Category: 2021

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.