Category: 2021

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.