Category: 2021

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guy speak followed.

“Hmm. You going?”

“Hmm. Yeah. You?”

“Hmm. Yeah. “

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

To be continued…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued………..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Be Continued….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Be Continued……..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I lied.

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

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

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

Seeing red, I replied, “Okay.”

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

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

To be continued…..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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