Try to stress less. Meditate. Social Distance. Find happiness. Don’t forget to pray. Choose a medical course that is right for your body. One size doesn’t fit all in medicine. Yes. Covid is very real. It can be very deadly. We all need to be careful.

Our dinner was way to short. Inviting us to visit his restaurant, he told us table #22 or #24 were the best in terms of listening to the jazz music playing on the weekend. I hope he becomes our next governor. His battle will be intense because the wheels are greased for other candidates, slimy and perfect in the eye of the camera. With big endorsements and money behind the chosen ones, Doc has a tough job ahead of him.

Our local chiropractor had a health scare this week, as well. Across the street from the Tee Pee Bar and Grill, his little parking lot is always crowded. In his 70’s, he sees patients day in and day out. This week, an aching leg sent him to the ER. Luckily, it was nothing serious. He is a beloved and needed part of our little community.

My dentist, Dr. B, worked diligently to save my tooth for me this week. His happy nature and skillful procedures made this dental appointment easy and painless. It’s refreshing to be around a dentist and co-workers that are positive and happy while they work. Thankfully, he is a young dentist. I really hope he outlives me because we get along just fine.

Love and pray for your doctors. They are in the trenches. With every patient they see, they need to adjust their thinking skills and diagnostic abilities. They need to listen intently to hidden messages we give as we describe our medical concern. They do this while observing body language and our physical being. In a matter of minutes, they come up with possible answers to our illnesses, usually with a big dose of comfort. They are angels on earth that are often forgotten as soon as our medical issue is corrected. They need our prayers.

Enjoy today. Do something that feels healthy. Fresh air clears the head. Happy Sunday.

Funny how two people can live in the same town years and travel in completely different circles. Orbiting around their private galaxies, they choose favorite little restaurants full of comfort food on opposite ends of town. They visit the same Walmart on at different days and times, meeting random associates that color their experiences. More active during early morning or late afternoon, the town takes on a different feel for each of them. Such is the case with my new friend, Widower of the Pines, and me, Widowed at Winterpast.

“Have you been to ……???”

“No. Where’s that?”

Through the days, we’ve created a list of places that we’d like to visit together, making this neighborly affair more fun that two people should enjoy. Sitting in the front yard at The Pines yesterday, I saw my neighbor’s houses from entirely different views.

The Peach People, named so for their gorgeous tree loaded with fruit, were of interest to me over the last year. We share the north east corner post of my back yard. Every day over the last few months, workmen disturbed the neighborhood silence. Stucco contractors. Painters. Concrete professionals. Landscapers. They all came and went, while no one was there during evenings and weekends. For the longest time, I thought the house would be flipped, while in reality, there were just two homeowners making revisions before moving in. Enjoying the transformation from another perspective, they did a beautiful job.

As I looked more closely, roofline’s made sense. There was Madam President’s house, (known to me through my service group). And Fence Buddy, whom I’ve only spoken with over our back fence. Sitting in the yard looking towards the mountains, there was my huge backyard tree. The one that resembled a burning bush last winter in the glow of the early morning sun. Just like that, I realized that when I sit in my hot tub, the only thing between WP’s house and mine is about 100 yards and Fence Buddy’s RV barn. I could stand up and wave to WP. Our houses stand that close to one another.

My beauty salon wasn’t known to WP, until he enjoyed a wonderful pedicure there. He didn’t know we have a Dairy Queen or Wendy’s. I hadn’t enjoyed his favorite hamburger spot, where the waitresses watch over us like royalty. He didn’t know about my church, Baptist on Main. I didn’t know about the local chiropractor. As the days go by, our love of this little town has grown. With more exploration we’ll know every shop and service in the area.

Last night, after a long day of chores while running errands between our houses, we were exhausted. Pizza would be a good choice for a Saturday night dinner. Usually, I’d just dial up the local Round Table for delivery. WP suggested something new. Had I tried the 76 Deli on Main? Well, no, I hadn’t. I’d heard it was a gem, hidden away in the back of a convenience store. I’d give it a try.

Picking up the pizza, there was a local woman laying on the pavement next to her car. A friend was nearby. Neither seemed stressed, so we left them to their problems and went inside. Descriptors escape me, except to say at first glance, the place didn’t scream “Deli”. WP knew right where to go, and in the back, the kitchen and staff became visible. A box was presented for approval with a delicious pizza, hot and ready.

Upon leaving, WP stopped to inquire about the woman, still laying on the pavement. Clothed, she laid by her car without anything under her body. Just quiet and face up on the ground.

“Everything okay?”

Yes. Everything was okay. It turns out she’d put her back out. She was just resting on the ground. Waving, we left. That sums up the quirky little red neck town in which we live. You just never know what strange things you’ll see. The unnatural is totally normal. No one is offended if you ask whether everything is okay. With a smile and wave, we headed home to enjoy a wonderful evening.

From Winterpast, we can see the airport strobe from my back yard. We can see part of the large letter on the side of the mountain marking our town’s location. From The Pines, we can see the expanse of mountains and the big Nevada Sky to the West and the night time glow of the bigger town just beyond them. From Winterpast, with less light pollution, the stars are brighter. From The Pines the Sky is bigger. Added together, we get a more complete picture of our dusty little town at a wide spot in the road.

Who knew that with the exchange of business cards at the end of a community meeting, a friendship of neighbors could begin? Certainly not me. Certainly not WP. We speak of this often. What are the chances that a widow of 17 days would move to a dusty little town in which she knew only two friends? What are the chances that a Widower from Southern California would pick our tiny town as a good place to heal from heartbreak? Knowing a handful of new friends, we traveled our in separate circles each day, learning Nevada Means Home. Our circles now create an interesting Venn Diagram of possibilities. A happy accident here in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada.

The pizza was wonderful. Enjoying nerdy reruns on TCM, sat two content people. Nothing fancy. Nothing our of the ordinary. Just a quiet night shared by two neighbors. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it. Have a beautiful Monday.

My first load of leaves went out with yesterday’s trash. Wishing I could burn them in neat little piles, I did the proper thing by raking and stowing them in the two trashcans. The threat of fire is just too great. With 35 – 40 trees all undressing at once, I have my job cut out for me for a little while. The temperature has been cool enough for Oliver to spend time outside on toad patrol. Fall is such a lovely time of year.

Summer 2021 was a hot one, for sure. Only my second, I don’t know why I didn’t expect the inferno of the high desert. Lulled into a false sense of wonder the summer before, I just expected more of the same. Summer 2020 was a mild one. The days were still hot, but not scorching. Evenings were pleasant. This year, the desert didn’t hold back, giving us a real picture of how lethal she can be. Yikes.

The mustangs are down from the mountains now. Looking for every blade of grass and drink of water they can find, they were munching on the lawn at In-Town Park yesterday. Lawn ornaments. They seem so quiet, surely they must be gentle. Hahaha. It is a felony to approach or bother them in any way. They aren’t your barnyard friends, for sure. These wild animals are protected, rather like cows in India.

The thing people don’t realize is the volume of stuff a horse consumes and leaves behind. This isn’t a small amount. Gallons of liquid. Anywhere, anytime. Pounds of solids. Anywhere, anytime. The solids much be dealt with. Hope you have a really large scoop shovel on hand when you need one. No, city folk just look at the beauty, not the reality.

The other day, I was coming home from getting a milkshake at Dairy Queen. If you haven’t tried their Blizzard products, run, don’t walk, to the nearest DQ for a treat. Yum. They also have a Hot Fudge Milkshake that is superb. Anyway, I was making the turn on the West end of Main when the traffic stopped. Flashing lights ahead, it was going to be awhile. I assumed road work. For some time, the flashing lights slowly traveled West down main, towards our line of waiting drivers.

The closer they got, the more strange the problem. Two police cars were traveling side by side, filling both the East and West bound land. Traveling slowly, they had their lights blazing. On the side of the road trotted two mustangs, just ahead of the bumper of one of the patrol cars. It was a round-up by cops!!!! The mustangs had made it dangerously close to the interstate. Big rigs and horses don’t mix. The outcome could cause a major collision.

The policemen had obviously done this before, being skilled at keep the two marauders moving along towards the hills. One of the horses is a troubled horse, always in the middle of action. Pure white, this horse is a ring-leader. The others always follow, getting themselves in trouble by doing so. This horse actually reminds me of something out of a fairy tale. Not a true albino, it’s eyes are brown. Not a palamino, but rather a translucent white, he shimmers. Being a stallion, he’s unpredictable and dangerous. He insists on getting his way at all times.

So, there we sat. Happily, I downed my milkshake while the mini-rodeo went by. Eventually the city gravel truck turned off its warning lights and we were allowed to proceed. It won’t be the last time the horses cause a traffic jam. It’s just always a relief when no one is injured in the process, including the horses.

The horses used to be managed so that everyone could enjoy them. Every year, quietly, the herd was thinned. The native animals could share the range with the invasive horses. Nobody starved. Everyone was healthy. Now, that’s not the case. There is nature’s law of carrying capacity, basic and exact. There is a finite amount of food and water for a certain number of animals. When their numbers gets too big, the weak animals die off. It’s simply supply in demand of food and water. Without any management, the horses are now at a number more than the land sustain. Many are starving. Many will die a painful death. Not much can be done, unless the numbers are artificially sustained, which only makes the problem worse. It is illegal to feed wild horses.

Horses complicate life on the high desert, but are also a rare treat. The other day, WP and I were driving to church when a few bachelor horses decided it was time to run. In the seven years I’ve lived in Nevada, I can count on one hand the times I’ve been lucky to see a galloping herd of mustangs. Traveling all over the high desert, it isn’t a sight you see very often. Galloping uses up calories. Calories are precious in such an intense environment. WP made the same comment as we both watched their special show. The Running of the Mustangs. Something must have spooked them. Just as they run across the plains, they can just as easily spook and run across the roadway. You never know what they’ll decide to do.

Other than the horses and leaves there isn’t much other news. That’s the beauty of the high desert. Quiet and open, you can hear the autumn winds approaching over the mountain canyons. The train whistle in the distance. The hum of the trucks on the interstate reminds me how lucky I am to sit and write in my PJ’s. Have a wonderful Tuesday with whatever you decide to do.

Life around Winterpast is kicking into high gear. With a major trip just a week away, I have a full plate just getting everything done. The autumn chill has arrived. This morning, it’s 38 degrees! Just delightful. The last of the apples hang tightly on the tree, waiting for a pie. What a year! Blueberries, plums, apricots, potatoes, and green peppers are all just memories. Time to turn off the sprinklers and get ready for winter.

Yesterday was Taco Tuesday at the local Mexican restaurant “Palomino”. For $0.99, you can enjoy a wonderful street taco. Miniature versions of the real thing, they’re delicious. Just like everywhere else, the owner struggles finding dependable help. He works long hours taking orders and busing tables. He tends the cash register and washes dishes. Restaurant owners are unsung heroes of this pandemic. It has been risky, but also trying in so many ways. Support your local business men and women. Things are tough for them right now.

For the next few days, I’ll be extremely busy. Kind of like the restaurant owners, it’s just me manning the fort. Needing a little time, I’ll return Monday, October 4th. Please take this time to try writing something on your own. Try out a new recipe, or pick up a real book that has been waiting for you. I’ll be back!!

Yesterday was a special day. Sunday’s are always wonderful in my book. Spending time with my church friends is the best. Three baptisms made the day all the more special. An older married couple and my Teacher Friend were baptized. Before church, I asked for permission to view the font. Very interesting. Like a gigantic hot tub, it has stairs hidden from view on either side. One entrance for men, one for women. The pastor stands in view in the back. The temperature is a balmy 98 degrees. Warm enough for anyone.

The premise of the baptism is that the unsaved person dies and is buried, while the saved person arises. All this is done surrounded by prayer and ceremony. Such a beautiful and solemn event. Always a special day when the font is full.

Learning names and to whom people are related, I feel closer to everyone each and every week. One friend is leaving for a once in a lifetime trip to Germany. Others are in need of hugs and prayers. A true family of kindness and helping hands. What a church SHOULD be.

Sharing a talk with the Pastor about troubling issues cleared my thinking about many important topics. Life is confusing when one is a single woman. At times, confounding. Often, ripe with so many possibilities, it’s hard to decide what the correct choice would be. My Pastor always knows the right things to suggest, scripture front and center, from which personal insight can be gained. I’m blessed to have found such a safe place in which to heal. I value his insight and wisdom. His wife always has a calming hug to share. And, she smells really wonderful. I need to find out the name of her perfume.

Attending church to worship God becomes even more special when new relationships are formed over smiles and welcomes. One church couple has been married for 69 years. I can’t imagine all the situations in which prayer was the glue that held them together. Such a beautiful example they are of undying love and care. Sitting near the front, they are a testimony to marriage. An example to the rest of us that a long and happy life is indeed a goal for which to strive.

More new faces arrive each and every Sunday. People are longing for direction and comfort in this crazy world. Something that makes sense like the beautiful old gospel hymns we sang during service. More than once, I heard people say, “I don’t like the new church music. I want to hear old hymns.” At Baptist on Main, we sing old hymns full of memories, sometimes causing leaky eyes of the best kind.

Things like this only happen in the mind of the writer, and yet, it seems it is happening right here in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada. Enjoy your day, whatever you do. Try a new Pork Roast Recipe with family and friends. Be sure to bring laughter and great conversation. Take some pics. You won’t be sorry when you capture a great moment on film.

Everyone should meet an Oliver at least once in their lives. He’s a nearly human, funny, witty, observant, and expressive standard wire-haired dachshund. Weighing 25 pounds, he’s as strong as a black lab with very, very short legs. Rather like an earth mover, his center of gravity is low. Being a very strong and stubborn little guy, he likes getting his way. He keeps me on my toes.

Three years of his life have passed by. I keep waiting for him to grow into Dog-Hood. He’s firmly parked at Puppy-Hood and enjoying every single little bit of it. He does zoomies with an expression challenging me to race him to the finish. There is no catching him except with his form of kryptonite. Treats. He’s a sucker for dog bones or cheese. Truly, he’ll do anything asked if there’s a payoff. Slowly, he’s learned he can wait me out and get his treat first. I’m a sucker for his dreamy green eyes.

When working as a team, as long as he knows I’ve something yummy in my hand, I have his full attention. Once I give him the “All Gone” hand signal, he’s off to another adventure, not having one second more for me. Oliver and I have been to hell and back. To say I love him is an understatement. I respect him for all that he puts up with on a daily basis. He gives me grief until he sees enough is enough.

Last week, I was in the middle of spa maintenance. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the best about reading instructions on bottles of lethal chemicals. My thinking follows this route. If said chemicals are sold over the counter, they are meant for people like me that really hate rubber gloves or eye protection. After working for so many years on the farm, there are very few things that scare me about home chemicals. Obviously, never mix Clorox and Ammonia, unless you have a death wish. Try not to breathe noxious fumes. But, for most things, just go with it and get the job done. Gloves and eye protection are such a bother.

VST would have had quite the opposite view, always on the look out for unsafe working conditions. With every chemical, one must read instructions while looking for all possible hazardous outcomes. It was nice to have him around to remind me that some chemicals are not cleaning supplies, but potentially dangerous liquids.

After losing VST, I’m left to my own devises. With the sun getting lower in the sky, the filters had soaked for three hours. Taking them out of the vats of acid solution with gloved hands, I carefully rinsed them off and set them out to dry.

No problem, yet.

Until.

Going back into the house, Oliver was complaining. Whining. Wanting to go outside to check for toads. Opening the door, there was no stopping him. Like a bullet. Without one zoomie he went straight to the vat of acid. Nose touched acid quicker than I could gasp in horror. Luckily, the smell caused him to back up, but not before a bit of the diluted solution had touched his sweet and delicate little nose. He looked confused and bewildered, coming to me right away for a hug.

Why, Oliver???

Why? Why? Why?

Immediately retrieving the empty bottle, I read all instructions again, this time looking for signs of possible poisoning. Whisking him off his little legs, I wiped his nose and checked his mouth. Everything in good order, we went to the couch and cuddled for awhile. His eyes told me he loved this part the most. For 30 minutes I watched for excessive salivation, vomiting, blisters, measles, Covid, anthrax poisoning. Any sign that he was ill.

Nothing.

I went to the vat of caustic chemicals. Carefully I put a fingertip in the solution.

Nothing.

It felt like water, so I rubbed some on the top of my arm for closer observation.

Nothing.

Hmmmmmmm.

I didn’t put my nose to the bucket or take a lick, deciding it was more sensible to remained unharmed in case Oliver needed my assistance. Chemical burns can be nasty.

As with small children, when they do something out of the ordinary, you need to wait things out, watching for the normal to continue happening. Oliver enjoyed a piece of cheese. No problem. He had a bowl of water. No vomiting. I prepared his dinner. Gulping that down, he pooped normally. His after dinner nap took him to puppy dream land without a care in the world.

After two hours of observation, I’m happy to report that Oliver remained his sweet little self, none the worse for wear. He survived a possible poisoning event. I’m a little ragged around the edges after that one. It was a reminder that our furry friends use about as much judgement as a blind and deaf salmon when there are new things to taste and smell. They need us to be prepared at all times. Remember that some house and garden plants are toxic to dogs. If spraying for insects, be sure that you choose products that are pet friendly.

Oliver is happily at my feet. Throughout the day and night, I checked for any signs of damage. I’m happy to report that there were no side affects. Through it all, he remained happy as a clam and enjoyed the extra attention.

As the days go by, there are more times when I get brief glimpses of a wonderful grown-up dog. I’m relieved, having passed my Puppy-Hood many moons ago. Hug your pets, keep them safe, and have a great day.

My sweet son is an American Hero. Serving in the US Air Force and US Air National Guard for over twenty years, he is brave and sweet. At 42, he is a man’s-man with three young children and a lovely wife of his own. God fearing and country loving, I’m so proud of him. In the next few days, he is making another huge sacrifice, being deployed for six months.

Few of us give consideration to the sacrifices that our military families make on a regular basis. As a father and husband, he’ll be missing milestones in his children’s lives. His wife will be left to make decisions alone regarding school and home issues that face all families. His children will be left to miss their dad during those long days and nights. The holiday table will be missing our hero. Unless friends and family have experienced that, it would be hard to know what that’s like.

My son is a successful business owner. During the six months that he’ll be gone, he will be entrusting his company to employees. Unless you are a business owner, trusting your business to others is a huge leap of faith. No one could possible make decisions with the same amount of dedication and determination as the person that started the business with a dream.

He will be missing all the holidays we love, and not for the first time in his life. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years will all be celebrated with fellow Air Men and Women. These people will be his new family for six months. All celebrated on foreign soil and away from those he loves the best. His family. All while preparing for the “Just In Case” we all hope never comes.

In this day and age, deployment is a wee bit kinder. The internet will allow for video chats and phone conversations from half way around the world. Great mail service will allow for timely delivery of care packages full of love. But, there is nothing like a warm hug at the end of a very long work day. In this day and age, deployment is a wee bit kinder. The internet will allow for video chats and phone conversations from half way around the world. Great mail service will allow for timely delivery of care packages full of love. But, there is nothing like a warm hug at the end of a very long work day. Nothing like helping your kids with troublesome homework. Nothing like building a business and landing a new client. Nothing like HOME.

Please keep him in your prays. He is the kindest and most loving son a mom could every hope to have. Intelligent and successful, he makes me proud every single day of my life. His base needs the love of our country. Our military personnel sacrifice on a daily basis. They are unsung heroes that need our prayers and support. Their families need our help.

Hug a soldier. Pray for God to keep them safe. They are our best and brightest.

Many people in this crazy world are unable to find a balance of work and play through discipline. Sometimes, I wonder why it is that organization is important to me. In the last few weeks, my daily routine has been turned upside down. Personal discoveries have shown me that being organized allows me to squeeze as much out of life as possible, down to the last drop. That’s the way I roll now, and will continue to roll.

The life of waking whenever to do whatever as the winds blow doesn’t work for me. Certainly not when I had major responsibilities as a young woman, and definitely not now. I find that sleeping too long creates stiffness in my old bones. Wasting the dark autumn mornings only leaves chores that need doing while the sun is shining outside. Missing an early morning soak in the hot tub, I find I’m missing my soaking time all together. Never a good thing. A definite schedule allows me to fit all the jigsaw pieces of my life in a pretty picture that I enjoy. There is time for each and every little piece.

Some people can just roll through a day, putting off chores until the next. Procrastination Central. Being an old woman of 65, I can’t do a long list of physical chores over an entire day. I need to do a little here and a little there, or I’ll pay for it in aches and pains. It’s just the way things are as I travel through my days in the Northwestern Nevada High Desert.

As a Teacher-Farmer-Mom decades ago, people would ask me how I remained organized to accomplish daily tasks. You start out that way. Make a decision to start organizing and stick to it. For me, it’s now a way of life.

Where I’m struggling with discipline is in the area of my diet, as so many people do. Why is it so darn hard to eliminate carbohydrates? Poisonous to me, they cause a immediate and dangerous swelling of the Gluteus Maximus, better known as the butt. No carbs? Life is beautiful. Wonderful. Happy. Skinny. These days, the diet train has derailed. Trying my best to get back on track, I find myself floundering.

VST and I employed teamwork in this area. Embracing the Keto Diet for over two years, we found a healthy way to eat what we liked and remain slim. With an abundance of recipes online, any food type can be transformed into a Keto version. Even Pizza. Great crust can be created with canned chicken. Who knew? It just takes planning. Direction. Vision. 20 carbs a day. And a healthy grocery bill. Keto is expensive.

With autumn upon me, now is the time to rearrange my schedule and get things back in order. The front yard is lovely and finished. The gardener will be coming soon to trim and winterize Winterpast. The gardens are ablaze as the trees say their dreamy goodnight prayers, going to sleep for the winter. Slowly, the yard art is finding its way into the RV barn and the days march on towards winter. Soon, hot tub soaking in the snow will be upon me. Such a fun and relaxing time of year.

Just a note. If you are planning to decorate for Halloween and Christmas, be sure to get to the store now. The shelves are quickly becoming bare, as products are slow to get to market. How crazy! Things we took for granted, like holidays seasons enjoyed in the right months, are now distant memories. Buy Christmas in September. Oh well, such is life these days.

Have a beautiful autumn day. If nothing else, organize the junk drawer. You’ll feel victorious.

Emotional uncertainty rests heavy on my shoulders as I get ready to travel back in time. Driving down familiar roads, I’ll be scurrying backwards in time, finding my ultimate vacation spot on the shore of the Pacific Ocean. For many years, the direction of choice was East, traveling to so many exquisite spots in our country. Mount Rushmore. Washington, D.C. Northern Minnesota. Wyoming. This trip will be different. I’ll be returning to places I used to live. A town I used to know. A home that used to be mine.

Oliver will be enjoying his friends at Puppy Camp. He works while he’s there, helping the newbies with their night frights. He plays with the little ones, wearing them out. Making the staff smile with his antics, he’ll have another fabulous vacation while I’m off making memories of my own.

This is the third time I’ve reserved a little house on the beach. Tiny and adorable, I plan to walk along the shore and think about the past and also the future. I don’t find real comfort in venturing too far from the present. Things in the past can’t be changed. Things in the future haven’t yet been written. The present is the place in which we can all find things we can count on, like good food and great friends.

Returning to California, there are memories that will sting and burn my heart. No doubt about that. It’s time to face them. A little cabin in the woods. A dinner at a beautiful restaurant overlooking the lake. A best friend waiting with a new beau and the best hugs in the world. My new friend, WP, to share with everyone.

Traveling through Yosemite National Park, so many trips and experiences are bound to go through my mind. Stags, Bears, Rangers, and a run-away horse. The most serene meadow of Tuolumne. A place many Californian’s have never seen because it is towards the Eastern side of the Sierra’s. I’ll remember a little boy fishing that, to our surprise, caught a squirrel. Another little boy that celebrated a 10th birthday. A troubled couple that ran to the Sierra’s every chance possible to escape the troubling professions in which we worked. Two people that went through life loving nature and soaking in the breathtaking scenery of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Planning to drive by my old ranch, I’ll remember myself as the little blonde girl that used to get Hydrox cookies from Grammie’s cookie jar. The girl that refused to take naps and had to be threatened with the fly swatter once in awhile. I’ll think of the cellar, always cool, even on the hottest Central Valley days. The rows of canned goods, lined up and waiting for winter. Applesauce, white and orange peaches, bread and butter pickles, and jellies galore. A grandpa that made the best popcorn, delighting three little girls when kernels escaped the pot.

I’ll think of being the young mother that became a farmer, learning about the cycles of the vineyard tended by her Great-Grandparents and Grandparents, Aunts and Uncles, and parents. Vines that were decades old, producing grapes that the average person has never tasted in their life. A barn, big and red and mysterious. Barn doors so big they took VST and his strong arms to move them. Owls that came out on spring nights to teach their babies to fly. Family and friends that came out to the ranch to marvel at the peacefulness of the vineyard. Work. Work. Work. And more work.

A high school where I lost my first love to death my Senior year. A high school where I met VST in choir. A high school reunion where we would shock everyone with a proposal and a Yes. A highschool where my own boys would grow up and graduate. A ranch that would see them to manhood and GoodBye. All these visions will come flooding back as I show these places to someone that grew up in a city far away. California being so vast, as if city and farm were in different galaxies.

Once at the coast, T and K will join us for a day of fun. A lunch at a favorite restaurant that I see in my mind the same as my own kitchen. An afternoon on the water. A chance to visit and smile. A chance to remember someone so dear and special as the man VST was to us all.

Sleeping next to the waves, my dreams will no doubt sneak back to days in the RV. After driving for so many hours, the nights next to the shore were always the most special. Leaving the window cracked a bit, the sound of the waves crashing through a storm were the best kind of lullaby. They will be again.

Finding the arms of my God Mother wrapped around me, I’ll be home. Back to the comfort she has always provided. Back to a woman who has known me longer than anyone else I know. She who knows my heart without every having to ask a question. She, the reason I long to return.

Quite a lot to go through in a week. Wondering what my responses will be to all the visual stimuli, I’ve been getting sleep, good food, and vitamins. Crying when I need to, I’ve been pre-visualizing the scenes that are sure to tear at my heart. I’m so blessed to be going with a friend that will help me get through the hard parts, while helping me make memories with the new ones.

My past was a magical place that held all the emotions and memories experienced by everyone. Traveling through, I’ll give a shout out to the ghosts of the past. Say a sweet Thank You that I was lucky enough to get the life I was given by God.

Stay tuned. I’ll share along the way I while I enjoy a wonderful vacation.

Vacations are a wonderful time to regroup. I’ll be back tomorrow or the next day! Having a wonderful time. Enjoy your day!!!!!!

So far, vacationing at the coast has been magical. I mean, really. Who wouldn’t have a wonderful time in a little cottage with an ocean view??? Entering the house for the first time, I was home. The pictures on “Air BnB” showed it exactly as we found it. Adorable and perfectly stocked.

On the table sat a card addressed to me with a gift of Snicker Doodle cookies from the Brown Butter Cookie Company. Look them up. They send orders throughout the United States. Order some. You won’t be disappointed. My favorite are the Brown Butter Cookies, their signature cookie. Nothing says you are at the coast better than a fresh baked cookie.

The card read,

“Joy,

Welcome back to Bella Vista By the Sea. Please enjoy this gift and the duration of your stay.”

My eyes leaked a little at their message.

Yes.

Welcome back.

The Pacific has been waiting. Just as I left it two years before, on the doorstep of cancer’s evil clutches, the same beautiful ocean welcomed me, again. There’s nothing better than waves crashing on a beautiful beach. From my life as that little blonde girl until now, as a graying woman of 65, the waves have comforted me.

Santa Cruz was the go-to place we enjoyed as children. Playing in the waves as a little girl, we’d stay in the water until our lips were blue. Bundled up in towels, we’d scurry back to my grandparent’s tiny house to enjoy naps in her creaky murphy bed, which hid under a wonderfully heavy blanket when not in use. Magical in the eyes of any child, everyone wanted to sleep in the bed that popped out of the wall.

So far, I’ve enjoyed a wonderful evening with my best friend, CC, and her new beau at her home in the California foothills. Then, off to the coast for a visit from T and K. After lunching at our favorite restaurant, we played Gilligan and friends. Our tour wasn’t three hours, but one. The weather did start getting rough, and we skillfully took the boat back to the harbor before we ran aground on the sand bar. During our little voyage, we came very close to many sea otters, animals God created to look at when he needed a smile.

The next day, I had a wonderful visit with my God Mother, TJ, and THE CONVERTIBLE GODDESS OF THE CENTRAL COAST. Coastal Royalty, both, you could only hope to be so lucky to sit with them on a sunny day discussing the problems of the world over cake and coffee. Like a day hadn’t passed, I was home with two women I love the most.

Throughout all these activities, there have been quiet little breakfasts and dinners in quaint restaurants. Plants and flowers thrive here. God’s way of laughing. Whales spouting. Dolphins leaping. Surfers riding the waves. People enjoying evening fires on the beach. It doesn’t get better than this.

Forgive me for being late in posting. Sleeping in, I’m finding I’m able write later in the day. After wiping the morning dew from the truck, I have yet to decide what the day will bring. Stay tuned. There’ll be more to report tomorrow.

Autumn is a wonderful time to experience harvest. All year, crops are carefully grown and groomed while pests are managed. A farmer is betting everything on good weather and a high sales price. With nothing more than strong faith in what’s happened in the past, farmers hope and wait to see the outcome. Some years are wonderful. Some years, a farmer just turns away to start preparing for the next. That’s the world of real farming.

These days, the little central coastal towns that we’re visiting are in the swing of celebrating fall. There’s a custom that has grown as the years have gone by. The display of the scarecrows. Scarecrows that are seen doing everything from bee keeping to swashbuckling. Each shop owner has put their own spin on their scarecrow. The results are worth seeing.

Colorful and whimsical, these works of art are displayed through the month of October, adding to the number of tourists. Thousands trek to the coast just to see them. Truly adorable.

While visiting, wine tasting was suggested as a possible activity. Having owned my own vineyard raising grapes for Sunmaid raisins, I’ve seen a thing or two. Born into a family that produced grapes for wine and raisins for almost a century, Great-grandparents, Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, and even cousins, were all in the business. Over the year, we learned a thing or two.

This, I can assure you. Harvest is a exhausting race between sunlight, the weather, and the ability to find employees to help harvest the crop. Every single road block you can imagine happen while harvesting a crop that needs to be picked in the span of a few days. Nature doesn’t wait. Fruit continues to gain sugar until, at a single moment in time, it passes its peak. A great farmer hits the sweet spot year after year.

Weather is always fun. Rain and raisins don’t go together. At least five years of the seventeen that I farmed, VST and I were found at 3 AM at the local pancake house. As rain fell on our crop, we’d look out the window, helpless and shaken. All five years, we managed to fix the damage. Rain and raisins are just a bad combination.

Production costs for a raisin crop were around $50,000 for our 40 acre vineyard (1990-2007). Payments for the previous crop were carefully timed, paying for pruning, chemicals, paper trays, and the next harvest. Checks came in. Checks went out. Such is the world of farming.

Yesterday, I visited a toy vineyard and winery. I say this because I know the real thing. In a real harvest, people are so dirty their eyelashes hold a layer of dust. This “grape snipper” was in khaki’s and clean tennis shoes.

“They’re harvesting!!!!” said the woman serving us their version of a chardonnay.

Funny. I heard no shouting, tractors, or barking dogs. No signs of a typical working vineyard. Confused I looked around and what I saw made me laugh from the depths of my belly.

There sat one lone bin of red grapes. A very small plastic bin, maybe 3’x3’x3′. No set of doubles. No forklift dumping a trailer load of grapes. No leaves. Mice. Lizards. Coyote poop. Any of the real stuff that gets dumped with a load of grapes.

Just this little bin of shiny little grapes. Each berry so clean, surely they hired elves to dust them on a daily basis. The employee wasn’t covered with dust of any kind. Looking like he had just popped out from behind a desk, he worked a toy fork lift to move the one bin inside. After gently setting the bin down, he walked over to some dry ice and threw one small scoop on the top of the bin.

A wild fermentation process starts the minute grapes are cut. Wine makers have their own idea of controlled fermentation and don’t want the wild process to start. I assure you. One quart of dry ice on a bin of grapes would do nothing to stop that process. My brain laughed so hard I had to turn away.

Yesterday, I tasted a lot of very sad wines. Wines that were $50 a bottle, and not worth a space on the shelves at Discount Grocery. Very fancy store fronts with fussy people. Terms like bouquet made me laugh in my brain. The descriptors were provided by a fancy writer with a great imagination. Such is the world of wine tasting.

The last place I visited had the best idea of all. They had bottled pieces of grape vines pruned off at the end of a season. We would light bonfires to get rid of this debris at our ranch. Little did we know we were sitting on a gold mine. There on the shelf, they were selling this stuff, adorably bottled, priced at $28 a pint. Labeled as a BBQ additive for a hint of grape wood on your steaks, this was a brilliant marketing idea. Take trash and turn it into extra cash. They got the best score for squeezing the most profit out of their vineyard.

All in all, I still don’t like wine. I’ve seen too much. Having worked at Paul Masson Winery on the swing shift, I know about quality control. I worked in the lab, testing for all kinds of chemical standards found in good wines. It takes an army to make a reproducible product year after year. It takes truckloads of grapes, arriving in a steady stream. It takes hundreds of people who get very dirty. It’s dangerous and on a large scale.

I do like doll houses.

Pretend wineries?????

That remains to be seen.

Have a great day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cap was on backwards.

Yes.

High and dangerous to the health of the stump.

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

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

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

Could they? Would they? Might they help me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow I head out at Dark:30.

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

I’ll be back on Monday!!

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

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

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

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

But.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait.

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

“Say What?” I asked in a hushed tone.

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

“Swell.”

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

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

“Gay Doggie Love. Such a wonderful thing!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How glorious it is to wake up to the sound of raindrops on the roof. Living in the high desert, we get very little precipitation. When it does come, the heavens open, causing flash flooding and drainage issues.

Visitors always comment on the cute little streambed that passes through my back yard. Yes. It’s landscaped with a rock bottom, and in its adorableness, runs through my 1/2 acre to the street. Every home in my neighborhood has part of this streambed, designed to carry off the torrential rains when they come. Winterpast’s section happens to be landscaped.

I’ve only been through one serious rain since I’ve lived here. It occurred shortly after Baily’s and Cream passed away (Miss Firecracker’s beloved husband). One mad skill he possessed was playing with electricity. He was brilliant in his field, having done everything from powering up a gold mine to working on huge projects in the wilds of Alaska. Talented AND handsome. Anyway, no one else could have contributed to the light and sound that night. The heaven’s opened up and it rained in sheets of water. As Miss Firecracker just mentioned yesterday, it was a great sign that Baily’s and Cream had made it to the heaven’s. Since that night, things have been quiet.

Yesterday, as I drove to church, a few drops were falling. By the time I arrived, I’d turned the windshield wipers on high. Roads around here are always slick in the rain. Either, they are slick with oils from the road or, it’s so cold, there ‘s ice. Driving carefully, I arrived safely at the empty church parking lot and waited for someone to come and open the building.

Everyone was in a great mood, but everyone included three people. We sat and started to wonder where the regulars were. Had we missed an important memo? Usually, our Bible study group arrives a little early to talk about our week. But, there was no one. Until the Pastor showed up.

Pastor C didn’t look well. It turns out he and his wife are ill. Not only he and his wife, but, the soprano, the alto, the percussionist, and the piano player were unable to attend due to illness. The leader of Bible Study. Out for the count. The back up sound person. Sniffling at home. And there we sat, now six lonely people, one of whom was ill.

I started to think about things a little more clearly. Not being the least bit ill, and wanting to stay that way, the door began to call to me. How many more people would struggle to come to church when they should have stayed home in bed? Who would give me a hug, and more?

It seems everyone probably got sick at the Wednesday Bible Study. We love to attend, but, last week, WP and I had more pressing things to attend to, and missed. It seems that was by God’s design. I DID clean on Thursday morning. Hopefully, my zinc, Vitamin C, and D are working and we dodged a bullet. Is it Covid that took out the church members? Not sure. The flu is also going around, and this year it seems to be a little more virulent than normal. It’s the season for all kinds of illnesses.

With a single phone call, I saved WP from exposure. I made a quick run for the door and back to the safety of Winterpast. Spending the day over a bubbling pot of spaghetti sauce while getting caught up on old movies was delightful. So blessed to have such a wonderful friend in WP, the day was a good one to get caught up on gratefulness.

Be careful, wherever you are. Do what you can to stay healthy. Remember, the vaccine doesn’t prevent you from getting sick. Neither do masks, really. My wet and muddy wide spot in the road is now a hot spot for disease. I plan to get in some serious writing hours tucked away in the warmth and happiness that is Winterpast. Have a wonderful day, whatever you choose to do.

At 65 years of age, there are some things I don’t like. It’s that simple. As I child, I was forced to try fish. “Just one bite”. A thousand times of “Just one bite.” Gagged every time. As a young woman, I was bullied into trying it. Left it under my napkin every time. As a mom, I felt it was my duty to introduce my boys to it, always eating a sandwich before dinner. As a Senior Citizen, there is no reason to torture myself with something I find awful in every way. I hate fish.

The smell. The texture. The preparation. The odor when opening the package. The slimy appearance. A lone scale here or there. Spiny bones secreted in flesh. I could go on. Everything about it disgusts me. Fish is not allowed on my counter or in my refrigerator. Certainly not on a plate I’ve paid good money for at a restaurant. I make my own rules now. I hate fish. That’s not going to change a this stage of the game.

As a college student, and later as a young mom, I did fish. With a hook. With a line. With a sinker. The least offensive of the bunch is fresh trout, but those need to stay in the lake, as well. I doubt I’m alone in my distaste for this food group. Face it. McDonald’s didn’t make their first Big Mac with fried Tilapia. It would’ve been curtains for them.

Many things have solidified my elimination of fish from my food group. One might surprise you. Fish are relatively innocent little beings. All day they just swim in their three dimensional world, being nothing other than the fish they are. They don’t harm things anymore than any other animal. Hidden, they just do their little fishy thing. Silent and out of sight.

Eating is everything for them. It seems they eat anything within reach that’s smaller than their mouth. Hence, a pea-sized brain get them in trouble every time. They’re not sharp enough to know worms don’t swim. Especially worms impaled on something shiny, like a barbed hook. Finding themselves facing a certain death, it’s too late. If death isn’t from the jagged hook, then, it results from horrors that come after being ripped off the hook.

Being pulled from water appears to be the reverse of human drowning. Terrifying and painful. I remember the look one trout gave me when I’d “caught” it. How silly. I did nothing but hold a pole, line, and hook. The worm made the ultimate sacrifice. Flopping around and gasping, my immediate response was to throw it back in the water. Of course, others in my group caught plenty that weren’t so lucky.

Fish don’t have a long shelf life. Ordering fish in the high desert of Northern Nevada takes trust in all those that handled it from boat to plate. In this day and age, I can’t trust the bagger at the grocery store to put my belongings in the bag without breaking something. I’m not trusting the hundreds of people it requires to process fish. Food poisoning is not a fun thing to experience. Old fish is even worse than fresh fish. Unless standing next to a coastal fish market, none of it is fresh enough for me.

People that LOVE fish are insistent little cherubs. Insistent that you haven’t eaten fish prepared in the right way. Quite sure that you just haven’t tasted the one variety you’ll crave the rest of your life. Positive their meal choice will change your 65 year old brain forever. Don’t even get me started on oysters.

If you know someone you love who hates fish, let them be. Swim proudly with your own preferences. Especially if the person is question is 65. We know a few things about what we like. If fish isn’t on our list, FERGETABOUTIT.

_{Song from “The Bucket List” Lyrics by John Mayer}

Take all of your wasted honor
Every little past frustration
Take all of your so-called problems,
Better put ’em in quotations

Say what you need to say. 

Walking like a one man army
Fighting with the shadows in your head
Living out the same old moment
Knowing you’d be better off instead,
If you could only . . .

Say what you need to say.

Have no fear for giving in
Have no fear for giving over
You’d better know that in the end
It’s better to say too much
Than never to say what you need to say again

Even if your hands are shaking
And your faith is broken
Even as the eyes are closing
Do it with a heart wide open

Say what you need to say.

After just watching The Bucket List, I long for the days when movies made us think and strive to be better people. Little stories shown on screen making us reflect on who we are as quiet little individuals trying to live our best lives.

In these crazy days, people are so afraid to say anything. Everything is dissected, with words becoming weaponized. Worse than any nuclear war, ideas put into words have managed to divide a nation of family and friends. Friendly discussions have long since left the building. What’s left is a sad and empty carcass of despair. We all need to say what we need to say. Carefully. Thoughtfully. Taking time to listen for a response.

In case you haven’t seen The Bucket List, you really must do so. Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson play together on the screen as two men dealt horrible fates. What they do in three months is what anyone would dream of doing throughout a lifetime. With time and money, all things are within reach. When health is taken out of the equation, things get desperate and very real.

How I wish we could’ve had three months to put a bow on my own love story with VST. Instead, we had nine ugly weeks. At the end of our story, I’m thankful we said what we needed to say when it needed saying. Hands shaking and faith broken, when his eyes were closing, I said what I needed to say. I wished he’d been able to respond, but then, we’d shared everything long before. I just needed to say it all one more time.

It’s better to say too much than never to say what you need to say again.

Say what you need to say.

Sir Oliver, Gentleman of Ashworth Hall has a name that fits him well. The picture speaks a thousand works. Intelligent and intuitive, he knows everything about me, accepting that I’m a crazy chick-a-dee sometimes. He knows when to wag and when to bark. Sleeping with one eye open, he keeps tabs on Winterpast, especially any rogue toads. He’s my wonderful and devoted friend.

Dogs are strange creatures. They love so unconditionally, they’ll do anything we ask of them. In Ollie’s case, he does it more quickly if there’s a treat involved. Even 1/2 a treat is better than no treat at all. He’s growing into a gentleman, and years from now, will devastate me. Dogs have that flaw. They pack a lot into their short lives, and then, run off over the rainbow bridge.

Some people debate the presence of dogs in heaven. For all of you non-dog-loving types, get ready. In my version of heaven, ALL my dogs are waiting for me. From my first dog, Roscoe, to the last one, whom I may not have met yet, they’ll all be there wagging and waiting for a treat. Heaven wouldn’t be heaven without dogs.

VST wasn’t a dog person. He didn’t want to be bothered and hated a stray dog hair on his tux jacket. They smelled. They barked. They got in the way of travel. Yup. He disliked all dogs.

Until Oliver.

Oliver was a puppy that needed walking. I’m not a walker. VST walked. Being a problem solver, VST decided if the darn dog needed walking, he’d need to take time from his retired day and walk him, as I wasn’t. Just like that, VST started asking Ollie if he wanted to walk before Ollie asked him if they could. It was a little vision of sheer happiness as Ollie did cartwheels waiting for VST to put on his heavy knee braces, one strap at a time.

Off they would walk. One slightly crippled Bionic Cowboy and a crazy little puppy on the leash leading the way. Wiggling to the sound of VST’s cane clicking along, off they’d go for their walk. I could never tell who smiled more, but there was no doubt, it was enjoyable for both. Just like that, VST became a dog lover of the best dog in the world. Sir Oliver, Gentleman of Ashworth Hall.

VST taught Ollie the finer points of being a Gentleman. Don’t jump. Don’t hump. Don’t bark. Don’t bite. In general, be polite and listen to others. Wink once in awhile. It throws people off. It took a long time for Oliver to embrace the teachings, but, VST had all the time in the world. VST was a natural at dog training, even teaching Ollie to wink. Oliver misses his dad just like me.

Yesterday was grooming day. To many, it doesn’t make sense that Oliver’s services are so far away. He loves his people and they don’t live in our town. Being thumbless, he really can’t drive. Besides, he’s too short to reach the pedals, so we agreed, I’ll take him. He has a reputation to uphold, as we discussed in a post a few days ago. His favorite person is his groomer Sam, as in Samantha. They met years ago when VST was still alive. Sam is magical. Ollie melts in her presence and yesterday held his paw out for her to trim his nails. He’s grown up.

Arriving a little early, we went in to meet the gang for the day. Two Corgi’s and a Cocker Spaniel. Cockers are obviously Oliver’s type. This one was an old gray with soulful eyes. Thankfully, a GIRL. The Corgi’s were there to chaperone. With judgmental looks, they told me they already KNEW about HIM and would keep HER out of trouble. Their cold little gazes made me look away.

Quick as a cricket, Ollie was one of the pack. No butt sniffing needed, he had friends for the day, and would lead the pack. So happy, he looked back once with a big smile. “Thanks, Mom-Oh. This is so fun!”

Upon my return, another Cocker had replaced the first. ALSO A GIRL. A young blonde with long, long legs. Being short has never been a problem for Oliver. Commanding the room, he ran the place, just like a judge in a court. Being an alpha dog, other dogs find him a likeable short-guy with a big presence.

The best part of my experience was watching his happiness and excitement with the others. His loneliness disappeared and he was one happy dog. But even better was the moment he heard my voice. Running to the gate he wiggled in delight. I’m still his best girl. The one he loves the most.

Oliver slept the rest of the day. Dogs need their buddies. In a perfect world, there’d be a Lady Friend cuddling up with him on high desert nights. In the real world, Oliver is a bachelor and will remain so. Two dogs are one more than I can afford in time, patience, and dollars. I know he understands and accepts his place as an “Only”. He enjoys the many perks, and for now, we’re in agreement. He has it pretty good.

Today, have a chat with your furry friend. Play a round of fetch. Give a nice ear rub. Enjoy a nap together. Our pets are a wonderful blessing.

Oh my.

I took off on an adventure yesterday to a place I used to enjoy. The hours and hours I’ve spent rolling up and down the aisles of Costco used to be amazing. In 1989, one of the first stores in California came to Central California. Being an amazing treasure trove of everything cutting edge and wonderful, my basket would be brimming at check out.

In those days, the associates were all known by name. It was fun to talk to Sylvia about her children as she scanned each item with her wand. She lived down the street from me, and we’d wave as she passed on her way to work. Anna always had the skinny on school issues. Marvin, in meats, could tell you lots of interesting things about upcoming events at the store. Being a membership only store, we treated each other like family. Hard to believe it, but we did.

Everyone knew we were the farmers with the two big dogs that ate one 40 pound bag of kibble every week. The associates knew that VST and I were a professional couple that farmed on the side. We never had to wait very long to get checked out, because we were faithful friends and customers. In those days, if the check out lines were full, the manager would open a lane to get us on our way. It was always fun to go to Costco. My how the years have changed things.

By now, the aisles should be full of Christmas decorations. In the old days, each year one special thing caught my eye. VST would slide it into the basket. Costco Christmas items were always the best quality, and often Made in the USA. My Christmas village was one of the first things we bought as newly weds. It fit so well in our little farm house, sitting atop the 1940’s dining room cabinets. Built in, they had a mirror above a center section of drawers, with two higher cabinets on either side. Since then, I’ve not found such a perfect place to display my tiny little town.

Yesterday, there was none of that. Now, I can’t complain. There were also NO empty shelves. Yes. The toilet paper was very low. But, as for the rest of the store, it couldn’t have been stocked more completely than it was. With a wide selection of this and that, the employees were doing a great job keeping up with the masses.

The problem was the masses. Rude. Arrogant. Rushing. Foolish. Zombie-like. How society has changed into a “Me First” group. It’s very sad. Every single aisle was open. But, of course, there were only two people checking receipts on the way out, causing everyone to form a line of hundreds stretching to the back of the building. I will never understand that procedure. Install more cameras. Make it digital. Do something other than physically looking at every single receipt.

At the meat counter, I asked the associate when the Thanksgiving turkeys were arriving. November 16th was the reply.

November 16th?????????

November 16th.

The thought of being anywhere around Costco from now until Christmas gives me a sick feeling in my stomach. Angry people who want what they want right now. Long before November 16th. With the state of our country, I am buying the very first turkey I see on the shelves. As of today, I’ve seen zero. It used to be that every store had a few turkeys in the frozen section. I like a turkey dinner once in awhile. There are special occasions that warrant a family dinner. Go take a look at your grocery store. I’d guess you’ll find no turkeys, either.

Just another American tradition being ruined.

Overwhelmed with our shopping adventure, we finally escaped only to find out that a person had been run over in front of the store. With a vehicle. With injuries. While the fire department and paramedics treated the person on the ground, we hurried in the opposite direction to load the truck and get out of there.

Folks. Plan time accordingly. Slow down. Take time to smile at one another. Be reasonable with Associates in any store. They are unsung heroes that are just doing their job. Say “Hello” to them by name. Smile at them. They aren’t part of the computerized system. They are tired and overwhelmed. Take note that they are not sitting at home because it’s easier to collect money from the government. Just that deserves a big Thank You.

With that little rant, I am off to clean Winterpast. So many things need dusting. With a bright a sunny day ahead, I need to rake a few leaves and take time for a soak in the hot tub. I’ll take time to hunt for the elusive turkey. Have a wonderful day, whatever you may do.

Thank you for taking time to read me.  Blogging, my chosen method of emotional survival, turned into something I still can’t believe.  Every so often, I get a comment requesting a few pointers for beginning a site. Here are a few helpful hints to get started. 

 1.  Start with Bluehost.  They’ll walk you through everything you need to do to create a free site.  It is so easy, I could do it. You follow very simple directions and all of a sudden you have a professional looking site. Please, oh, please, don’t choose the succulent I used. I love it so much. Your actual blog will be part of a site called WordPress.

Remember.  Your site is only free the first year.  The second year it costs $300-500 to keep your domain name.  After a year of writing, you’ll need to decide if you want to continue.

2.  Whatever your topic, write you.  Don’t write what you think others would like to hear.  It’ll be fake and your readers will know.

3.  Watch the inner workings of your blog carefully.  I’ve been seriously hacked one time.  I ended up having to pay another $350 for protection and haven’t been hacked again. The internet provides lots of great information on keeping your site safe.

4.  In the beginning, write every single day, choosing a time of day that works for you.  Make it your job.  Check your punctuation and spelling.  People do care.  I get reminded of that every day, so I do my best to make sure things are correct before publishing.  There are always mistakes, but, do your best to limit them. Punctuation and grammar are important. No one wants to read a poorly constructed blog.

5.  Wait to advertise until you have a rhythm, style, and brand.  Start with family and friends.  They’ll let you know if they like your writing.  And, they will.  I’m almost ready to start advertising now.  I’m not on Facebook, but plan to be, soon.  Using Instagram and Twitter, I plan to grow my numbers.  I have a self-published book coming out in April 2022.

6.  Journal your progress.  Blogging is the easiest thing in the world if you love to write.  It took me 3-4 hours to set up my site on September 23, 2020.  Since then, it’s been the most rewarding experience I’ve ever had.  I’ve been read in over 70 countries.  By Christmas, I hope my total number of reads reaches 100,000. Not astounding for the internet, but just right for a beginning blogger after one year with no advertising. Word of mouth adds a few readers every day. So tell someone if you enjoy my site. It’s helping me grow.

I hope this gives you inspiration to start.  Send me your domain name when you do. I love to read fellow bloggers. If you have more questions, let me know.  If you have suggestions, email me at Hawaiianhurts@att.net.

I’m truly humbled you like my writing. Happy blogging to you.

Joy Hurt

Some days, it seems that everyone is out to make a buck, regardless of how ruthless they are. With Christmas just around the corner, I’ll share my latest experience about shopping online. It involves a store that begins with a W and ends with a T. You can figure that out.

Being a girl that prefers the site that begins with an A and ends with an N, I haven’t ventured far from the tried and true. I mean, how can you beat it? You think of something. You enter it in the computer. It’s available, ordered, and on your doorstep in a couple days. Pretty wonderful shopping experience, without ever needing to put on real clothes. PJ’s are the new shopping duds. Gas in your tank isn’t required. Just a cup of coffee and a computer work fine.

Anyway, I’ve been wanting some new bedding. One store was out of anything worth buying. Another didn’t offer great prices. Never having shopping W_____t’s online store, I turned to them as a last resort. There, I found what I was looking for. A down comforter and sheets made of 650 thread count cloth. Fancy-shmancy. I ordered both items. A little later, I found a king-size fleece blanket and ordered that, as well. It was all over but the waiting.

A week later, the comforter arrived first. To say it was a disappointment doesn’t cover it. It felt like a piece of canvas. I think there was down in there somewhere, but not enough, by any means. The comforter was stiff as a board. Not something one thinks of when using the word down comforter. It could have been mistaken for a piece of cardboard.

The next item that arrived were the sheets. If these sheets were 650 thread count, they must have used spider web filament in the cloth. Scratchy and thin, the corners of the fitted sheet were held on by the cheapest of and elastic band that went around the entire mattress. This would last a couple washings and break. The sheets got a lower grade than the comforter.

Finally the blanket arrived. The most beautiful deep lavender color, it’d surely be a hit. But, arriving in a shrink wrap affair, it was covered in soot of some sort. The sheets and comforter didn’t come in boxes, but were shrink wrapped, as well. Very odd. Very dirty wrapping. Very cheap items. All three were duds. At least, I could return them to my friendly W_____t. right?????

Wrong-o.

Upon presenting the items to the associate, I was told all items presented for return must be in boxes.

But, wait. The items were delivered to me in shrink wrap. There were no boxes sent to me in the first place.

Didn’t matter. These didn’t come from the store, but the W—–t MARKETPLACE. Therefore, any refunds would need to wait until the MARKETPLACE received the returned goods. And besides, their label maker was down, so fergetaboutit. End of story in their minds. Next in line, please.

Standing there, I felt my Inner Karen come to life. This couldn’t be. With another Associate coming to the rescue of the first, the answer was “Sorry, Karen”. Returning home, I was on the hunt for boxes for these items. I’d try again at another store.

Driving to the W_____t 30 miles to the east, I hoped for better news. Dragging some boxes out of the trash, I made sure everything had a bar code. Off I went across the desert, trying to cool off along the way.

At the second W_____t, a sweet Associate did manage to accept the items for return. Her label maker had just been fixed. She warned me the MARKETPLACE takes awhile to process returns, so I might not see my refund for a week or so.

With Christmas shopping around the corner, be careful with online shopping. The W_____t MARKETPLACE must be a very, very dirty place, perhaps in the middle of a war zone. Don’t expect things to smell great. The fleece blanket smelled heavily of toxic chemicals, along with a covering of soot. The sheets were anything but 650 thread count. And, W_____t really doesn’t care if you are buying from a warehouse or the “MARKETPLACE”. They want your money, plan and simple. Buyer beware. Save your empty boxes. You just never know when you might need them.

When VST became ill, we were in the middle of a huge life change. The Dunmovin’ House in Virginia City was in escrow. Our new home, an hour East, was in a nice neighborhood, part of a town at a wide spot in the road. An “F” on a hill above the new neighborhood marked our spot on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Seventeen days before our move, VST died on an April morning in 2020. Packing became a chore for one lone woman lost in a widow’s fog of despair. Me.

Days turned into weeks turned into months into a year. With less frequency, I still run into things that aren’t mine. Sad reminders of the beautiful life we shared which stopped on April 8, 2020. These beloved belongings need to be returned to children that long for their dad as much as I do. T and K are the twins to which I send VST’s precious belongings.

One day while cleaning out a closet, I ran across a coat that belonged to VST. VST was a clothes horse if there ever was one. He easily filled two very large closets with everything from jeans and sweats to two (not one but two) tuxedos. He had dress shirts in every shade of blue. Ties, ties, and more ties. Shoes of every type. Socks in every color. VST loved clothing.

The particular coat I held was one of his favorites. His scent had faded, but, in my mind’s eye, I could see him wearing it. During the beginning months of Covid, I had to dispose of much of his clothing in the worst way. All thrift stores were closed. No one was collecting clothing for the poor. And besides, dress shirts that need ironing don’t appeal to a wide variety of people. Sadly, I did the only thing I could. They were discarded at the local landfill in a flood of tears as I prepared for the movers who charged by volume.

This coat had made the cut with memories so strong. But now, what? I couldn’t keep holding on to the past. No matter the variety of clothing items I still had, VST wasn’t coming back for a weekend visit. It was time that the coat would go to his twins, T and K. They could decide who in their families might need a nice coat.

Little did I know that my adorable grandson would be that person. JJM grew much taller than his Papa VST. A senior in high school, he’s a thespian, just like VST. He sings like VST did when we met in high school, so very long ago. He’s handsome, wearing his heart on his sleeve. He adored his Papa VST, and felt the loss deeply. The coat was a perfect way to receive a hug from heaven.

His mom, K, sent me a little video as he was leaving for school last week. It wasn’t lost on my, his Grandma Joy, that he said “I Love You” to HIS dad as he left the house. His last October day as a high school-er. On his way to one of the last autumn days as a Senior, he wore his Grandfather’s jacket. Being so proud, his smile said it all. He’s on the young side of manhood. I remember his grandfather well at that age, over 50 years ago. JJM is a knock off the old block.

Proudly, he wore is Papa’s coat as he left for school. It fit as if made for him. His smile and happiness left a wonderful glow over their courtyard. Frozen in time through the video, how wonderful to hear his heartfelt “I Love You”. His dad is such a lucky guy. He not only has two sons that adore him, but the love of our beautiful K. VST and I did our best to teach our kids about love. VST, it seems we did okay.

Hugs from heaven are within our reach to give out as widows and widowers. They are within our reach to take for ourselves. Next to the jacket given to K is another one. A snow shoveling jacket that kept VST warm on cold winter mornings when the snow was thick and the air crisp. I made the mistake putting it on and taking a deep breath that morning. It was as if VST was around me, hugging me one last time. It took my breath away, leaving me in a puddle of tears for a time. A hug of my own from heaven. Something I, too, need once in awhile.

When deciding about belongings of those that are gone, consider those family members that are longing for a hug from your lost angel. A coat is so much more than a coat. It is warmth. Happiness. Smiles. A heavenly hug from an angel gone too soon.

Have a great day! More tomorrow.

These days, it’s becoming more and more important for us to find strength through our faith. Faith enables us to show complete trust and confidence in something bigger than ourselves. Something not seen or completely understood. Change in our world is a certainty. Faith in something bigger helps us to hold on tight as the roller coaster of life gives us a ride to remember.

Losing VST in such an unforeseen manner was rather like losing someone in a car crash. Quick, certain, and final. Miss Firecracker and I have spent time comparing notes on the loss of our beloved spouses. We both agree, it was nothing for which we were prepared. Both our spouses were holding their own when cancer came knocking. Without rhyme or reason, they were the unlucky victims of such a horrible sentence. We were left over. Spent after surviving the wilderness of grief. Without faith, we wouldn’t have made it through. Period.

Faith isn’t a belief. It always amuses me when people believe in something. Children believe in Santa and the Easter Bunny. Others believe in certain doctrines, or the teachings of a certain political party. Beliefs can be easily shattered, or twisted when they’re tied up with egos and feelings.

To KNOW? Well, that’s to KNOW. I know I have lots of leaves to rake in my back yard. I know my trees will sprout anew in the spring after a nice winter’s rest. I know the cycle of life will continue. Birth, death, and everything in between. I KNOW God. He KNOWS me. By name. I won’t be a stranger when we finally meet face to face. I talk with him on a daily basis. I beg for forgiveness. I thank him for blessings overflowing. That is the basis of faith. KNOWING for certain that something unseen is real.

Right now, watching the changes molding our society into something new and different, I find comfort everything is going to be just as it should. As long as we are breathing, there is hope in a brighter tomorrow. With love, tenderness and kindness, hearts soften. Dreams help us chart a course of our own making. In the end, it may not be MY vision that is fulfilled, but, life will still be full of wonder and beauty.

When I’m in the garden, I breathe deeply as I rake up the yellow-gold leaves. In awe of their beauty, I feel so lucky to have trees that have given them to me. So blessed am I to have eyesight good enough to enjoy their brilliance for at least one more autumn. I’m ready for the adventure of winter, feeling fearless and happy. I hope that I’m well enough to rake again next year as the breezes play with the leaves, making me chase them just a little.

Get to know yourself. Be grateful for your own strength and tenacity Stay humble, showing kindness to those less fortunate. In kindness, you shine as your most beautiful self and others will admire your heart. As you walk on, each day be grateful for the progress you make. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, said Laozi. He must have had very strong faith. These days, my journeys are much more comfortable with the help of my little Jeep.

Enjoy today. Turn to your faith when you get down. Helping you get through hard times. be grateful for your accomplishments and achievements, no matter how small you think they are. If you are moving forward, you aren’t stuck in the mud. We’re all so lucky to be alive. We can all believe, but we also KNOW.

Faith. Enjoy it. Embrace it. Lean into it. With it, life is limitless.

When someone has a birthday, a celebration is in order. Unless, of course, your birthday is like mine. One week before Christmas. I find celebrating birthdays with those lucky enough to have them at different times of year is far more enjoyable. A friend just had one and we did it up right. Along with about 1,000 dairy farmers from all over the world.

We had decided it would be fun to stay in the Biggest Little City 45 miles west of us. Off we went to celebrate in fine style. Little did we know there was a dairy convention in town. 1,000 dairy farmers are a sight to behold. If you’ve never met one, they are some of the most wonderful men in the entire world. Salt of the Earth type of people. Cut out of the same mold.

Dairies are a vital part of our world. Milk, yogurt, sour cream, cheese, ice cream, meat, and other products all come as a result of the hard work of men and women that never stop. The cows come first. An unhappy cow gives no milk. Content cows live their lives in successful dairies. Being cows, they don’t really care about the things we do. Having food and each other, they chew their cud and live happy little lives as cows.

A dairy farmer doesn’t travel very much. Knowing several classmates that had dairies, they forfeited a lot growing up. They were needed to work with the cows. Cows are milked twice a day. They need to be fed, and after that, they need clean bedding. This cycle of care goes on and on and on. The owner of the dairy is the one that gets out of bed in the middle of the night to help a distressed cow give birth.

It was amusing to see them amassed in a jazzy casino. Dairy men are all business and no shenanigans. As they were arriving for the morning meetings, the common outfit was Wrangler Jeans, comfortable shoes, and plaid shirts. Clean cut and freshly shaved, there was no diversity in this group. Homogenized, just like their milk.

A classic dairy farmer is a quiet man. A friendly man. Someone that will help you in the dark of night if you need helping. He’s a principled man who is humane and humble. He is focused and organized. He values his time, because, there isn’t any left over at the end of the day. He is great with finances, stretching a dollar when the price of hay and fuel are on the rise. But mostly, he loves his cows. Because, as stated earlier, happy cows produce a lot of milk. Unhappy cows do not.

Dairy farmers are not known for their love of night life. They are early to bed and early to rise. They have a lot of ground to cover in a day and work long after the sun goes down. I didn’t expect them to be clogging up the lounges at the casino, and wasn’t surprised when there weren’t many around after 7.

Dairy women are not that common. Face it. There are some things that girls are not strong enough to do. Dealing with heavy equipment and animals weighing 1,500 pounds, is something most women are not equipped to do. Just a fact of life, ladies. So, with this group, there weren’t many woman-folk. Just a wave of men, all intent on learning about the latest trends in the dairy business.

Eavesdropping on conversations, it was obvious these guys are not in some little red barn with a few head of cattle. No. One farmer’s operation cared for 15,000 head. That’s huge. In dealing with so many cows, it’s necessary to utilize technology. The amount of food for individual cows is watched carefully. Milk production analyzed. Everything computerized for quick action should something go down. Working with a perishable product and live animals is a delicate dance. Computer chips and technology help things run more smoothly.

Everything from hoof care to Artificial Insemination was covered in these meetings. All shared with a very polite and dry audience. One man was carrying around an ice chest. Really didn’t want to know what might be in that ice chest. Could be a case of Coors or bull semen. Sometimes, you just really don’t need to know.

A most humorous moment occurred at the pool. With such a beautiful fall day to enjoy, WP and I went to lounge and swim. Okay. Okay. WP swam while I enjoyed watching people. The cattlemen were easily identified by their clothing and the red lanyards holding their badges. One particular rancher was sunning himself with his eyes closed. As he lay quietly, he slowly chewed gum. Just as his cows chew their cud, he chewed his gum while relaxing. It was so darn funny, I alerted WP, who had found the homogeneous nature of the cattlemen of interest.

They were on the move the next morning. During breakfast, they were making last minute connections at the coffee shop before returning to their dairies. They were a nice bunch of convention goers with which to share the hotel.

Oliver and I will be busy today with Christmas decorations. Box on top of box are waiting in the RV barn. This, the second year without VST, will hold different challenges. With time and faith, things improve every day. Have a good one. More tomorrow.

Winter is coming

An hour repeat.

Gain one hour of shut-eye

Propping up our feet.

Change the clock on the stove

Change the clock, microwaving

Change the clock on the mantle,

Changing clocks, you’ll be slaving.

On your own, you. Go quick or go slow

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

Now sun on the street, shines at 7AM

You check this clock and that

Trying not to forget ’em.

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

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

With the speed of a youngster

To this room and that,

You flit here and there

Time not for chit-chat.

And you may not find any

In some certain rooms,

No clocks in the shower

Nor next to perfume.

Time goes slowly on this very dark morn,

What was 8 is now 7.

It makes you forlorn.

Hungry for lunch, you certainly feel

Because 11 was noon yesterday,

Making you squeal.

The day is off kilter,

It brings up a frown,

You feel sort of angry,

A little bit down.

But finally, each clock,

On this dreary slow day,

Is now showing time right,

Or that’s what they say.

You sit down and ponder

Smiling broad and sincere,

You did it, you did it,

Without any fear.

No directions were needed

To set your world straight.

Six used to be seven

And seven used to be eight.

Don’t race ahead,

You’re right on the money.

What?

It’s bedtime already?

Time change is quite funny.

To bed in the night.

Eyes look through lashes,

My brain says, “Oh Heaven’s.

Where are my glasses?”

A book I will read,

Time change is the worst.

Changing the clocks,

The whole thing is cursed.

For listening to my tale

I thank you, so much.

Writing ’till next spring

We’ll stay in touch.

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

Good Morning,

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

I’ll be back tomorrow with the latest.

Joy

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

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

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

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

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

Taken from the program…

MARINE CAKE CUTTING CEREMONY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Cause my Daddy taught me good

I’m backin’ the hell outta there

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

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

‘Cause my daddy taught me good.

And I think maybe I should faint.

But I don’t. (NO.)

My daddy taught me goooood.

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

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

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

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

Enjoy today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hint.

It isn’t L & O.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Into the darkness (Stars and Moonlight)

Dark all around me (Nothing but darkness)

Out of the window (Into the darkness)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHOOSE HAPPINESS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing Left Unsaid” _{Written by Carol Orsborn},

We hope to take full advantage of every opportunity to support healing:

to understand everything that has eluded us,

to resolve all our life’s issues,

to mend our relationships and mature spiritually.

But, our aspirations, even as lofty as these,

exhaust us and keep us busy striving

at a time when we need to make space for quiet and

peace.

It will be healing enough when you can lay aside your

self assessments and demands,

and stop trying so hard to get this right.

Indulge, instead, in being an ordinary person who loves

God.

Happy Saturday. More on Monday.

Every so often I need to remember that I’m lovable as I am. Not as I was when I was 32 or 47, but as this 65 year old woman. The good points shine golden. The bad points are like thorns on a rose stem, there to affirm humanness. A little of this, a little of that all blended together into a joyful blend of happiness and reflection, I sit writing to you today.

This past week of silence has let me focus on things that have been ignored too long. The dust bunnies under my studio definitely qualify, along with stacks of stuff needing to be tossed or tucked away. As I straighten up my physical world, my thoughts are correcting my course, as well. I can’t lose sight of my goals or I’ll simply circle around aimlessly like a lost sailor in a harbor.

So often, the Ghosts of Should’ve-Could’ve-Would’ve-s come around to pay a visit. Guilt washes over me like a flash flood, as I ruminate. So many things I wish I’d have handled differently as VST became ill and was dying. But, that ship has sailed. I know he knows I know. The story has been written, and now, I need to remember, find forgiveness, and move on.

VST and I created a beautiful life together. We both knew. Embracing our imperfectly wonderful bonds, we worked through difficult issues woven throughout our marriage. Through the worst of times, the thought of divorce was never on the table. Committed to forever, we stepped carefully through the landmines of life, having a pretty great dance while doing so.

Dancing with the wrong partner is painful and destructive. Knowing what a great dance partner looks and feels like, I refuse to settle for anything less. As my mother said, “There are worse things than being alone.” Truer words have never been spoken. I don’t no need help being poor. I’m not a trained nurse or mental therapist. I’m certainly no one’s maid, cook, or mother. Just a woman that wants to dance with the right partner.

Weak? Fallible? Emotional? Tired? I’m all those things these days. It seems that the hard work of grieving continues throughout life, dredging up many different feelings along the way. I wasn’t expecting woe and sadness to continue renting the back room of my brain. Independent women don’t live in anxious resentment, yearning, or inadequacy. Or do we? Thank goodness life distracts us while healing our troubled hearts.

Blogging has given me a sense of purpose. Daily, my readership grows while I wonder if I’ll ever stop writing. When will the numbers tell me, “Enough is enough. Put the pencil down.”? My perspective on life is of my own choosing. I’ve grown into a woman I respect and love while writing words that paint a mural of how I want to be remembered. Even if things don’t turn out as planned, I’ll keep choosing happiness, day after day.

There is not such thing as a perfect person. “Hate-ers gonna hate” as the song goes. I don’t have to be perfect to please everyone all the time, because that surely is an impossibility. Each night as I close my eyes, I need to remember I’m enough just as I am. Time heals all wounds, even ones that break our hearts.

_{Tim McGraw}

You know there’s a light that glows by the front door

Don’t forget the keys under the mat

When childhood stars shine

Always stay humble and kind

Go to church ’cause your momma says to

Visit Grandpa every chance that you can

It won’t be wasted time

Always stay humble and kind.

Hold the door, say “please”, say “thank you”

Don’t steal, don’t cheat, and don’t lie

I know you got mountains to climb but

Always stay humble and kind

When the dreams you’re dreamin’ come to you

When the work you put in is realized

Let yourself feel the pride but

Always stay humble and kind.

Don’t expect a free ride from no one

Don’t hold a grudge or a chip and here’s why

Bitterness keeps you from flyin’

Always stay humble and kind

Know the difference between sleepin’ with someone

And sleepin’ with someone you love

“I love you” ain’t no pickup line

Always stay humble and kind.

When those dreams you’re dreaming’ come to you

When the work you put in is realized

Let yourself feel the pride

But always stay humble and kind

When it’s hot, eat a root beer popscicle

Shut off the AC and roll the windows down

Let the summer sun shine

Always stay humble and kind

Don’t take for granted the love this life gives you back

When you get where you’re going don’t forget turn back around

And help the next one in line

Always stay humble and kind

*Have a wonderful day!

Joyfully, I sing unto the Lord as the leaves are slowly disappearing. Remembering my days on the ranch, leaf raking was a messy task. Heavy with autumn dew, the messy mulberry leaves weren’t alive like those of Winterpast. Brittle and light, they dance around as a blow them into neat little piles. Golden. Burgundy. Pumpkin. Amber. Burnt Sienna. They shiver with the slightest breeze. Today is another day for leaf burning.

Being blessed beyond my wildest dreams, these days I have a joyful heart. Pastor C suggested that be a focus of the week. It feels so good I’m choosing inner Joy and Peace as a focus for my life. Thinking of things I’m grateful for, the first thing that comes to mind is clear, fresh air. The smoke of the California fires is a distant memory as the hills around me look so close I could reach out and grab them. Brilliant blue sky again cover the high desert of Northwestern Nevada.

Little by little the neighborhood is coming alive. A new car in front of Mary’s house. Sam’s son and his children playing in the front yard. Ninja Neighbor planning for her company. Everyone waving just a little longer and smiling a little wider. It’s Thanksgiving, for goodness sakes.

As for Oliver and I, we’re Thankful for each other. Today, between attacks on the leaves, apples will be transformed into a non-Keto pie and cranberry’s will melt into sauce. Turning on some sappy Christmas movies that always make me cry, I plan to enjoy the beauty of Winterpast in the company of Thanksgiving love hidden deep in these walls. The essence of Howard and Wilde memories make my home such a comfort to me. I know Winterpast sighs in relief, knowing I feel the love of years past. Now, my happiness is woven into her timbers, as well.

Time to turn on the oven, and get busy. The days awastin’.

Have a beautiful Thanksgiving everyone. Thank you for your love and prayers. I feel them every day. Be Joyful! We are so very blessed.

Joy

On this beautiful day, take time to be thankful for everyone dear and special in your life. Take time to forgive those that need forgiving, and try to ignore those that don’t. Remember those that are on the other side of the heavens, watching over us. Take time for smiles and hugs today, because, we only get one chance each year to make a wonderful Thanksgiving memory.

The apple pie is finished. The kitchen awaits. Potatoes to be peeled. Salad to be chopped. Turkey to be roasted. Fresh rolls to be baked. The list is endless and the minutes are ticking away.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. I’ll be back on Monday.

Joy

A new photograph now hangs in my studio, providing a peaceful portal into which I can escape when words fail me. My studio (aka – 2nd bedroom, but Auntie TJ insisted it is my studio) is a delightful little space in which all my favorite possession hide. Books of poetry I wrote when I was a girl in the mid 1900’s, old hobbies, remnants of my teaching career, and now, this new photograph.

An 18″ x 24″ piece of framed canvas, it’s any Urban Cowboy’s dream scenario. Fitting that the picture isn’t corral-ed by a frame. The picture bleeds off the edges into possibilities. Eight gentled horses rest in a huge white fenced area, all enjoying their retirement. Not a pile of poop anywhere, these guys have hit the horse-y gold mine, locked away behind exclusive fencing. Pampered in every way, these aren’t the expensive race horses one might expect. They’re rescues, each with their own history and set of aches and pains. Each with a thousand reasons never to trust a man again. And yet, each with the knowing ability to help kids in need of therapy. We could all learn a thing or too about forgiveness from this herd.

Some might have given up on these horses and they could have gone to the auction house. If you know anything about horses, there’s a place that some go at the end of the line. When training has failed or the string of owners has run out, there is one last trailer ride to the end. The auction horses just disappear into a nothingness that no one questions or talks about. “Sold” to the highest bidder and off they go without a question. Another trailer ride, probably their last.

The photograph, perfectly balanced in color and perspective, hints of a freedom these horses might or might not have preferred. An expansive backdrop of unfenced hills miles beyond is a quiet reminder of a place meant for horses. Real horses. Their mustang friends. Just beyond that looms a landmark mountain around these parts, scared with telltale ski runs at 8,200 ft. My long ago Mt. Everest, when I pretended it could be.

In this photograph, the artists are the clouds and sun, changing the hills into different earthy shades of beautiful. The ever present jet stream carried them towards Big Sky Wyoming and a place perfect for equine dreams, and mine, as well.

A barn sits off to the side, and I smile. No comparison to my big falling down barn of long ago. The one my ancestors built in the early 1900’s. The one in my Auntie TJ scrawled her name in wet concrete when she was only a girl. The barn in which VST and I shared many quick kisses, or perhaps a heated argument over this or that. The barn where VST was startled by the owl that lived most days in quiet darkness, keeping the mice population to a minimum. The one that held our raisin crop safe from rain. The one holding ghostly voices of Jack, Joann, and all the kids, when they were ours. The one that was Once Upon A Time mine.

No, to this farmer girl, this barn fits perfectly in the picture. Freshly painted. Sterilized. Welcoming. Urban Appropriate.

This picture was gifted to me on Thanksgiving, 2021. A casual friend remind me what real friendship should emulate. A friend that hides somewhere in that personalized photograph on my wall, a step too far for me to reach.

Funny how some photographs can just pull you right to the edge of the canvas. This one has that kind of power. The horses that now live in my studio don’t need much care. No poop scooping or foot pick-ing. Groomed for the day, they’re just enjoying the sunshine, calm and fed. Frozen in time, they’ve no longer a care in the world.

I hope you have a calm-and-fed-not-a-care-in-the-world kind of day. For Oliver and I, leaf patrol continues. More tomorrow.

I don’t know that I’ve ever loved a home like Winterpast. She and I have this quiet little affair which started the day I found her nestled among others on Realtor.Com. I found her and did research to be sure I could pay the bills should I suddenly be alone. Although VST wasn’t yet ill, the next home could be the place where our lives changed. How little did I know. Planning for the future, I factored in many things. Square feet to vacuum. Kitchen cabinets to fill. Closet space. A room for everything. Single level. Then, I shared the MLS listing with VST. He saw the RV barn and it was a done deal.

VST was a man that had to be doing and going. Dunmovin was our current day Winchester House. Something was always in a state of rejuvenation with VST around. Now, my two industrial strength table saws, saw horses, drills, bits, and KregTool sit in the garage with all their friends. Tools I don’t know how to use or even identify lay as testament to the man I loved. I don’t open the drawers very often for the site makes me cry every time.

VST never actually lived here at Winterpast. It would have resulted in divorce or another move, (a huge remodel at the very least), for we both have large territorial footprints. For all she is, Winterpast wouldn’t have been big enough for two. At least not VST and me. But, for one desert gal, she’s just right.

This morning, waking slowly, I was thinking about the word HOME and what it means to different people. For the last two decades, home has meant a private space in which to say what I want to say, while doing whatever I want to do. To VST, home was a place for improvements before the vicissitudes of life would demand change or adjustment. VST didn’t live long enough to practice lazy. A true shame, because, as Auntie TJ taught me well, practicing lazy is an art.

Every morning, I look at an embroidery piece my mother completed in 1940, the year she married my father.

Of all the roads

Both East and West

The one that leads

To home is best.

Framed in a handmade oak frame treated with amber shellac, I remember this hanging in the bedroom hallway of my childhood home. A reminder of what home should be for the 19 years I lived there; it’s the one thing from my childhood home that made sense. I wanted my home to be THAT place for family and friends.

When VST was alive, home was wherever together was. It mattered not. On the beaches of the Central California Coast. Hunkered down during a tornado warning in Oklahoma. Under the big sky of Montana. Listening to buffalo speak in Wyoming. A full moon night on Waikiki Beach. Sawing, staining, and hammering decks late into the night. Home meant together.

Now, I’m learning home isn’t defined by another. It’s a feeling in your gut. You know when you find it. You know even more when you’re there. That’s home for me. And now, Home Means Nevada.

As a teacher, I would wait for the first day of summer. People hold this over our heads with disgust.

“But, YOU, have summers off.”

Well. True. Summer days are days off without pay. People forget that teachers are paid for X number of days per year. In my case, it was 185. Place those teaching days however you like, but 185 was the number multiplied by a daily rate. Yearly salaries are divided by 1/12th to provide a paycheck each month, just so educators don’t starve during the summer. I assure you, one is paid for a fixed number of days. Period. Having those unpaid days strung together was, indeed, something I waited for. Ever teacher needs time to decompress with time to enjoy their own private life.

Driving home on Day 185, I would repeat the same phrase over and over.

“The summer is rich with possibilities.”

The biggest certainty was that I could stay home for weeks on end, never leaving my little mountaintop. Rambling around the property, I could enjoy a mix of nesting, hobbies, gardening, polishing, reading, writing, thinking, and resting. VST would leave in the morning, looking dapper in his starched shirt, slacks, and tie. Shoes polished. Keys in one hand and a diet coke in the other, with a kiss and hug he was out the door. Sweet solitude at home has always been the happiest of places for me.

Some people go stir crazy in one place too long. Covid quarantine must be sheer torture for them. They get bored. Well, bored is another word for a lazy mind. Before television, computers, video games and other forms of artificial intelligence, there was the real thing. I could spend a day reading a well written book in which the words transported me into other worlds. Who hasn’t been engulfed in a novel you simply cannot stop reading? Just remember a certain trilogy that came out a few years back. Seems it had the entire female population reading into the wee hours of the morning.

My Winterpast knows things. She’s a wise house, understanding why some days, the curtains are better drawn than left open. I felt it the first time I entered her walls. There’s a spirit of kindness and knowing left behind just for me. It was my job to turn her into my home, while setting down roots in the gardens out back. Both accomplished.

Miss Firecracker and I were talking the other day. I was whining a bit, (Okay Miss Firecracker, A Lot), and she was sharing her wisdom. (Miss Firecracker, I depend on your wisdom and insight. Don’t forget that.) I hadn’t been clear on a few things I shared, making it seem I was unhappy with my choice of a dusty little wide spot in the road.

“Well, maybe this wasn’t the town for you. Maybe you should move.”

What? Impossible! Not happening! As for me, I’ve found my home. It’s here. Winterpast.

Home. Roots. Stability. Domestic security. Inner Peace. Healing. Happiness.

Winterpast is all those things to me. For now, she definitely qualifies as HOME. Perhaps the most truthful and gracious home I’ve ever loved.

Today is a day of writing, nesting, and quiet reflection. The leaves can wait another day. Of all the roads both East and West the one that leads to home is BEST. Saving on gas, I’m already here. Have a wonderful day.

A dusty little wide spot in the road. Many people gasp when I announce my home town. “Say, Where????”

“NOOOO!!!!!!!”

“There’s nothing but sand, sage, and snakes.”

“NO CULTURE?!?!?!”

Well, those are all reasons I love it here, minus the snakes, of course. There are drawbacks. I never know when I’ll need to shovel horse poop off my sidewalk or re-rake the brand new DG in the front yard to remove hoof prints.

There’s one thing that I’ve found in no other place I’ve lived. A hint of Wyoming. The biggest bluest sky. As a young farm girl from California, I read about fluffy clouds in the shape of dogs or dinosaurs. I could never quite understand, although I liked the concept. Central California has very boring sky, I can tell you that. In my experiences of over six decades, there are two types of sky there. Foggy or smoggy. The color never changes from a light grayish blue. No dimension other than flat which mirrors the contour of the land. Clouds and real weather are very, very rare. The sky is boringly static.

Winterpast changed my experience with clouds. The lush green grass of Summer 2021 was the perfect place to lay and watch the clouds passing by. I’m quite sure I saw VST and his golf clubs giving me a High-5 as he headed East on the jet stream. On most days above Winterpast, the color of blue sky will electrify the saddest day making it come alive with possibility.

Nevada sky isn’t the Big Sky of Wyoming which tugs at my heartstrings in dreams. I’m not so sure its memory won’t yank me back to live there for a summer or two, someday. Here, the high desert sky of Northwestern Nevada has a playful spirit. I can wake to the night sky extravaganza of a million stars as I grab a morning soak in the hot tub. Then, slowly, the clouds come out to play throughout the day. Big puffy ones, boiling and transforming into all kinds of shapes. More towards this time of year, the clouds turn into sassy little shards of white, as brittle as my heart on some days. Ice. Floating ice. The texture aloof and business like. Crisp and inelastic while moving East, the sky and clouds behave as two uninterested and masked strangers at the produce aisle during Covid.

These days, clouds bounce along their windy way, signaling conditions aloft. A pilot once explained information the different cloud formations held. Once aware, I could read a story about from where the clouds had come and to where they were headed. Another dimension of which many people are oblivious.

Being up there with the clouds. Who could ever, in any situation, walk away from flying without feeling profound loss? Health worries would dictate that for some. But, once I met a person that never shed a tear. Just took off his wings and went on his way for no real reason. There is very little in my life that has compared to flying.

Once, VST had to attend a meeting in Santa Barbara. Teaching 2nd Grade at the time, I couldn’t leave my littles. What to do? The owners of the company had requested my presence at a big weekend party, and frankly, so did VST. What to do? What to do?

A private jet was ordered just for me.

I remember the morning I drove to the airport while ignoring the parking lot for normal passengers. Continuing to the back lot, another world opened up. The company jet was waiting for me and me alone. A little red carpet was positioned right by the short set of steps. A cute uniformed pilot helped me with my bags and we were off. No TSA. No lines. No waiting for rows to be called. Just like that, I was in the air in my own private bubble. With no distractions, I migrated south like the birds. Having the ability to fly through the blue over a carpet of clouds is something from which I could never ever have walked away.

In Virginia City, The Dunmovin’ House had the most wonderful view that went on for hundreds of miles. There were the secret mountains that were only revealed in the winter after a snow. So far away, they were invisible with the least amount of pollution or smoke from fires. After a snow, they appeared, pristine and proud. But, that view was only in one direction. To the west sat the imposing base of Mt. Davidson, into which Dunmovin’ was built. The views to the West, North, and South were rock. So, in reality, we experienced no Big Sky there.

Big Sky exists where you can stop the car, get out, and a vast expanse of sky can be seen from an area of open land in any direction. The key here is OPEN LAND. In Central California, there is very little open land. Trust me on that one. Even though my childhood was spent in a sea of vineyards, totally flat by design, it didn’t qualify because every inch was developed. And besides, there is the grayish faded blue color going on there.

I first fell in love with Big Skies in the fall of 2010. The unexpected death of a close family member caused need of a road-trip to North Dakota. VST and I had just purchased a brand new nifty little Jetta. After ten days of travel, we took it to the dealer for its 5,000 mile service. The skies on that trip had me. If VST would’ve agreed, we would’ve moved then. Of course, responsibilities pulled us back home. The yearning for Big Sky never left my heart.

This week, the weather is unseasonably warm, almost irritatingly so. Add the sunshine and it’s still shorts-weather for another ten days. All to the good. I need to make some trips West before the snow curbs my activities a bit. It’ll be the perfect time for garage cleaning and leaf patrol while I put things in order for the next adventure just around the bend. This desert gal never knows what’s next. One must be prepared for anything around here.

To those of you deep in snow, don’t worry. I’ll get mine. Just not in the next ten days. More tomorrow.

Alphabet letters, vowels, and consonants formed into words, sentences, paragraphs, and books — spoken, lectured, signed, whispered, gossiped, written, and printed. From friendly advice to impassioned speeches and from dusty volumes to daily blogs, messages are sent and received with each sender trying to impart knowledge…. and wisdom.

Woven into human fabric is the desire to learn and understand. Our minds set us apart from animals, and we analyze, conceptualize, theorize, discuss, and debate everything from science to the supernatural. And we build schools, institutes, and universities where learned professors can teach us about the world and about life.

Knowledge is good, but there is a vast difference between “knowledge” (having the facts) and “wisdom” (applying those facts to life). We may amass knowledge, but without wisdom, our knowledge is useless. We must learn how to live out what we know.

_{Life Application Study Bible –Zondervan}

I wish there were more wise people in charge these days. Wisdom is a rarity. I certainly don’t find it on Channels 2 – 5094 on my Direct TV subscription. Pretty verbs and adjectives spun by gorgeous delivery-system ponytails in the skimpiest of outfits, only a minute old while clawing their way to the top of the television world. Blahblahblahblahblah. Most days, insulting to a human being that has actually lived in this old world for many decades.

A nice thing about living in the Wild West is that people here know a thing or two. They pay attention to nature and clue into signs of impending weather changes. They sense when someone is having a rough day and take time to give comfort where needed. People still know how to be neighbors that give a damn. For that reason, Winterpast is the perfect place for me to call home.

The other day, while making arrangements to lunch with an old city friend, I was questioned on whether I’d been Covid tested or would be before we had lunch. Such an odd question, I replied that I hadn’t been sick or been around anyone that was sick. No, I hadn’t been tested, nor would I be. The friend was rather shocked, leaving me the uncomfortable choice to avoid the lunch all together. I cancelled.

When did Covid become a risk when I have been in isolation for weeks and weeks already? Social distancing at church. Sanitizer. Gloves. Triple masks. Fear. Some studies have questioned whether those that are vaccinated are shedding viruses that endanger those that are not.

With such fear coming over the phone, I wondered why that would be? This person was already vaccinated? Shouldn’t I be the one trembling over my viral death sentence when sharing a simple lunch???? It was obvious that television intake of Crazy, Repetitive, Audio Particulars (CRAP) had over overcome all sensibility, while the virus was surely sneaking under the door.

Now a new more virulent strain is upon us. One in which symptoms are so mild, you may not even know you had it. Hmmmmm. I will take my chances with that one, as well.

Knowledge without wisdom is a terrible thing. Wisdom gained throughout life is something that knowledge can validate. Elders know a few things more valuable than those learned in the ivory towers of academia.

During the height of the polio scare, my parents were very careful to social distance with their girls. We had play dates with those children whose activities we knew. Families huddled together, playing safe distances from others. We all enjoyed fresh air, food, and water and avoided cities and congestion. Always, fresh air and sunshine were vital. Not only for their cleansing properties, but also to allow our bodies to make Vitamin D in just the right amounts needed for individual health.

Viruses, although very interesting, don’t pop out of nowhere. They need a living source to multiply. My town is sparsely populated, and located in the middle of the high desert plains of North Western Nevada. The winds howl, scrub brushing everything in their path. The sun bakes everything to a crisp. Have there been outbreaks here? Of course. Sadly, some groups have been hit rather hard. Medically vulnerable people need to be mindful that even a mask and social distancing are not enough. This is very real and deadly for some.

Staying tucked away within Winterpast, my chances of harboring the virus are slim to none. That being said, I could die tomorrow. This I can proclaim with 100% certainty. Sometime in the future, on a date unknown to me, I will die. When that occurs, home I’ll go, knowing the way.

I did share with my friend one important fact. We all have a responsibility to our own truths. Create a storm? Stand in your own rain. For me, there is no other choice in this matter. Please, find kindness in your heart when you meet others like me. Medical issues are private matters and not always found in black and white. Have a great day today! Practice kindness and find your joy.

A year ago, I experienced Devine Inspiration. Still basking in the new of Winterpast, something was missing. One thing that would make life as a Covid Recluse bearable. A hot tub. Call it a Spa. Call it a Jacuzzi. Call it heavenly, for sure. I needed a place to bubble my troubles away so I began to shop. Sticker shock set me back a little bit, as they had certainly gone up in price since the last time I bought one in 2007.

Fourteen years ago, with the patio view off my California mountain top home, I had surprised VST when I announced that I had found a spa. It didn’t take much arm twisting for delivery and installation to occur, leaving us with evening full of conversations and soaking.

This time would be different. This was a spa for me and me alone. An added expense on my power bill. Necessary chemicals. Bathing suits. Beach towels. Face it, a spa is a commitment you make only if you are SURE you will use it many times a week. I envisioned this happening, but then, soaking in a spa for one was a new proposition.

Looking around Reno, I found a few but there were issues with every one. Too big. Too small. Too few jets. Too many jets. Cheaply constructed. Poor company representation. It was then that a friend mentioned a Hot Tub and Swim Spa Extravaganza was coming to the local Convention Center in the Biggest Little City near me. Well, I’d just need to check that out.

The last day of the show, I found THE ONE. I already knew exactly what I was looking for. Seating for four. Me and three of my imaginary friends. Seats at different heights. One lounge. Wired 220 not plug-in 110. As many jets as I could possible afford. Pretty lighting. A nice and relaxing waterfall. Easy to clean filters. A cover. That was about it. Of course, all the warranty and service issues that a prudent buyer would expect.

There she sat on the showroom floor. Glistening. Waxed. Inviting. Sitting alone and empty, I went to her and got in to try out the lounge. I almost went into a trance. It fit like a glove. I had found THE ONE. Haggling a bit over the price, the salesman lowered it 12%, and I purchased a hot tub to be delivered at some unknown date. With Covid, it seemed everyone was ordering hot tubs, so this could take awhile. It did. About ten weeks to delivery.

In the last year, I’ve learned a lot about caring for my very own hot tub. The water in my little town is full of minerals that leave marks on the sides. Although not as shiny and pristine as her showroom sister, just under the cover bubbles water that is treated with the proper chemicals.

The spa man visited this week to repair a minor problem with the external corner of the tub. Just a minor problem. It fell off. Still under warranty, he quickly fixed it for me and then gave me tips on water care.

If you’re considering a spa, do consider the hidden cost of chemicals. This isn’t a minor budgetary knock, but a significant monthly charge of which the salesman doesn’t speak. There are necessary enzymes, chlorine, non-chlorine bio-shock, scum balls, and testing strips. Chemicals that make the pH go up and those that make the pH go down. Chemicals to remove metals and those that add fragrance. The list is endless. They take up a cupboard in my laundry room.

Then, there is the issue of swim suits. My Dale Evans conservative suit. My Sophia Loren non-conservative suit. Two long sleeved suits (which might as well be considered Chinese finger traps for the entire body. The more you struggle, the more impossible they are to get off when wet.) There are stripes and leopard print. Floral and black. When you are in and out of the spa during the day, it’s necessary to own a variety. Otherwise, the neighbors have more to speak of during their daily rounds of gossip. Heaven knows they have enough already when speaking of the Widow Ho.

Do consider location. Mine is steps from the laundry room door, providing just inches through which to slither out of the house, over the snow, and into nirvana. A warm place waits inside to drip, dry, and regroup after a long soak.

If you already have a spa, do keep up with water care. Your fellow soakers will appreciate it. Don’t forget to change out the scum balls once in awhile. Take that as you will.

Have a wonderful day today, whatever you do. For me, I’m off to the hot tub to catch the last of the desert sky extravaganza. Stay warm and well. More tomorrow.

This has been a quiet week in the high desert with not much to speak about. Well, Kelly put her knee out at church, and Simone’s recovery from her hip surgery is going well. Samantha is as busy as a one armed paper hanger cooking for the Baptist on Main Christmas Extravaganza dinner. My neighbors are in heavy competition for the best Christmas 2021 yard decorations. It hardly seems the same town as last year, when the entire population counted the days until 2020 was over and done.

Looking for a weekend adventure, I turned to the local “Busy As Bees Facebook Page”. I’m not sure about your town, but every upcoming activity is posted there. Having boycotted Facebook from its inception, VST and I never created pages. Private people, we decided that if someone needed to know, they’d need to call, and we stuck with that philosophy. There are very, very few people in this world that have.

Anyway, one of our city’s commissioners, who happens to be an acquaintance of mine, posted a nice little video on the town’s public site. Today’s the day. The biggest thing next to 4th of July, so I better make this quick. I need to decided on my attire for the day not wanting to miss a thing.

AT 7, a local service group is offering a $5 breakfast inside the firehouse. On so many levels, this doesn’t happen on the streets of many big cities in the US of A. But, in my little town, the fire station has many uses. On 9/11, it shades the public from the sun as We Remember. It houses gleaming rigs that children can still walk right up to while dreaming of the day they’ll be a fireman. We have the cutest firemen in the state by the way. I mean that in the strictest grandmotherly sense.

After the breakfast, there are several places in town in which local merchants are gathering to showcase their products. The boutique girls are offering hot cocoa or mimosa’s for your shopping pleasure. Late in the afternoon, the locals will roll through town in a Christmas parade. After that, the town tree will be lit. Rounding out the perfect day, BINGO will be offered at the Senior Center.

Next week, Baptist on Main is holding our 8th annual Christmas dinner plated and served by the youngsters of the church under the watchful eyes of the elders.

Tri Tip with special sauce.

Roasted potatoes

Roast carrots

Green salad

Freshly baked rolls

Too many deserts to list, including one Sugar-Free Apple Pie baked by my very own Germanic fingers.

Several women have volunteered to each decorate one Christmas Table. I need to decide the theme of mine. Having so many pretty things to use, it will be fun to share them with my church friends at such an beautiful affair.

I’ve already got the cutest little black dress to wear that night, along with new suede pumps that are on their way. To say I’m excited about my first Christmas with my new church friends is an understatement. I was led to this group of people, delightful in every way.

While attempting to describe my church friends to someone the other day, in disbelief, they looked at me as if I was delusional. In this day and age, it seems impossible there could be a kind, loving, and thoughtful group of like minded people that want to get together and spend time worshiping with a Mission Statement of:

Whatever it takes to know Jesus and to make Jesus known.

Just ordinary people trying to live their best lives quietly in our humble little town, while keeping prayer chains open for members that are under the weather or having a rough time. Everyone who enters the door is greeted with the same good energy. I’ve been observing this since April. I attend the choir practice before weekly bible study just to hear the beautiful old hymns a second time. I’ve listened to the Pastor as he wept about his experiences of almost losing his beloved wife just a month ago. There is nothing more real in my life than this place on Main Street. They don’t know a lot about me or Winterpast. They haven’t met Oliver. They don’t know whether I could give $1.00 or $10,000. We simply meet to praise God and learn the Word. Through that, we’ve become friends.

My town is the secret place people are wishing they could find. It heart is hidden well behind sandblasted buildings built in the mid-1900’s. Behind pot-holed streets that will never be fixed and tacky truck stops and casinos. But, all that doesn’t define the beauty of a town. My town has heart. I’m sure yours does, too. Look for your own town Christmas Tree lighting ceremony. With any luck its hours from right this minute. Go. Take some tissues. Be ready to sing some carols. Christmas is a most beautiful time of year.

I’ll be back Monday.

On December 21, the winter solstice will arrive. You’d hardly know it around here. The skies have been so blue, you’d think it could be a day in late spring, except for the trees. They’ve all gone to sleep for the winter. My bird families have moved on to warmer places. The mustangs haven’t put on their winter coats quite yet. It’s just been too warm.

Thinking back over the years, I’ve always had several projects going at once. Crafting. Two or three books on the nightstand, so that I had a choice of bedtime story. A few DYI’s going on. There was plenty to keep my mind alert and active. VST was the same way.

These, the last few days of my 65th year, I find things quiet. The studio is dark unless I’m writing. The garden shed is closed for the winter. Fall cleaning is all but finished. Christmas decorations are in place. There’s a big lull in the action. Whatever have I been choosing for MY busy? Not much. I’ve stopped to rest for a little bit, realizing that the road of healing is a long and windy one that continues far past the place in which you think you couldn’t possibly continue.

Yesterday, my busy was filled with church family. How fortunate I am to have chosen a quiet little 40 year old building on Main Street in which to pray. From the outside, you might not even notice it’s there. Sitting back from the road, a large cross glows on the front at night. A weathered sign displays a message changed every 14 days. Changing the quote was a job that I helped with when my friend had her hip surgery and couldn’t do it herself.

When Pastor C arrived yesterday, I busied myself with a request for my own baptism. 66 years ago, I was baptized inside a country church along another dusty little wide spot in the road. Surrounded in a sea of grape vines, my mom, dad, and three sisters carried me to a church built with the help of my Great Grandparents. There, the farming community prayed for my tiny little soul as drops of water were splashed on my bald head. A lot has happened in those 66 years.

Being a woman of faith, God led me to this church at the most devastating time in my life. Probably saw my choices of busy and thought, “I better give this woman a little nudge in the right direction.” Being healthy and able to participate much more than I’m currently doing, my little neighborhood, church, and sweet town could use some help these days. Kindness and selfless helping are a great way to keep me rolling on towards Happy Town.

Pastor C, with his twinkling eyes and unique style asked me some very pertinent but easy questions, and then explained the Christian ritual. Baptism is symbolic. It’s a way to show obedience, identification, and testimony. Although not a golden ticket to heaven, it’s a Christian tradition, ritual and sacrament of admission into the Christian Church. It’s the right choice for me.

At the end of the worship service, I was presented to the congregation as a worthy candidate for Holy Baptism. Standing there with the eyes of all my friends upon me, I saw the love of family as they all shouted “Glory” in unison. I’m not alone in this life, even though on some days, it feels that way.

The rest of my day was busy with the act of being peaceful. Without a need to race around finding things to occupy my mind, I felt a soft, quiet, thoughtful glow in my heart. Just being was enough busy yesterday.

Today is another story. Miss E is already baking up a storm for Saturday night and the Christmas Dinner of 2021. The women of the church are deciding on our table decorations. The church will open at 6PM for dinner. The teenagers are already counting their “bank”, looking forward to serving the elders of the church who tip very well. A hand delivered invitation has gone out to every single family in the church, visitor or member. The dinner will be a sit down, plated, All-You-Can-Eat-Home-Cooked-Dinner with an abundance of delicious food from a menu prepared for by Miss E and approved by the committee.

In a few days, I’ll be baptized by Pastor C before I turn another year older. What the next year will hold for me remains a mystery that is none of my concern today. On December 21, winter will officially arrive. The days will again start getting longer on the march towards spring and bud break. Another year with Oliver and Winterpast. My first year in new spiritual life. So many more stories to unfold.

Have a wonderful day today. More tomorrow.

After laying low, I’m off to the Biggest Little City just West of here. It’s been a minute since I’ve ventured anywhere farther than church. I’ve enjoyed the days of laziness, but there comes a time when everybody needs a little retail therapy. Today’s my day.

Lately, I’ve tried something new. If I need staples other than food, like ink cartridges or spa chemicals, I rely on Amazon. It’s amazing how many things you can get at the drop of a hat. Just yesterday, I ordered two complete surveillance cameras to watch my front door and garage. In this day and age, a girl can’t be too careful. Ordered yesterday, they’re arriving today.

Spa chemicals that are on short supply at our local hardware store are delivered, keeping my cupboard full of necessary water treatments. Dog food and toys. Beauty products. Hard to find DVD’s of movies from the 1900’s. Everything arrives in great condition, saving me endless trips to the store.

To make this work efficiently, one must have a mental inventory of items on hand. Then, when you are down to 3/4 of a bottle, order again. Brilliant.

My Costco shopping is an online experience, too. The last time I went to Costco, a person was run down by a car in the parking lot . People were using their carts as weapons. Everyone was on a mission to the grab the last thing on their list and race to Check-Out. All while risking THE VIRUS. I’m done with that monthly excursion. There is nothing I need more than the comfort of home these days. Nothing from Costco, anyway.

That being said, there are some things I do need to do before I buy something. I need to feel the silkiness of a beautiful nightgown before I choose the prettiest one. I need to see how the color of a blouse enhances the blue of my eyes. I need to smell the fragrance of an upscale lotion to smooth dry skin. I need to experience the good fit of some kicky little suede pumps for a special dinner out. I need to hear the laughter of two besties giving thumbs up or down for a bad-ass pair of jeans or the perfect rainy-day sweater. Those are things you can’t experience with Amazon, no matter how convenient they make shopping.

With my list in hand, I’ll enjoy the drive while dodging the big rigs on the Interstate. The road crews are waiting for the big storm to begin. Snow plows and mounds of sand are at the ready. On stormy days, the Interstate is the safest route because it’s the most groomed. First storms of the year are always a time that people forget to slow down. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of accidents until people remember that winter roads call for caution.

After shopping, the girls and I are planning to lunch at our favorite Mexican restaurant and get caught up on the news. Wish I had some earth shattering things to share with them, but I don’t. It’ll be like trying to think of new and wonderful things to share here. Somedays, the well is dry.

I’ll be taking some small vacations during the next four weeks. A friend in California needs some comfort. I need to go back to the San Joaquin Valley of Central California and touch base family and friends there. Christmas is a time to share real hugs with special people from the past. Oliver will be spending time with his friends at Puppy Camp. Planned months ago, he has a spot at the Inn and can’t wait to see his friends, too.

Have fun with whatever you choose to do today. Remember, Random Acts of Kindness cost nothing. A smile. A wave. A “Hello” that can lead you to a new friend. You just never know when your little bit of cheer might save the day for another. More tomorrow.

Happiness is a state of mind. It’s a healthy and safe garden in which I’m growing my new life. It flourishes in my heart with the help of CC, Da Girl, Ninja Neighbor, Teacher Girl, and all the friendship they so graciously share with me. I’m a lucky gardener grieving. _{Joy Hurt 12/2020}

So many great friendships have grown in the garden of my life over the last twelve months. Even though I have no biological family in the area, my family of friends have helped me stay focused on moving forward. No easy task, for sure. For those that have wandered in one door and out the other I have nothing but respect and thanks for lessons I have learned along the way.

With the happiest of memories, I think back to meals at The Tee Pee Bar and Grill with Miss Firecracker. I miss you so much. I think of the mischief we would be creating were you still living just a couple miles up the road. I haven’t been able to drive down your street to see your house. It would only remind me of the times I showed up in your driveway to pick you up for dinner. We’d start talking the minute the door of the Jeep opened and not stop until we returned to your house. You’re someone else’s neighbor now, but, you will always and forever be my Miss Firecracker.

Last year, I was facing my first Christmas here at Winterpast. We had chosen our little town because, of all the places in the surrounding area, this place was reported to get the least snow. I still laugh at that. Last year, at one point, I had at least five inches of snow covering my property. This year, as I await the first snow of the year, I wonder what the next twelve weeks will hold. Mild and meek weather, or blizzards and wild winds. I suspect a little of both.

Today, the sunshine has again come out to play. Sitting in the hot tub this afternoon, the back fence neighbor was busy hanging Christmas lights. The neighborhood dogs were out to play, barking up a storm. Walkers walked, while people scurried to the store to stock up for the last few items before the storm does blow in.

T and K, VST’s twins (who are no longer kids but adults) are planning to drop in for a quick visit on Friday. To spend the evening with them will be such a treat. We share a rare kind of love for VST. With each visit, I try to send home a little more of him through pictures and belongings. There aren’t many of his physical possessions left sitting around the house. A picture here, a gargoyle there. My most important possessions are 50 years of memories that lay deep within my heart. And, those, I’ll keep with me until I die.

While they are here, there are a few Fix It jobs I hope they can help with. Like, the HVAC filter. Why? Oh Why? Oh Why? The filter is placed on my vaulted ceiling at least 9 feet above the floor. At 5’5″ and 65 years old, the thought of tumbling off a ladder into the waiting complications of a broken neck, arm, or hip doesn’t sound appealing. Finding a good handyman is something on my list of things to do but not yet accomplished. Hopefully, we can get a few odd jobs handled while they visit.

Happy just to putt around today, I’m planning to shampoo some carpets. I need to run out and purchase the ingredients for the Best Sugar Free Apple Pie ever. T wants some award-winning clam chowder when they arrive. And just like that for an evening, Winterpast will be full of love and family, even if only for a few hours.

VST died his 65 year. From July 2019 until he died, he would comment on Speed Limit Signs. It bothered him when passing those that said “Speed Limit 65”. He would always point them out, almost as if they told him he wouldn’t pass 65. In reality, he never saw his 66th birthday. As I approach mine, I’m carrying him along for the ride. I can navigate the unchartered roads for us both. There are so many more things to see and do on my bucket list. He doesn’t weigh much now and can easily come along for the ride.

Yes. I’m happy. Although there are days when I need to fake it, most days, a genuine happiness nests in my heart. It isn’t dependent on things going just right, or a phone call to brighten my day. It just glows in my heart without doing anything at all. And for that, I am grateful beyond belief.

Have a wonderful day. More tomorrow.

Last night, after miles of driving and more shopping, it was again time for Wednesday night Bible Study at 6 PM. Class with Pastor C begins at 6 PM, however, choir practice starts at 5. With a tiny little group of 7, these dedicated men and women sing hymns of praise, bringing life to the the Worship Service on Sundays. To be able to hear them practice on Wednesday before Bible Study is a treat well worth going a little early.

During this time, I rest my brain and listen to the lyrics of the hymns. I think back to a little blonde girl sitting on hard wooden pews in the German church her Great Grandparents helped build. Not sure in what capacity they helped, but, everyone in the farming community did help in some way. The church is truly beautiful with stain glass windows and gorgeous woodwork. It’s odd how one little hymn at Baptist on Main can trigger instant tears linking my then with my now.

Last night, a dear sweet friend, Miss Butterfly (Miss B) came early, as well. She is lovely in every sense of the word. Sensitive and caring, she is battling something very complicated and horrible having limited memory of her past, either immediate or distant. Fully capable and in the present, she is aware of her difficulties. In spite of something so serious, she puts one foot in front of the other and carries on, finding ways to work through life. She is truly an amazing woman, being one of the strongest I have met in a very long time.

We’ve decided to be phone buddies and text each other morning and night. Two single women need to watch out for each other. Last night, she was troubled and tearful after an exceptionally trying day. When I misplace something I need or want, frustration can be overwhelming. But, it passes when the lost item is finally found. I can’t imagine going through this every minute of every day. Through our conversations, we both found a reason to smile and then even chuckle at things that get us so upset.

She was the first to point out that worrying about yesterday is just a waste of time anyway. Things have already happened that can’t be changed. Focusing on tomorrow is not so good either. Functioning in the moment. Now, that is truly what life is all about. What a lovely and insightful woman. She is a true friend, indeed.

Another sweet friend came to join us, troubled in her own right. With a very ill and stubborn family member at home, she came needing a healing last night. Another favorite friend, she is desert gal strong. When I think of everything these two women face each and every day, I need to count my blessings. I’m sure my days of troubles are on the horizon. For every day without heartache, we all need to rejoice and be thankful.

In the middle of our conversation, we were asked to quiet ourselves. The choir had stopped practicing. It was time to have serious prayer at the alter for two church members facing some pretty significant health challenges. With a handful of people present, the most beautiful group prayer began. The evening light was just so, and the presence of the Holy Spirit WAS the room. Each person in the small choir said their own personal prayer. God surely heard us last night, in the very quiet and early hours of the evening on the alter at the little church on Main. May his Mercy shine upon us all.

The hour of teaching about Proverbs fly by. Pastor C talked about ways in which people can be spiritually lost. I saw myself in each example, but also know I was found when I first walked into this little church, rich with an extraordinary group of Believers.

Today, focus returns to preparations. There is clam chowder simmer and an apple pie to bake. Carpets to vacuum and dust to wipe. All this while the first storm of the year is here. No snow. Yet. Will it be a White Christmas? That remains to be seen.

Remember to enjoy the moment, for it is truly all we have. Have a wonderful day. More tomorrow.

Getting an earlier than usual start this morning, I’ve much to do today. Everything must be in tip top shape, because T and K are arriving around noon. I haven’t told Oliver yet, but he knows something is up. Snow fell for the first time yesterday leaving my little town looking festive, nestled under the surrounding mountains.

With clam chowder in the crock pot, I’m going to the beauty salon this morning for a trial run. I’m getting eyelashes. Not sure how this will turn out. I’m not going for the heavy, black gypsy look. Just something that looks natural. If your old like me, life can strip away natural lashes little by little. This morning I’ll find out whether this was one of my better ideas or not. I don’t know anyone else who has been crazy enough to do this, so stay tuned. It may be another “Lucy” idea.

Somewhere today, I need to bake a Sugar-Free Apple Pie. Trying to eliminate sugar anywhere I can, I often bake with Splenda. So far, every substitution I’ve tried has been delicious, so this will be a new one. Just a simple apple pie recipe using Granny Smith apples.

My grandmother’s apple pies are where I set my bar. It would be wonderful if I could pop back in time and walk out to her big old apple tree to pick 8 for my pie. From that tree, I would need only 4. My grandparents would laugh at the size of the apples, some approaching dinner plate size. No pre-cooking was necessary, because the apples baked down to a warm and gooey mixture of cinnamon, butter, cream, and yummy-ness, all wrapped up in a perfectly browned crust.

These pies would just appear in the summer, warm and fragrant. Grammie made it seem like it was nothing at all. I wish it were that effortless. Making a butter crust isn’t all that easy. And, then, there’s the mess afterwards. But, today, that’s on the list.

T and K want to visit Pastor C’s gun store to do a little Christmas shopping. I have lots of little fix-it projects for T while K and I visit. Our time together is such a blessing.

Tomorrow, I’ve dedicated the day to helping at the church. I can’t wait for the 8th Annual Christmas Dinner tomorrow night. With any luck at all, I’ll have some time to rest before arriving at 4 PM to help Miss E. I’m planning to stay until the last crumb is swept up in preparation for Sunday services and my Baptism.

Life is one giant blessing. At this special time of year, be sure to remember why we celebrate. Practice the TRUE meaning of Christmas. Help out where you can. Be kind. Smile. Sing some Christmas carols. Make a snow man. Hug someone special. Enjoy being alive.

I’ll be back Monday. Until then, stay safe and have a wonderful weekend.

Oh My. How is it that the craziest things can happen at the worst possible time? Growing up, it would involve plumbing issues during a holiday event. During harvest, a broken sprocket on the raisin-shaking equipment. A burst pipe on the spray rig when the mites were sucking our vines dry. Things just happen when you least expect them.

T and K came to visit on Friday. This is on the top of the list of the BEST POSSIBLE THINGS IN MY WORLD. They always come in with smiles and hugs, and then, we start talking just where we left off as if we live next door and visit every day. Being VST’s twins, they share and reflect all the very best parts of him. I am so blessed that they love me enough to come for visits. I’m relieved when they seem to approve of how things look around Winterpast.

In the afternoon, T went into Mr. Fix-It Mode and was helping with many little jobs around the house. The HVAC filter got changed. Security cameras were installed. And then, there was the issue of the Jeep air filter. I had just bought a replacement, and wasn’t sure where or how to install it. We were in the garage, doing this and that when it happened.

I’d been on one side of the Jeep, while he was at the workbench. Going to find something we were looking for, I miscalculated my route and ran into the bumper of the Jeep. No just a small collision. I was moving at a pretty good clip. Upon impact, there was a audible thud, and then, pain. LOTS. OF. PAIN.

Now. You must envision just WHO these two are. Sports minded, body conscious, nimble 45 year old people who can dodge incoming balls of any kind. They can jump and make baskets. Run without tripping on their feet. Very agile. Even K, with her bionic parts does not run into objects of any kind, let alone something as big and imposing as a parked Jeep.

Trying not to do anything more stupid, I immediately went to get my ice pack, ready and waiting for instances like this. On the couch, I just kept thinking, “Why today? Why today? Why today?” I do have one of VST’s canes left. I considered whether or not I would need it, further pushing me down the road to old.

T and K were kind. They were supportive. But, really? I wouldn’t blame them for considering this another step on the road to “THE HOME”. Days later, the leg is not working as the other. The bruised thigh bone is “talkin’ to me”, as VST would say about his aches and pains. A reminder that I’m not an observant walker, let alone a sports person.

The day continued with homemade Clam Chowder for dinner. By 8:30, we were all dragging, and decided to turn it. It was then the second disaster of the day occurred. Living alone, I ordered a “FALL AND CALL” system. If I FALL, it automatically CALLS the world with the push of a button. There are shower, pendent, and watch buttons. Buttons on the mother-ship unit that sits in the kitchen. Plenty of buttons in case one has a need to push them. Living alone, its a good device to have.

Never have I set the unit off accidentally. Never. In fact, having owned the unit for 1.5 years now, I don’t often even look at the pendent that hangs on my light. Never have I bumped the shower button. Racing around the kitchen, I haven’t accidentally hit the mother-ship. No. Not something that happens around here, until Friday night.

I was getting into bed, ready to fall asleep. The covers were just so. Pillows fluffed. Oliver was snoring in his kennel. I reached for the light. Somehow, some way, I hit the pendent just right. All of a sudden, the tiniest little ding began.

A tinkling little ding,ding,ding,ding……..

Then, I hear it.

FALL DETECTED. AMBULANCE ON THE WAY. FALL DETECTED. AMBULANCE ON THE WAY. WARNING. WARNING. WARNING………….. It wouldn’t stop.

Now, I’d just had the leg incident. I was in my bedroom with the door closed. I needed to get my pajamas on before I could race to the kitchen to figure out how to stop the message.

T, just settling into a nights sleep, heard me calling for him to help turn off the machine. He thought I’d fallen in the bathroom. He started yelling for K, who was happily settling down in the guest room. I yelled to Tim, to try to stop the ambulance from showing up. Tim was not coming in the bedroom, worried that I was in some state of dispair and undress that he didn’t want to see. In the meantime the device had already left a message for CC, over in California that something was amiss.

Finally decent, I raced to the unit to find there is NO cancel button.

FALL DETECTED. AMBULANCE ON THE WAY. FALL DETECTED. AMBULANCE ON THE WAY. WARNING. WARNING. WARNING…. It kept on for what seemed an eternity.

K to the rescue, just held down a button until a real voice answered, allowing me to tell her that it was a false alarm. It just wasn’t the way I wanted Friday to end.

I really love my life here at Winterpast. I love my independence and the fact that I don’t injure myself very often, except maybe when tripping over a dog bed or running into my Jeep bumper. I realize these are two check marks on T and K’s list for reasons to carefully consider a possible need for a move to “THE HOME”.

Since they left, nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Functioning normally, I’ll save up my outrageous antics for the next version on “Geriatric Blunders With The Kids (Who Aren’t Kids But Adults). My leg still hurts like hell, not helping my bruised pride to feel any better.

Be careful. Injuries can occur when you least expect it. By the way, as an elderly person living alone, you might want to re-read the instructions for turning off your “Fall and Call” machine. You just never know when this could happen to you. With a gimp and a limp, I send you good thoughts for a happy today. More tomorrow.

These days, there are online instructions for everything. How to change out a faucet, bake bread, train the dog, and even, guidelines for figuring out Love Languages. If you haven’t ever looked up that last one, you might consider it. Miscommunications in relationships can occur if you speak a different love language than your partner, friends, and family.

Information about Love Languages isn’t a new concept. I remember hearing a lot about it in the 1900’s. VST and I were a match with our LL’s, speaking the same dialect. Through the years, spending quality time together was our thing. I would’ve chosen time with VST while working on the worst farming project over anything or anyone else in the world. We were just matched that way. It helped in retirement, then finding ourselves together 24/7.

A co-worker found this confusing. In her opinion, VST could die, and I’d be left with no bosom-buddies. At that time, all of them enjoyed after-work activities while VST and I worked the farm together. It wasn’t really a choice. Farm work needs to be done whether it was 5 AM or 5 PM. That I could be happy spending time working with VST was a mystery to the group.

Now, he surely is gone and she turned out to be correct. There are many, many lonely days when I wish I had a gaggle of girlfriends with which to play. Slowly, I’m making a group. One thing is for sure. I would NEVER EVER trade the memories I made with VST for memories made with girlfriends.

There are five basic Love Languages. Christmas is a great time to research these, wanting to find the perfect gift for your someone special. In the early years, VST and I would wrap up gifts we thought would amaze. Usually we ended up spending a day after Christmas in the return line, our feelings a little bruised from the experience.

Finally, we decided that we’d make Christmas shopping a tandem event, selecting gifts while spending time together. Shopping for ourselves and each other on Christmas Eve morning, it was time to talk, laugh, and relax. Becoming our tradition over the years, it was those morning hours together that I remember now. I’d be hard pressed to tell you what we bought, but, I can remember the fun we had shopping together in empty stores because most of the town’s folk were already done. For both of us, Quality Time was our number one Language of Love. Receiving Gifts ranked last.

The following are the Five Languages of Love.

1. Words of Affirmation.
2. Quality time.
3. Receiving Gifts.
4. Acts of Service.
5. Physical Touch.

There are online quizzes one can take to discover in what order of importance they are for you. If you’re lucky enough to have a special someone, have them take the quiz too, while finding out how you compare. In the end, when everything else is said and done, beautiful memories are left with loved-ones when death comes. VST left enough wonderful memories to last until my forever ends.

This Christmas, think about giving a special memory to those you love the best. Plan an unexpected activity. Sing Christmas Carols. Go play in the snow or take a walk on the beach. Cook a special meal together, or just take a nice walk and talk about life. Making memories will never go out of style or be returned because it’s the wrong size.

For the next few days, I’ll be transforming into someone one a year older. Meeting up with friends, we’ll share meals full of fascinating conversation. Somewhere along the line, I’ll grab a piece of birthday cake and remember all the wonderful parts of being 65. 66 is ripe with possibilities of adventure. I can hardly wait to get started.

Have fun with whatever your week holds. I’ll check back on Monday to report on the happenings from my dusty little town in the middle of a wide spot in the road nestled on the high desert plains of Northern Nevada. Until then, make some new holiday traditions and don’t forget to enjoy the old ones !! Joy

On December 12, 2020, I gave testimony of my faith in a tiny little baptistery hidden behind four walls off Main Street on a wide spot on the road in the Northwestern Nevada desert. One of the most beautiful moments of life, I’ll remember it the rest of my days.

VST died during his 65 year. As if he knew he would never see 66, speed limit signs would always grab his attention. Don’t Pass 65. He’d comment on the signs often, almost as a warning that he wouldn’t make it, and he did not.

For the last six months, I’ve been attending Baptist on Main while falling in love with my church family. Such a caring group of people, I’ve witnessed prayer at work. There has been one inexplicable healing of a friend who has suffered from broken vertebrate for the last two years. Some would say time healed her. I believe it was God. Her pain was debilitating and constant. One day, she accepted a full and total healing from GOD. Whatever you choose to believe is fine by me. I believe in the power of God’s mercy and grace watching her broad smile as she comes to church, now pain free. A miracle in my eyes, she no longer wears her cumbersome brace. A testament to her faith and the miracle of prayer.

As I became a part of this circle of believers, their prayers for me were heartfelt. As the weeks passed, the fact that I was baptized as an infant in another little country church far away wasn’t quite enough for me. I made a conscious choice to become baptized as an adult.

Pastor C and I are friends. I look to him for answers as I travel through the confusing wilderness of widowhood. Prayers are a comfort while walking a widow’s journey through loss towards acceptance. Testimony about his wife’s recent illness and the miracle their family received is a beautiful story of strength, determination, and God’s grace. Although their struggle through illness is still very real and raw, her health is returning a little at a time, along with her smile. His strength and support to his church family during his own dark days is remarkable.

One day before Bible Study, on a bright, blue sky morning, I asked Pastor C if he would baptize me before my church family. We talked for a little bit and he agreed. He offered to baptize me on Christmas Eve by candlelight. Something about taking away the spotlight and meaning of the candlelight Christmas communion didn’t see right. Besides, I wanted to be baptized during my 65th year. December 24th would be eight days too late.

Baptism represents death, burial, and rebirth. Doing this during my 65 year was another part of healing. Each year, between July and December, I was two years younger than VST. It just bugged him. I would enjoy those days immensely, teasing him until December 16th rolled around. Now, I’m officially older than VST. He must be chuckling in heaven about that. I wanted my Baptism to be on my 65th year as a special shout out to heaven, and so, December 12th was the chosen date.

The week before, Pastor C teased me promising to hold me down a bit too long while making sure the temperature of the water was as cold as the grave. In my mind, I was thinking about what to wear in front of a room full of onlookers. Just what does one wear to a Southern Baptist Baptism when you are the center of attention? Someone had mentioned a bathing suit, but that seemed all too revealing.

It finally came to me. In the winter, I wear black long-sleeved turtlenecks under everything, adding additional warmth. I’d choose one of those and grey cotton shorts. Perfect for me.

The morning of the 12th, the chapel was pretty full. Visitors had chosen the day to see what Baptist on Main was about. Strangers and friendly faces watched as I went behind the door marked “Office” to change with help from Miss Willow. Alone, I slipped into the turtleneck and shorts, ready to climb some very steep steps up to the baptismal pool.

Entering the water, it was neither cold nor warm. Freshly drawn during Bible Study, the font sits in front of a stunning mural of a local lake. The bottom of the font isn’t visible from the chapel side, giving the impression that one is just sitting in water by the lake. When immersed, the person being baptized is visible to the church members through a window in the side of the baptistry as they go underwater. While I sat on a little seat built into the baptistery, Pastor C stood behind it, quite dry.

Although the entire event took less than a minute, it seemed like a lifetime to me. Pastor C prayed over me and then, quickly, I was under the water and raised back out. As I looked out into a sea of my new family, I was glad I was wet. Only Pastor C could tell my tears were mixed with the water in the baptistery. Just like that, I was baptized. Just like that, I became a new member of OUR church.

Quick as a cricket and down the steep stairs, I dried off in the office as Pastor C went on with his Sunday sermon. Wet headed, I rejoined the worship service so glad that I’d chosen this ceremony to publicly declare my acceptance of Jesus as my Lord and Savior. Somedays, Faith is all I have to help guide me through the wilderness of widowhood. Belonging to this little parish is another way I’m sinking roots into my desert home. It’s here I’ve belonged all along.

Back with the flock, the service ended. A friend asked if I’d join her for lunch at the local diner. Two others joined us and we had a delightful meal. Friends make life worth living. Returning home, chores were all still waiting, but so was a chance for a nap. Dying, being buried, and rising again is tough work, even if only symbolic.

That’s my story. Such a beautiful memory, mine alone. A day I’ll never forget.

Have a wonderful day today, whatever you choose to do. Fill it with happiness.

More tomorrow.

Sunday past, the last full moon of 2021 shone brightly. Known as the Cold Moon, this full moon hangs longer in the sky than others. Rising just days before the Winter Solstice and the shortest day of the year, the high desert Cold Moon shone brightly on the horizon as I waited in the parking lot on main for Sunday evening bible study.. My heart felt just like this Cold Moon, rather lonely up there in the heavens.

The winter and summer solstice refer to the shortest and longest days of the year while the spring and autumn equinoxes fall on days with the same amount of day and night hours. For me, the winter solstice is when I say Goodbye to my favorite time of year, while marching towards the longer days of spring. For me, it’s the long winter nights that are a big trying.

Through the next three months, the trees of Winterpast will continue to sleep deeply. Although they shudder in the high desert winds, any other sign of life is gone. Outlined with snowflakes at times, the back yard takes on a different beauty. On full moon nights, the outlines of the trees make a ghostly appearance through my bedroom blinds. Eerie shadows cause me to turn away as I fall asleep.

Yesterday, I experienced a magical event that made me think I’d lost my mind. Pogonip. Venturing out to visit a friend, when walking through her yard, the air was sparkling with floating glitter. So beautiful, I had to stop. Truly, I thought I had lost my ever-lovin’ mind. The faintest sparkles were hanging in the air like tiny diamonds, while swirling this way and that. I didn’t mention it until a little while after I arrived. No. It was real. It’s called pogonip, or freezing fog. I normally hate fog, but the next time this occurs, I’ll photograph it if I can. It was magical.

These long days of winter give me plenty of time to think and write. No excuses of broken sprinkler systems or grass that needs mowing to distract me . There is just Oliver, me, and the computer. Time for everything restful and quiet, with plenty of time to dig deeper into treasures hidden deep in my soul. Just like the trees outside, I need the darkness as much as the light.

That being said, there are those things that go thump in the night giving one cause for pause. The other night, I was chatting with CC about all the latest happenings here in the high desert when there was an alarming noise from outside. Not a thud. Not a slide. Not a bang or a snap. A dull noise made by something very, very big. Alarmed, I stopped the conversation and listened for a bit, finally writing off the event to something I thought I heard. It couldn’t have been real. I decided I was imagining things.

A few nights went by, with quiet being the signature sound coming from my neighborhood. It is so quiet, either in the day or night, that I can hear my heart beat in the silence. Rarely do I hear a stray voice or the sound of a hedge trimmer or hammer. Just silence. I’m often awakened in the night by the far away sounds of a lonely train zipping through town or Jake Brakes on the interstate. Once in awhile, a stray Top Gun jet might fly over on its way to home base, or a life flight helicopter racing someone to the hospital in the next town over. No barking dogs or bickering neighbors. Just peace and quiet.

Stray noises of the unusual kind do stand out, and sure enough, on that very dark night there was something very large right outside my bedroom window. Moving about, it was enough of sound that I grabbed the flashlight to find out, once and for all, what would be making this noise on my property, right next to my bedroom window.

After turning on my extremely bright porch lights while Oliver barked loudly, I proceeded outside, turning left to walk in front of my studio window. In the total darkness of night I saw nothing, which made me hold the Mag Flashlight as a weapon. Whatever was there would receive a bit of a headache if an attack occurred.

It was then that not just one but two mustangs came around the corner of my house. But of course!!! The Mustangs.!!! The corner of my fence and house make the perfect manger/windbreak. Relieved it wasn’t someone wanting to do me harm, I backed away, encouraging them to move on down the road. The quiet clippity-clop of their hooves on the blacktop fit the night as they disappeared into the darkness. They would need to find another place to shelter for the night. No room at Winterpast.

How lucky I am to enjoy Winter in a place so safe that I can go into the night to investigate a noise. What a blessing to live with majestic animals like the mustangs that choose us as their neighbors. Although I’m pretty sure I heard them grumbling as they left, I hope there were no hard feelings. They’ll be back soon.

Winter holds time to think and redirect. Time to envision new garden plans. Time for soup and yummy hot dishes. Time to sleep a little later in the morning and turn in a little earlier each evening. Time to cuddle with photo albums and smile at the happy memories made so long ago. Time to hope for new memories yet made and new friendships yet to be discovered. Winter is the loveliest of seasons.

Enjoy Winter’s first day. Have fun finishing your preparations for Christmas celebrations. Take the time to contact friends you haven’t talked to for awhile. Remember to stay warm and safe. More tomorrow.

In these crazy times, it’s so hard to find a balance of truth and quiet. At every turn, the news media is forcing their narrative down our throats. Everyone wants our attention. Advertisements sell their idea of the perfect traditions, families, and thoughts. Drink this and feel better. Wear this while looking fit and trim. Come to our store for the best deals. I’ve found an answer to the noise. I simply turn the television to “OFF”..

Once upon a time, I had a television in every single room. All flat screens, neat and tidy, with their little control boxes at the ready. Hooked up to the latest cable companies, VST and I were slaves to the latest shows and the oldest reruns. A TV was always playing somewhere, while we seldom chose silence as a better option.

Sad to think of all the conversations in this world not happening because people are glued to the boob-tube. If you are old enough to understand that phrase, you know. For the youngers in my beautiful group of readers, a “boob” is another word for a foolish person. Televisions used to be run using cathode ray tubes. Television cabinets were actually pieces of very large furniture that housed all these tubes. Television repair shops sold a variety of replacement tubes. When one of your tubes burned out, a repair man could fix it and you’d be watching TV again.

The first television I remember was a thing of beauty. It sat in the family room, and we all gathered around to watch the grainy test pattern when we first got it. Just a greyscale pattern on the screen. Programing was limited to certain hours. Every morning, while eating breakfast before school, the first thing that played was the National Anthem, while the American flag was shown. It was a lovely way to start the day. The second thing was the daily news, which was actually good and bad news. Some stations did the same thing at sign off, when television stations actually stopped broadcasting for the night. In our town, for years, there were three stations. Not 303. Just three.

Before television, undistracted hours were filled with cards, board games, reading, and local gossip. Children had to make up games for entertainment outside in nature. Go figure. It was delightful to be sucked up into the beautiful world of the farm, always finding something fascinating to capture our attention. Oh, for one more day to find a horned toad in the powdery dust behind Dad’s shop, or a covey of quail to scare into flight.

These days, I find silence beautiful. Focusing on my own thoughts more clearly, I can decide what options make sense in my life, following the path that’s right for me. On a phone call over the weekend, a friend phoned to ask if I had seen the latest on the new virus. Actually, I hadn’t. Funny, my day was just great without knowing a thing about this new variant, which I fear no more than all the others before it.

“It’s so DANGEROUS! It’s AWFUL. YOU need to BLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH.”

What? I need to what? Wear three masks? Hibernate? Take three, no four, no sixteen shots? I need to shelter in place? And quiver? Cease to live? Cover Winterpast in plastic wrap? I’m sorry. Not happening. All this conversation with someone that KNEW the vaccine isn’t something I’m medically able to take. Very insensitive.

Since April 8th, 2020, I have been choosing the best course for me. I’ve stayed at hotels and eaten out many times each week. I’ve even traveled. It’s called LIFE. I’d have lost out on my search to find happiness if I’d quivered in place. I’ve no plans to start quivering now.

For me, my plan of action is already in place. I’m fully mindful of the virus and ready to care for myself should I become ill. The same as in any other flu season, I’ve purchased all the supplies necessary to care for myself should I become ill. In this, the season of hysteria, there is one other decision I had to make. Should I become ill, I’ll ride out the storm accepting the consequences. I don’t expect anyone else to step in and save me. I’ll do my best and accept the outcome. Pretty simple. My personal and authentic plan, because, in my case, I have no other choice.

True friends enjoy dialogue and do their best to understand personal choices different from their own. Medical decisions used to be personal, between doctor and patient. Not something discussed and judged by casual acquaintances. Those were happier times, indeed.

Mindfulness is the basic human ability to be fully present, aware of where we are and what we’re doing, while not becoming overly reactive or overwhelmed by what’s going on around us. In my solitary little world, mindfulness is all I have.

The other day, I was sharing lunch with a new friend. After a delightful meal and conversation, we were leaving the restaurant when I put my glasses into my fanny pack.

“You DO know, fanny packs are terribly out of date, right?”

Well! Shiver me timbers. Consider me informed!!!!!

Funny, coming from a man who hadn’t shown much fashion forwardness up to this point. Even funnier considering the multitude of FP (Fanny Pack) choices available on Amazon. Someone, somewhere finds them useful. I guess I haven’t watched TV with the dictates for the latest and greatest purses for 2021. FP’s are a wonderful invention. Leaving both arms free, one can forget about the cumbersome aspects of a purse. Limiting the amount I can carry around by the small size, I find the FP one of the wonders of the world. I could really care less about the fashion relevance of my choice of purses.

Another great thing about the FP is that all possessions are attached to my body. As an easily distractible single woman, I won’t be leaving my purse on a counter somewhere when focusing on a cute associate. It could happen unless I’m fully prepared. Besides, it’s fun to be retro and out of step with the “NORM”.

So many preferences in my life are really not up for discussion. Certainly not up for the scrutiny of fashion police. I, for one, am starting the return of a fashion trend. Or not. Those of you that know me, know this is my truth.

By staying Mindful in a Mindless world, we can be our authentic selves with unique and individual opinions. I always find it refreshing to meet people that are following their own mindful preferences without giving too much thought to things dictated by present culture. An authentic mind is a precious and wonderful thing to behold.

Be brave today. Bold. Think of things that have gone by the wayside because of social dictates. Do something today because you love doing it. Not because it is expected, required, or prohibited. Choose to do YOU. That’s an important part of self love and we all need a dose of that every day.

Have a wonderful time counting down the days until Christmas. Enjoy something fun. Remember, it really doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. Set your own trends. More tomorrow.

‘Twas two nights before Christmas, sparklin’ tree in my home,

As I sat in the hot tub, wishing for Shalom.

One stocking was hung by the chimney with care,

Sewn by me, when two small boys were still there.

Oliver nestled asleep in his crate,

Dreamin’ of doggie treats and how they’d taste great.

Later watching old movies, my nest feelin’ just right

I’d just snoozed off for restful sleep in the night

When my cell phone did rumble and ding with a clatter

From my Bestie, CC, checking on what was the matter.

I told her through words I was surely okay,

She promised to check in the very next day.

With the Christmas Star shining, what could make me so blue?

Two years you’ve been reading, widow’s grief’s struck anew

Again, with a movie my focus, trying to relax,

The cell phone complained, the quiet now cracked.

Just Sweet Daughter checking from so far away.

Always knowing how to read me, and just what to say.

“Things will be brighter, just remember the good.

Sleep well, time will heal your heart, it should.”

Hope, Faith, and Trust, I depend on tonight.

Santa is great, but these three do delight

My soul although weary, battered, and blue

Has Hope for tomorrow, and Faith comes anew.

When the phone complained again, just once more for good measure,

A new friend checked in. One more that I treasure.

Company tomorrow? Dinner brought to Miss Lazy?

“Can you check tomorrow?”

Wait…..

What???????

Am I crazy?????

After a night’s sleeping, I’m not near as grumpy,

Not feeling so blue and down in the dumpy.

Today will be one to get Christmas just right

With Hope, Faith, and Love, my spirit takes flight.

Down with the sadness, self pity, and blues.

Up with Carols, treats, and friendships true.

Thanks CC, Thanks Miss Firecracker, both of you know

When troubled about life, to you I go.

Thanks Daughter, TJ, and Cambria Goddess, too,

What would I do without my Christmas angels, You?????

Heart smiling, I’ll enjoy a great dinner tonight.

Christmas Eve and Day will be just right.

So Dash Away, Dash Away, Dash Away all.

Off to the grocery store, down to the mall.

Finish the wrapping with ribbons and bows,

With love for each other, happiness grows.

I send you this, My Christmas wish true,

Merry Christmas, Dear Friends, with love to you.

Thank you for finding interest in my writing while helping me get through my second Christmas as a widow. Your steady love, friendship, and prayers are helping me grow stronger every day.

Merry Christmas to you all. Joy

_{by Placide Cappeau in 1843, translated by John Sullivan Dwight in 1947}

Oh Holy Night! The stars are brightly shining

It is the night of our dear Savior’s Birth

Long lay the world in sin and error pining

“Til he appears and the soul felt its worth

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn

Fall on your knees; O hear the Angel voices!

O night Devine, O night when Christ was born

O night, O Holy Night, O Night Devine.

Led by the light of Faith serenely beaming

With glowing hears by His cradle we stand

So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming

Here come the Wise Men from Orient land

The King of Kinds lay thus in lowly manger

In all our trials born to be our friend

He knows our needs, to our weakness is no stranger

Behold your King; before Him lowly bend

Behold your King; before Him lowly bend

Truly He taught us to love one another:

His law is love and His Gospel is Peace

Chains shall he break, for the slave is our brother

And in His name, all oppression shall cease

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we

Let all within us Praise His Holy Name

Christ is the Lord; O Praise His Name Forever!

His power and glory evermore proclaim

His power and glory evermore proclaim.

Merry Christmas everyone!! Have a wonderful day.

Joy

_{By Charles Wesley, 1739}

Hark! The herald angels sing,

“Glory to the newborn King;

Peace on earth, and mercy mild,

God and sinners reconciled!”

Joyful all ye nations rise,

Join the triumph of the skies;

With th’angelic host proclaim,

“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”

Hark! The herald angels sing.

“Glory to the newborn King!”

Christ , by highest Heav’n adored;

Christ the ever lasting Lord;

Late in time, behold Him come

Offspring of a virgin’s womb.

Veiled in flesh the Godhead see;

Hail th’incarnate Deity,

Pleased with us in flesh to dwell,

Jesus, our Emmanuel.

Hail the heav’nly Prince of Peace!

Hail the Son of Righteousness!

Light and life to all He brings,

Ris’n with healing in His wings.

Mild He lays His glory by,

Born that man no more may die;

Born to raise the sons of earth,

Born to give them second birth.

Come, Desire of nations, come,

Fix in us Thy humble home;

Rise, the woman’s conqu’ring Seed,

Bruise in us the serpent’s head.

Now display thy saving pow’r

Ruined nature now restore;

Now in mystic union join

Thine to ours, and ours to Thine.

Adam’s likeness, Lord, efface

Stamp Thine image in its place;

Second Adam from above,

Reinstate us in Thy love.

Let us Thee, though lost regain,

Thee, the Life, the inner man:

Oh, to all Thyself impart

Formed in each believing heart.

Merry Christmas, Joy

December 26th. My, Oh My. It seems all year we wait for December 25th while buying gifts and planning meals. Dreaming of a White Christmas. Hoping for perfect presents under the tree. But, there is so much more to take away from the holiday. In the hustle and bustle, memories can get lost along the way.

Today, I’m writing about three good things I treasure and take away from Christmas 2021. Just another day in my world of writing, and yet an important day to reflect on things that make me truly happy. Things important.

As a girl, I remember my grandparents preparing plain brown paper lunch bags for the children in our little country church for Christmas Eve. Every child would have a bag filled with love and goodies. Back in the 1900 and 70’s, life was rolling along at a very comfortable clip. Everyone had everything. Televisions were blaring in the background. Rocking and rolling shaped the way our young minds were forming. Men’s hair grew longer while girl’s skirts got shorter. It was a confusing time for my grandparents.

Each was brand new when their parents arrived in Ellis Island with nothing more than the love of family holding them together. Fleeing from persecution in the Volga area of Russia, they had faced hunger, disease, and death of friends during their journey. Upon arriving to the United States of America, they faced prejudice and hatred. And yet, on they traveled until finally settling on a little farm in the San Joaquin Valley of California. Rich soil and wonderful climate led them to their version of God’s country, where they quietly lived out their days.

They lived through the Great Depression and World War II. They lived through sex, love, and rock and roll. They rode out the ups and downs of farm life, and through it all, love of family remained the glue that held them together when their world was falling apart.

Back then, I remember looking at the bags they prepared with puzzlement and I must say, a little disappointment. In the bag, was one perfect naval orange from their trees. Scrubbed and polished to a real shine, I only wish I could taste one once more. Surely a taste that doesn’t exist in our world today for their trees were vintage varieties. But, back then, I could eat as many as I wanted yet found them a boring flavor. Along with the orange, there was one Granny Smith apple. Not 100% sure now, I assume those apples grew from their trees, and were also, delicious.

Next, a handful of nuts, home grown, of course. A peppermint candy cane was added for good measure. Later, one small bag of M & M’s of the plain variety was added, because that was all that was sold at the time. That completed the contents of the bag.

I must say, most of my friends at church didn’t understand how special those things were to someone of my grandparent’s age. They had been through winters with nothing close to an orange or apple to eat. Nuts were a real treat. And chocolate? Only something found at the holidays. With some grocery stores today having long aisles of candy that stretch the entire length of the store, it’s hard to believe there was a time when sugar was rationed and sweets were only for very special occasions.

All the children of the church were counted, and then a few bags were assembled for those EXTRA’s on Christmas Eve. This was a big project for two little people on Barstow Avenue who remembered times when even an empty brown paper bag wouldn’t have been found. They put something else in each bag in the form of prayers and love for the kids and families of the church. My grandparents always had extra prayers and love to go around, those being more of the glue that held our family together.

This, the day after Christmas, I’m thankful for so many things. I want to remember the top three for 2021. In a house in which only a little dog named Oliver and I live, it might seem to some that true blessings might be scarce. Not so.

1. I’m thankful for God and my faith. Losing track of my way on so many days since April 8th, 2020, it was God’s love that carried me through. Without it and faith that things would get better, it would have been easy to just lay down and quit. My life now would’ve been quite different if my Great Grandparents had done that on their impossible journey.
2. I’m thankful for my friends and family. On the earthly side of things, this year has held many visits with new friends as well as old. Family has come to the rescue on more than one occasion with visits and good advice. They surround me with love and prayers felt every day. These days, forgiveness and love surround my heart, making my journey easier, while leaving excess baggage of sadness and grief along the way. I’m hoping it’s all biodegradable and lost to the wind.
3. I’m thankful for continued health and well being. Without that, life wouldn’t be as good as it’s been during the last twelve months. What a blessing to open my eyes each day and feel great. Ok. Ok. At 65, great is different than at 21. But, great it is to have avoided the dreaded virus and many other ailments that plague so many at my age. For goodness sakes, I’m older than VST now. If only his health hadn’t failed him.

Being thankful for those three things, I march onward towards Christmas 2022. What miracles will occur in the next 12 months? Only time will tell. What new friends will enter my story? That remains to be seen. What pitfalls will I avoid? What treasures will I find along the way? Will it be a bumper year for my roses or just so so? What about the attack of the toads? I’m not sure of any of that.

For today, I want to remain mindful that I am the luckiest woman to have such a rich and wonderful life. With the best memories of Christmas’s in the past, it’s time to start boxing up Christmas 2021. In a few days, we’ll enter a new year!!! Oh, the possibilities are endless!!

More tomorrow.

“It all started the day he brought home a broken helicopter.”

Little did I expect this from the petite and elegant woman sitting next to me during Christmas dinner at The Farm House Restaurant and Cantina. Being in her 90’s, I don’t know what I expected her to say, but not that her reserved and distinguished husband brought home a broken helicopter. I would’ve guessed he was a music professor at a prestigious university. A mathematician. A scientist. Possibly a jeweler. As the dinner conversation continued, I became even more intrigued.

Mr. and Mrs. Nonagenarian have been married just shy of 70 years. VST didn’t live to be 70. There are days that I wonder if I will. Seventy years is more than double the time VST and I shared together. Twenty years more than the time we knew each other. Just what secrets do these two share to explain their long lasting relationship? Living into their 90’s with rich and fulfilling lives, it’s obvious they still like each other.

Mrs. N, who is a great example of who I want to be if I DO make it to 90 is an amazing Christian, woman, wife, mother, grandmother, great grandmother, friend, and so many more things I have yet to discover. She single handedly planned a sit down dinner for 100 at the Church a few weeks back. She baked over 15 deserts, all more beautiful than bakery shop quality and each yummy in a different way. Not simple recipes, these required steps, steps, and more steps.

Along with Slow Baked Beef Tri-Tip in Special Sauce, Baked Ham, Green Salad, Southern Fried Corn, Roasted Red potatoes, Maple Glazed carrots, Homemade Rolls and ooey gooey homemade Mac and Cheese, the following items were on the desert table. Peanut Butter Cake. Mandarin Orange Cake. German Chocolate Cake. Cheese Cake w/Strawberry Sauce. Pecan Pie w/Whipped Cream. Coconut Cream Pie. Chocolate Cream Pie. Lemon Meringue Pie. Apple Pie. Raspberry Mousse. Brownies. Peanut Butter Cupcakes with Caramel Cream Filling Sealed with fudge, frosted with chocolate cream frosting and drizzled with a crackly chocolate. Mrs. N made all these desserts and each one was fresh. How she pulled this off is a puzzlement to everyone that enjoyed them.

Mrs. N is a seamstress, bar none. Every Sunday, she wears another creation all out of the finest fabrics and best designs. I don’t think she’s worn the same dress twice. All custom fit to her figure, she never has a hair out of place. Perfect makeup and accessories. It boggles the mind. When the N’s renewed their vows on their 65th anniversary, she sewed her own wedding dress. There is nothing this woman can’t do.

Lucky enough to sit next to her at The Farm House Restaurant and Cantina, I was all set to find out more about Mr. N. So quiet and gentlemanly, I have just recently met him. He, too, has an amazing twinkle in his eye, being two years past 90. Between the two of them, they raised a bushel of kids that all turned out pretty darn good. They all come home for Sunday dinner each week after the worship service. She cooks for everyone.

Mr. N is a Veteran of the World War II kind. Shy and quiet, he keeps those stories close to his heart. Real heroes don’t brag about what they did, because the heroic things they did were needed at the moment they were. Someone brave needed to step up and so they did. Real heroes are people good to know.

Getting back to our conversation, one day, according to Mrs. N, Mr. N brought home a broken helicopter. She wasn’t amused in the least, but even less so when, in the following days, he bought a box of helicopter parts for $500. This was a lot of money in those days, but to work he went. Before long, he had the bird running.

All repaired, the thing begged him to fly it, so he did. He learned very well on his own, but then needed to go the usual route and get his FAA approved pilot’s license, which he aced. His love for flying opened doors to a great career, and for many years, he taught countless others to fly, while fixing helicopters. In doing so, he even managed to meet John Wayne and Dean Martin, having more than a little to do with the movie, The Wrecking Crew.

As she told a few stories of his life, it was apparent to me that people of The Greatest Generation, were just that. GREAT. I hardly think they are many 20-Somethings that would find an old broken helicopter and then set out to identify the broken parts and replace them. Heck, many 20 years old’s have yet to learn to drive a car, let alone a helicopter.

The elders I grew up with fixed everything themselves. When things broke, people knew how to fix them in a flash because people didn’t replace broken things but repaired them instead. I just read about a man that got angry at the battery replacement cost of $22,000 for his Tesla, so he blew it up in a quarry. So wasteful. The Greatest Generation was never wasteful but original in their abilities to repurpose and recycle.

Christmas Dinner 2021 was an amazing meal with my six new friends. Feeling blessed that I’d been invited to tag along, it’s the second holiday meal spent with delightful new friends. All having witnessed my baptism, they are the truest kind of friends to have. Kindness is what Christmas is all about.

Today, I’m practicing snow driving, while taking Oliver to puppy camp for his New Year’s Holiday. Being the party animal that he is, he’s hoping his special friend, Lucy, will be waiting for him. I hope his special friend, Rover Roy is home for the holidays.

Over the mountains and through the desert of Northern Nevada, I’ll drive very slow, with no sudden maneuvers just like VST taught me. Snow driving…….. Who knew????

More tomorrow.

Have you ever been smitten? Just bowled over and left weak in the knees? At a loss for words when such a person is in front of you as you’ve never met or experienced? I find myself wrapped in this realm of loveliness for I have discovered the diverse world of…….

Clint Eastwood.

Had you going there for a minute, didn’t I???

It all started with VST and his movie collection. He watched DVD’s while I read books. Night after night, he’d be in his office munching on popcorn and watching the latest movie just purchased. His collection consisted of guy movies, therefore, there were many that I’ve never seen. An entire John Wayne collection, on top of war movies galore. From the Civil war through Desert Storm, the collection was lacking in Rom Com’s or Chick Flicks.

One day, he decided to make his collection more accessible and off to Walmart he went. Buying several DVD briefcases, each ready to hold 208 movies, he discarded all the bulky jackets. Carefully placing the movies in alphabetical order, he organized our collection before his passing. Four of these briefcases hold the collection as I balance out the heavy influence of testosterone, now absent here at Winterpast. It’s my intention to have watched all of them before I die. That might’ve been possible had I not started collecting movies of my own.

It started with a need to laugh and say a few “Ahhhh’s” as girl-types like to do. So, I started with Romantic Comedies and Chick Flicks. My first selections centered around Rock Hudson and Doris Day. Just sweet movies about nothing more than a silly problem and a cute fix. Finding them so relaxing and fun, I continued to collect more. There was also my worry that, at some point, either DVD’s would not longer be available or that certain titles would be deemed politically incorrect. My collection continues to grow.

I added my Alfred Hitchcock favorites like The Birds, Psycho, and Rear Window. I found delight in Stephen King and all his best works; Christine and Cujo being favorites. Pretty soon, I had to run to Walmart to buy another briefcase to hold new additions to my collection, growing by the week.

I found I loved World War II classics like The Bridge on the River Kwai, The Longest Day, and The Caine Mutiny. My list grew. As DVD’s arrive, I have plenty to watch on days I decide to practice laziness. With the lack of travel in my near future, I only need to turn on Elvis’s Blue Hawaii and I’m there, back in the islands.

Clint Eastwood has always been a favorite. When I started searching movies titles, I ran across the “Dirty Harry” series. Almost like time travel, I was transported back to a San Francisco of the 80’s remembered so well. Such wonderful visuals of the once beautifully romantic city, not the one now in ruins. It was to San Francisco that VST took me on our first trip out of town, when he hadn’t yet proposed. I remember dressing up for a dinner out at Hoolihan’s. On the way back to our hotel, we found ourselves in the wrong section of town. Taking off my high heels, we ran for our lives until we found safer ground, laughing all the way. Little did we know of the fantastical life we were running towards.

Old movies are a great way to remember back to simpler times. Times when people actually went outside to do things without being fearful of the boogie men, a real fear today. There were smiling faces to recognize. Friends who waved. People out for a jog on a bright and beautiful day. Children who went out to play as long as they promised to be home for dinner at 6PM. New lovers kissing in the park. Old people like to remember the good old days which held wonderful freedoms lost along the way.

Two Mules for Sister Sara. Play Misty for Me. A Fist Full of Dollars. So many titles that bring back the foggiest of memories and leave me wanting to see them once more. One of my favorites will forever be Bridges of Madison County. Such a variety of movies our American treasure, Clint, created, each one telling a story unique and wonderful.

So, male types, back it on up. This chick-a-dee is quite happy to be alone with Clint on New Year’s Eve. He and I will have quite a ride as we travel through decades of movie magic, time traveling across the wild west to the streets of San Francisco. Makes my day, for sure.

More tomorrow.

These last few days have been full of canyon winds and snow. Looking out my studio window, again, everything is blanketed in white. Yesterday found me wandering the aisles of the grocery story searching for new and innovative foods to prepare for one. Foods that used to be an easy and inexpensive “Go-To” are now outrageously priced. Tri-Tip — $12 per pound. Chicken Thighs — $12 for 6. Lucky for me I only need to cook one portion at a time as I become proficient at reducing recipe size while still creating tasty meals.

Frozen left overs are not a favorite of mine. Eating something freshly prepared is delicious. Having left overs the next day is pretty good. There lies the extent of my interest in seeing the remains of the same dish some days later covered in freezer ice.

I think my distain for left overs comes from my childhood. With seven active people in our household, one being my farmer dad, there were NO leftovers in the frig. Ever. Especially if the meal was really good the first time. Everything we ate was freshly picked, cleaned, prepped, chopped, cooked, and set on the table. Three times a day, there were delicious homemade meals. Served at 7 AM, 12 PM, and 6 PM, you were to be scrubbed and ready to eat. No complaints or pouting allowed, only a smile and proper manners. Eat or go away hungry, it mattered not to the cook. Guess what. Everything always tasted wonderful, and grateful kids cleaned the kitchen afterwards. Cleanup was part of the meal.

Desert was only for special occasions, not a nightly event. Portions were appropriate for each person according to age and activity level. Dad was always served first. Then, everyone passed dishes to the right. Orderly and quite civilized, our meals were polite events of the lady-like kind. After all, six of the seven people were female. My poor dad.

Shopping in preparation for the oncoming storm is tricky. I hate being left without an ingredient I might need, and yet, there is only one of me. Looking at my pantry, it’s a bit gluttonous to have all the items there and waiting for the day they’ll be used. But not having one ingredient on a snowy day wouldn’t be good either.

Last week, the 12 Bean Soup and the homemade spaghetti sauce were divine. This week, I’m going to try Mrs. N’s recipe for Roast Tri Tip. It’s a recipe that requires hours of baking in foil, perfect for a snowy day. Also perfect will be the sandwich I can make tomorrow. I plan to make Cozy Hand-Held Chicken Pot Pie with Puff Pastry crust. Oh my, Google that recipe. So darn delicious and easy. In my kitchen, I make three servings with one sheet of puff pastry, that being the only adjustment I’ve made.

With January 31st nearly here, I don’t remember much about New Year’s Celebrations growing up. There weren’t fabulous parties to attend. No candlelight church services. Usually cloaked in a sea of San Joaquin Valley Fog, the day was just like any other. Maybe pruning of fruit trees, or yard work. There were always vineyard wires to fix after pruning, or thick wood (pruning’s from the vines) to pick up and burn near the barn. Growing up, my New Year’s was always cold and wet.

Last night, I fell asleep to the lullaby of howling canyon winds. They bother some people. For me, they inspire dreams of sailing or romantic trade winds. Here, in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada, you can hear their approach, arrival, and departure. Winterpast doesn’t shudder or complain with each passing wind as they arrive like ocean waves, one set after the other.

This morning, with winds gone, the temperatures are in the 20’s with humidty low. All the main interstates between Nevada and California have been closed for days. I can only imagine the nightmare on Donner Pass as holiday visitors race to cross before the next storm. At present, Ski Patrols are searching for a lost skier, surely gone by now. Records of his last run showed him leaving the lift days ago. May he rest in peace. Such is life in the wilderness I call home.

I wonder what interest city life could possibly hold. Certainly none for me. Different people require different amounts of personal space. For me, big skies and open spaces comfort my soul. It’d be impossible to enjoy winds from the 20th floor of a high-rise condo or experience the beauty of a wild mustang walking through the morning snow right out side your door.

So it is here in the high desert Home Means Nevada to me. Off to try my new recipe. More tomorrow.

Your started out with one thing going for you. You weren’t 2020. For that we all loved you and eagerly accepted you. You were a time for new dreams to come to life and for faith to be renewed. But, you were also full of viral isolation, loss, and grief. None of that because of you, but during you. For that, we are happy to wish you well as we look towards the first sunrise of 2022.

Personally, I’ve grown into a better version of the woman I’m meant to be. Passing the one year milestone of VST’s death, I thought things would surely be better. Uncharted and just as wild, Year-Two of widowhood challenged me in new and unexpected ways. As your days rolled on, the cloud of grief didn’t magically lift after 365 days without VST. Marching in a formation of one has been difficult on some days while rewarding on others.

You brought God into my life again as I struggled through four seasons of independence. In a Southern Baptist church in my dusty little town, you introduced me to my extended family who’ve helped me over some rough spots. God has shown me examples of his miracles at work, while guiding me towards new life through repentance and acceptance of Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. December 12th was the day of my Holy Baptism. Coming through life’s fires a little bruised but unburned, faith has been the conduit through which I’ve experienced unexpected and undeserved second chances. Reborn into the hugs and support of new friends, I celebrated your birth with renewed inner peace and happiness. All things are possible through God.

There were days when life was just one big sewer repair or Air Conditioning nightmare. Days when the mustang poop got on my last nerve. Long days full of rose blossoms and nights with moons so full you could reach out and touch them. Through each and every day, something new showed me I’m okay all on my own. Solitary confinement isn’t that bad if you learn to like the one your with.

You’ve given me one year of great health. Now, that’s a special thing. Not just “OK” health. Not health in which I’ve gotten through bad days. No-Sir-ee. 365 days of wonderful health in which I chose to do whatever I wanted. I ate whatever seemed tasty while watching the magical world around me. I felt deeply with a full heart, use my brain to make tough decisions while making my way through more Widow’s Wilderness. Hiking the Sierra’s has nothing over navigating Widowhood. In fact, it would seem a breeze in comparison.

Not once throughout this year have I wished I was back in Virginia City or California. Through four seasons, I’ve learned about Winterpast and her little secrets. New plants and trees have come back to life with water. My street sings with the laughter of new children. My waves aren’t to strangers anymore, but real neighbors with names. The kind that stop to chat when I’m outside working in the yard. The mustangs have decided I’m not the new kid on the block anymore, but a safe place to hang out.

You’ve been the year I can no longer say I don’t drive in the snow. Having driven in two blizzards and a pretty severe windstorm, my “Barbie Jeep” (VST named her) and I have become great friends. Trusting her more after getting new tires, I’m not tethered to my little town, but happy to venture East or West in search of entertainment and better shopping. You were the year I went back to the ocean VST and I loved so much. Finding comfort in the arms of family and old friends, you hold memories of a special week of sea shells and visits with Auntie TJ and The Convertible Goddess of the Central Coast of California. It just doesn’t get better than that.

You were unkind in some ways, robbing me of Miss Firecracker. Oh the fun we could have had, if only. But, time marches on, and you were also the year that gave her the Merriest of Christmas’s, as she now lives close to family. Although Donner Pass presents a physical barrier between the two of us, nothing can break the bonds of Best Friends Forever. Gal Pal Extraordinaire, Miss Firecracker, your new town will never be the same as you ring in the New Year.

You gave us a summer of California smoke, chokingly rude. Fires that destroyed some of the most beautiful forests in the world. Forests that will not return in my lifetime. You reminded me that I DO live in a DESERT. What was I thinking????? With an entire summer of blazing heat, you reminded me that Air Conditioning is an invention of the God’s. You also reminded me that desert evenings are one of the loveliest anywhere in the world.

You’ve been a great teacher, although at times, I was stubbornly unaccepting of the lessons you taught. Through the year, you’ve brought over 115,000 readers to my blog. You’ve helped me realize I have a precious gift that I can’t waste. The gift of writing. I’m a published writer. It’s no longer something I hope to be SOMEDAY. I climbed right over that mountain top in 2021.

You’ll be around a few more hours. I bet you are a little tired of us, too. After all, a year only has 365 days to give, and you’ve given it the best you had. Rest now, 2021. Being a memory will be easier work. No expectations of anything other than what you were while you were here. I’ll love some things about you and despise others, but, remember you we will forever.

With Faith, Hope, Love, and Dreams, we walk on towards 2022. We’re waiting to see what lies ahead. Thanks for the memories.

Well, it’s official. The world has started to celebrate the New Year!!!!! Waking early has it’s benefits. Watching the fireworks in Australia jump-started my 2022 celebration as the sun rises on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Heaven knows I’ll never make it to midnight tonight. Two full days to celebrate!! It just doesn’t get better than that.

Have a wonderful day! Whatever you do, choose happiness.

More tomorrow. Joy

You were born at the stroke of midnight!!!! We love you already, so please don’t be shy. There’s no way we’ll accept the possibility that you’ll hold the horror of the last two years. Just by being you, you hold hope of peace, love, health and happiness. We’ve closed the book on 2021. You did your best with what you had to work. Climbing out of hell was a tough assignment for you. We need to cut you some slack. It’s you who is the star of the moment while holding our tomorrows for the next four seasons.

I personally want to greet you with open arms. You’ll hold so many firsts for us all. You hold healing for our broken world. I can feel it in my heart. For this, we’re all waiting breathlessly. I’m excited for my 3rd gardening season here at Winterpast. I’m looking forward to meeting my new neighbors across the street that don’t even know they’re purchasing the yet unlisted house. With hours and hours of hot tub soaking, while deepening a golden tan, Oliver and I plan to enjoy many adventures together as we forge a new path.

Every day, I’m choosing happiness, health, and hope. As a newly-baptized Christian, this will be my first full year living for God. There are always things on the horizon that are focal points for positivity. I’ll reach for those things and smile, sprinkling fun into my life in any way possible. From silly, mindless giggles to well planned activities, my life will include much more fun this year.

2022 will be the year I start my 3rd year as a widow. I’m no longer the Grieving Gardener as much as The Gardener who Grieves. No longer debilitating and mind numbing, there are more trips into memory land that result in smiles and awe at the wonderful life I shared with VST. By choice, we’ll smile in unison, me from here, VST from there. So much goodness to remember and celebrate on this the 34th year of our marriage.

As Covid loses its stranglehold on the world, we’ll all venture back into life. The sun will never feel so grand on our skin as when we all join hands to rejoice together. It’s happening in 2022. Ready those play clothes and get ready to join the fun.

2022, you make me giddy as I greet you. I write your name over and over. Such a beautiful number, not like 2021. Counting on by two’s from a nightmare towards beauty.

Welcome!!! We want you. We love you already!! We celebrate you!! Please don’t disappoint.

On the sunniest Saturday, while tidying the office in a Goodbye to 2021, I forgot something important and essential. Resolutions. In this complicated world, I can’t plan for everything, but in the past, general goals in life have served me well. VST would remind me that before shooting arrows, they need to be aimed. Every morning over coffee, the goals of the day were discussed and then a plan was made to accomplish them.

I miss that.

A Lot.

My resolutions are similar to the ones I made last year. Some of them were accomplished and some of them will challenge me for life. With that thought, these are the ten top goals I embrace as I start of the new year!!!

1. Improved Diet. For me, this includes what I eat, as well as when. Being single, meals times are of my choosing. Breakfast is simple, being built into my routine. It’s the other two that need more structure. With a sugar and flour free diet, my body is the happiest. Carbs are limited to 20 grams a day, which leaves plenty of room for veggies and occasional fruits. Christmas was a diet-free zone, but Christmas is over now. Back to reality.
2. Exercise. Living in a neighborhood with beautiful paved streets and limited traffic, I’ve no excuse to avoid walking. With a high concentration of retired Seniors, the neighborhood is safe, quiet, and inviting. Under the blue skies and white puffy clouds is the perfect place to mentally prewrite upcoming blog posts as I stretch my legs. Oliver agrees with this goal and plans to join me. Couldn’t ask for a better walking partner than him.
3. Budget Effectively. 2021 was a costly year for me. On the best day, just living is expensive and my little town is no exception. The unexpected HVAC replacement in June caught me off guard. Looking around, the next few years will be full of other unforeseen breaks and replacements. With expenses at a minimum now, I need to plan more carefully for the rainy days sure to come.
4. Publish! My new interest. How different from the 1900’s. It’s possible to publish all on my own, with tools readily available on the internet. With time ticking away and a brain in my head, this hobby of mine I’ll continue. Free webinars with the most popular online DYI publishing site await scheduling. Choosing a front row seat, I’ll be sure to take lots of notes. 2022 will find my projects published. Watercolor painting and crocheting await. Don’t forget your creative side.
5. READ! Just READ, Already! Without reading, I never would have run across the beautiful story about WINTERPAST and thus, found the perfect name for my home. Reading transports me to places and times I want to visit. A favorite past time of mine, I plan to do more.
6. Develop New Friendships. I’ll explore my new neighborhood, beginning with my street. I want to learn the names of everyone living here, being the kind of neighbor they can call when there’s a need. Springtime is a great time to meet new people as I add details to my front yard project. I’m lucky to live in a neighborhood full of friendly faces I haven’t met yet.
7. Visit Old Friends. I plan to be a house-guest this year. From northern Washington to the Central Coast of California, I plan to visit people I haven’t seen in a long, long time. Time is fleeting. I need to gas up and get going.
8. Eliminate Excess Baggage. Take that however you like. Physical suitcases? Emotional baggage? Junk in the cupboards? 2022 is the year of the purge. Never knowing when it’ll be time to downsize again, I’ll be ready. With adorable thrift stores in town, I’ll be donating in a big way. Blogging will rid my brain of unnecessary clutter as I share life with faithful readers.
9. Be a Tourist. I live in a tourist area. People come from all over the world to see the mustangs or the fossilized remains of the Ichthyosaur, a marine animal whose bones rest in the mountains of Nevada. Ghost towns. Rock fields. Top Gun. The grand Sierra’s. I plan to be a tourist this year, learning of all the wonderful places that are within a short distance of Winterpast.
10. Live Every Moment. No matter the success of keeping 1-9, I will keep #10. The last two years taught me that we all have an unknown expiration date. Age matters not and each one of us has limited time. I refuse to wait for things to happen or a travel partner to appear. Days will be of my own creation and liking. I intend to explode out of bed at dark thirty every morning to write. Because, WRITING IS LIFE and LIFE I CHOOSE.

Resolve to make your own resolutions!!!!! Make your target Success. With arrows in our quiver and goals in our heads, we can’t miss.

Some days, the only thing that keeps me upright is a sense of gratitude that I haven’t yet toppled over. It seems the smallest things can derail an otherwise okay day. A picture triggers a memory. A memory then triggers a tear. A tear finally triggers a frown. Well, you get the picture. A perfectly good hour can be lost to the dark side.

When VST passed, I chose focus words each month. One positive word a month that represented our relationship. In those moments life seemed too dark, I’d focus on the word of the month and ways that word represented us. Words like Friendship, Adventure, and Everlasting Love. Before long, the sadness turned to something else. Gratitude.

Gratitude for the smallest things helps me stay mindful and grounded in the abundance of wonderful events that happen every day. Just last night, my trash cans didn’t blow over in high desert winds that shook Winterpast to her timbers. What a blessing! The horses haven’t pooped in my front yard for a week. Hallalujah. My neighbor felt connected enough to call after losing a very dear friend. She is a true blessing to my heart.

Each day, there are so many things for which to be grateful, I could fill a journal. At this moment, there is the sweetest little dog laying at my feet, sleeping soundly. A little dog with which I’m lucky enough to room. As he lays sleeping, I know he’s thankful that puppy camp ended and Mom-Oh came to bring him home. A little dog can only celebrate so much before needing the safety and love of his Mom-Oh. Oliver is a very grateful little dog who smiles often, brightening my days.

When I turn on the television, which I do so rarely these day, my world starts to lose balance. Negativity flips the switch on gratitude. Fear. Confusion. Hatred. Polarity. Political insanity. It all comes flooding out of this flat screen until I start to slip into the land of pessimism. Life is too short to spend even one minute there.

Covid Fear is a great optimism extinguisher. I know of a family who spent 18 months without sharing hugs. Not one. They talked on the phone and face-timed as two-dimensional flat-screen images. No familiar smells. No feeling of the warmth of skin as one hand held another. No shared meals. No physical visits between a family that had been together every week since their beginning. All this because they were terrified of a virus they may or may not have caught no matter what they did. What a loss. What a tragedy.

Before Christmas, a friend was wondering whether or not to take her littles to see their grandparents for a holiday visit. The children wanted to see Grandma and Grandpa in the worst way. My friend wanted to see her Mom and Dad. Her family doctor gave her the best advice I’ve heard.

“Mental health is very important. You need to go and make a wonderful memory together.”

That’s just what she did. Weeks later, the happy memories of Christmas 2021 are still creating smiles. Guess what.. No Covid. Imagine that.

As gratitude for the smallest things fill hearts, others notice. There’s something different about the way a grateful person holds themselves while interacting. Other people are attracted to happiness. When you share good things, friends and family want to hear more. The more goodness you find in your life, the more goodness there is to be found. Funny how that works. Begin with health. If you have that, you’ve hit the motherload of goodness. Nothing is more precious, and good health deserves a ton of gratitude. A little sick? Be grateful you aren’t more sick. And so on. There’s always a flip side to bad and that’s the something for which we can sing praise.

Being grateful creates a more patient, compassionate, and empathetic person. It’s a way of thinking that can be learned. Just think of three things in your life for which you are grateful. Not things of your physical world. Not things you can buy at Walmart. Real things. Like a bird outside your window. Storm clouds. The sound of rain. The laughter of a child. A call from a dear friend. Those important things make life worth living. It’s a shift in the balance of thought that’ll keep you upright and moving forward, one foot at a time.

All things in life are connected. A smile is the most important kind of medicine. Spread them around and see the magic they leave in a day. Magic. Healing magic of the best kind.

Have a wonderful day. More tomorrow.

Yesterday was the perfect day to pull up VST’s big office chair and snuggle to the taxes. One day is as good as the next when retired. A blustery winter Friday seemed fitting, so I opened the Tomb of Taxes Past and got to work.

Visiting with girlfriends over lunch on Wednesday, I mentioned that I prepare my own taxes. They seemed a bit horrified. VST and I always completed our own. We faced an audit at the ranch one year in the 1900’s. The auditor was there for less than three hours and walked away shaking her head. She expected to find hidden money for the government. After examining a huge binder full of hundreds of supporting documents, all organized and at the ready, she found a mistake in our favor. We assured her we were happy to leave things as they were.

VST and I always shared the unpleasant task of preparing the tax forms. Four eyes were better than two. Two brains better than one. Through the years, I learned I’d rather be the Outlaw of Tax Town while VST followed every single tax rule to the max. Between the two of us, we’d settle nicely in the safety of the middle between jail and paying way to much.

2022, my second year widowed, the first TT entry was the saddest. This year I’m required to file S (Single). Just one word. No MFJ (Married Filing Jointly) as I did for 33 years. Just S. It’s the smallest things that make us stumble.

After that, Turbo Tax did the work. Asking questions and then providing appropriate worksheets, it was simple. I do have some tips to make things much better as you create your new banking world as a widow or widower.

After you nice feature is that it provides a printable Tax History of prior years that to keep with your final documents. Information can be uploaded from your banking institutions. It’s possible to E-File your taxes on this program, or you can send them snail mail. All in all, it works for me. I order my program in December on Amazon. They have lots of choices. Luckily, with no state taxes in Nevada, I only need the Federal version.

At the beginning of each year, decide on a dedicated place to collect the various tax papers that will arrive. Organization is key. You may need to print copies from online accounts. My bank emailed notice when they were ready. I made paper copies and those went with the rest. If you are just getting organized now, find papers related to income, such as W-2’s, and the various 1099’s. Then, find documents showing deductible expenses, such as property tax or medical bills.

Now is a great time to clean out your filing drawer, if you have one. Organizing my office drawer always starts with the best intentions, but by December, mine is just a crowded mess. Going through the drawer, I remove everything from the prior year, deciding what will be filed away with the taxes and what to discard. This is an important step before beginning anything. When organized, any task, even the most unpleasant, goes much better.

Turbo Tax offers two choices when beginning. You can go it on your own, or be guided through each step. Their guide is helpful. By answering easy questions, you are led through a maze to the end, as the amount of your tax liability shows at the top of the screen. Up and down it goes. Where it stops, only Turbo Tax knows.

Finally, it’s time for a final review and then, decisions about how you will receive your refund or pay up. In my case, let’s just say that it took a minute to find something for which to be grateful about the final amount shown.

Americans are blessed to live in such a wonderful country with beautiful states and towns. With a positive attitude, I will send my taxes into the world, focusing on the good the $$$ will do to make a better world. That’s the best way. Send them with blessings to Do No Harm. When I hear of a project I support, I”ll choose to believe with all my heart that a few cents of my money went to help with that. For those things I find abhorrent, I choose to believe my funds didn’t reach that far. It’s better to keep a cheerful attitude about something of which we’ve no control.

I’m not sending my taxes until April, but they are complete. I hope VST is up in heaven smiling at the job I did. I hope the IRS angels will approve. Turbo Tax says that I have almost no chance of triggering an audit with the information given. 2021 Taxes are put to bed. I hope 2022 Taxes are gentler to the pocketbook.

As a new widow, I wasn’t afraid to seek help the first year. I prepared my taxes as usual and then went to a CPA referred by a close friend. For $100, it was worth the peace of mind. There is always someone that can help when you are just not sure what to do.

Taxes and death. There is no escaping either one. With a new storm blowing in, I plan to spend the day doing something pleasant. Soup in the Crock Pot. Saturday Chores. The Singing Nun as my Movie of the Day. Whatever you do, enjoy.

More tomorrow…….

Sundays have become really special days for me. Looking forward to seeing my church family, I arrive early to enjoy visiting friends. With the rest of my life before me, new friendships take time to sprout and grow. Attending Bible Study is a chance to let these friendships bloom in a healthy environment.

Finding my little church was something I couldn’t have predicted before it happened. VST and I had faith. As Christians, we relied on God’s grace and mercy to carry us through a great life. Experiencing normal ups and downs, we always planned to join a church just as soon as life settled down. We never took that step together. I wish we would’ve. It’s one of the very few regrets I have about our life together.

April 8th, 2021, T and K (VST’s twins) had come to observe their Dad’s one year Heaven-ersary. We were looking for some ammunition at the local hardware store, which had a limited supply. An employee suggested we check out a new gun store in town. Hidden just around the corner, as is everything in a small town, we went. It was there I met Pastor C, the owner of a legal and federally-licensed backyard gun store AND the preacher of Baptist on Main.

Gun stores in the Wild Wild West are something to behold. You never know where you will find them or what they merchandise they might sell. I’ve even held in my hand a REAL flame thrower. It was tough to set that one down. Just about every kind of gun is available in Nevada. In fact, it’s an “open carry” state. The first few times I saw a .45, visible in a holster, I was a little shocked.

If our recent murder victim would have had a gun in her car she might not have been the girl shot in the head and buried in the desert. The bad guys always have their own weapons. Consider the New York City shooting yesterday. Guns are BANNED in New York. EXCEPT for the active shooter. You can’t fight a bullet with a brief case. Again, the bad guys ALWAYS have guns. Their bad guys. Laws don’t matter to them.

So, on April 8th, I was lucky enough to meet Pastor C while making a purchase. He invited me to Baptist on Main and I decided to give it a try. Best decision ever. An unusual place of love, respect, consideration, and worship. Everyone knows everyone, if not by name, by smiles and handshakes.

At Bible Study yesterday, we held a birthday celebration for a lovely friend. A widow alone, like me, she moved here to live with family while getting treatment for an illness. The chocolate cupcake with extra icing and sprinkles reminded me to teaching days when the random birthday would come along. A classroom of 3rd Graders know how to celebrate.

Friday, I’ll attend a different kind of gathering at the Northern Nevada Veterans Cemetery on the outskirts of town. At 11:00, a veteran I never met will be laid to rest. The brother of church friends, Tom and Katherine, in honor of him I plan to attend. In a church, every aspect of life is front and center. Celebrations and grief, all while reflecting on and holding tight our faith. For me, it’s a great comfort.

On Easter Sunday, church friends are coming to Winterpast for a pot luck. It’ll be my first gathering since VST’s memorial. I have no idea how many people will drop by, but they are each to bring something yummy to eat. I know Samantha is bringing her homemade rolls. Charlotte is bringing a ham. I’m making a turkey breast and salad. Now, if the weather will just cooperate.

Hosting lunch for the church choir, you can only imagine the list of things that need doing. I’ll be back Monday with lots to share. Please enjoy your Easter week. Springtime is a lovely time of year to get outside. It’s the best time of the year for new beginnings.

Until then, enjoy a lovely Easter!!!

I love jigsaw puzzles. With focus, concentration, and time, a complete picture is made from a box of broken pieces. At first, the edges are the only obvious ones to be found. Little by little, the most recognizable shapes come together. Finally, the background becomes clear. Healing through grief is life’s most difficult puzzle. Picking up the pieces, a new life is created. Many of the pieces don’t fit anymore, but become beautiful memories that provide comfort along the way.

I’ve made so many missteps along the way while trying to force pieces into the wrong places. When you lose your spouse, all the edges are gone. I learned that the hard way. Lifelong “Should-s”, “Shouldn’t-s”, “Maybe-s”, and “Why Not’s” disappeared. Alone in my widow’s fog, I chose new rules for a new life. During the last 35 months, a picture is forming of a very different woman that I truly like. The real ME.

While forming new boundaries for my life, the centerpiece that had been missing the longest was found when I was baptized in on December 12th, 2021. Now, worries that used to shade everything are delivered to God in prayer. When the worry box in my head gets full, I ask for HIS help.

During the last 35 months, I’ve prayed myself to sleep, asked for the protection of angels around Winterpast and two little souls who rest inside. Sleeping peacefully provides healing during the worst life has to offer. Grief. The journey through loss and despair is unique to each one of us, but together, recognizable. It’s hell on earth. Plain and simple. Hell on earth.

Yesterday, while traveling to the Biggest Little City to the West with a dear friend, I was reminded that everyone’s journey through grief doesn’t always involve the loss of a spouse. It could be a Mom, Dad, sister, brother, or dear friend. It could be a beloved career or the loss of the best pet in the world. Life is full of grief. Life is also full of love and support to get us through the worst.

I’m so thankful for all the friends I’ve made during the last 35 months. People that’ve stopped to listen. Those that had a hug just for me. Those that shared a heartfelt tear while telling their stories to me. I’m so blessed to have healthy and happy days to share with them when life gets tough. This week, my dance card is overflowing with adventures. Lot’s of friends. Lot’s of love. Lot’s of pieces that have fit together to make the most beautiful picture of hope, faith, and a new life.

35 months. Life is good VST. Have fun up there in heaven. God will choose my ETA. Until then, please know life is really, really good here on earth.

Whatever you do today, find some pieces that’ve been missing. Change up the edges that aren’t working anymore. Find splashes of color that fit together to make a beautiful new picture all your own. Do some living! Spring is a lovely time of year.

More tomorrow.

What can happen when you don’t drive around town for 4 years? Well, it seems quite a bit! Our little town, (once referred to as a dusty wide spot along the interstate) is experiencing unprecedented growth. And so, it was high time HHH and I too a drive to see just what all the buzz was about.

On the east side of town, a beautiful vision has become reality. Victory Logistics District– Phase One. Quietly announced in 2021, the building began. Sure, there were a few articles about the project, but this was all east of the major stores this regular homeowner would visit. Walmart and Lowes are as far east as I venture, unless I’m ordering rock at Gopher Construction and so, I never noticed.

We’d been to the State of the City meeting on Thursday evening. That was a happening all on its own. Thirty minutes before the speech began, we snatched the last parking spot in front of the Senior Center. Everyone from the Sheriff to the City Manager was there.

It’s so cool to be related to the mayor. A good portion of his speech was about things we already knew, but some of it was brand new. There’d be a ribbon-cutting ceremony the next day for Phase 2 of Victory Logistics District, with brand new industrial buildings.

Phase 2????? Heck, we’d totally missed Phase 1.

The mayor’s huge family made up many of the guests, but there were also regular citizens wanting to know what’s new in our town.

The mayor spoke of road projects. New housing developments and apartment complexes are bringing more people to our town. Later this year, The Community Response and Resource Center will open. Water and sewage projects are on schedule. Best of all, our city has a balanced budget. The state of the community is amazing!!!

A popular topic was about something unique. Grandpa’s Pond is planned between the canal and a major roadway in our town. On twenty acres, the community will enjoy a 10-acre fishing pond. Trout will thrive in fresh mountain water from the Truckee Canal. Citizens will enjoy jogging trails around the pond. Old-growth cottonwood trees living here for decades will complement the project.

Saturday morning, it was time to see what Victory Logistics District was all about. How is it even possible that 4300 acres is being developed in our sleepy little town? Not sure how we never noticed, but, until now, we never knew.

To our shock, many huge industrial buildings are ready for occupancy. There are new roads and even new semi-trucks to haul goods. New railway spurs are already in the planning. Landscaped and groomed, the grounds are nothing short of spectacular. The buildings have dark blue windows while the walls are patterned in white and grey. Class and sass waiting for new tenants.

All of this sits within feet of the major interstate that runs through our town. Everything is ready to go. All that’s needed are new companies and plenty of employees.

Northwestern Nevada is one of the fastest-growing places in the US. With no state tax, it’s an attractive alternative to the state on the other side of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range. With outdoor activities under the bluest of skies, there’s something for everyone.

Now, our town needs new houses and businesses to support the residents who are surely coming. We need more schools and fire stations, along with grocery stores and shopping malls. As a small town, we’re sure to face some growing pains. That remains to be seen.

After our tour, we drove past the new site for Panda Express, which broke ground last week. Good things come to those that wait. It’s our turn now!

Welcome, Victory Logistics! We look forward to being neighbors. Thrive in the future!