Category: 2021

Moving to a new town in April 2020, there was only one couple I knew. Miss Firecracker and her amazing husband, Bailey’s and Cream. Their love of this wide place on a dusty little road was enough for me. Few other’s opinions would’ve convinced me their town was better. It was a huge leap of faith to move to Winterpast 17 days after VST’s untimely death. Alone, I came in faith.

Faith is defined as having a strong belief in God based on spiritual apprehension rather than proof. In this use of the word apprehension, I refer to “understanding or grasp”. It’s belief that everything will turn out as planned, even when you have no proof that it will. Sometimes, you need to Let Go and Let God. Although every bit of common sense said I shouldn’t move to this little town, faith guided me towards the support and love of Miss Firecracker and Bailey’s and Cream. When I first arrived, Covid had terrified the world, so there were no waiting hugs and welcome baskets. It was too dangerous to risk. And so, the best hug of all came from the four walls of Winterpast and, of course, my four-legged bestie, Oliver.

Oliver has seen a lot. He understands everything, accepting his place in life as a very lucky dog. His biggest wish in life is to be part of the pack. He understands his job as watchdog. He keeps me safe from marauding hawks, toads, and vermin. He warns me of dreaded walkers and falling fruit. Oliver works for food and hugs. A wonderful trade. Oliver’s my cherished family member.

I spent a good part of 2020 on a personal journey through widowhood. Never, did I ever…… So many ways I could end that thought. The most profound way is this. Never, did I ever experience such deep loneliness and need for other humans. Never, did I ever realize how important it is to have family to turn to. Never, did I ever so deeply appreciate the bonds of friendship.

In early August 2020, Miss Firecracker lost her Bailey’s and Cream to cancer. And then, there we were. Two instead of four. Half rather than whole. It was she, my first new confidante in a very long time, that would be waiting for me at the Tee Pee Bar and Grill with her million dollar smile. Those meals were priceless. Her opinions on life and love, even more so. How I wish we could’ve stopped time. Together, we cried, healed, laughed, schemed, ate and repeated. Family, she and I.

When she moved in the spring, I was finally all alone in my new town. It was time to strike out on my own to find new friends. “Give a call when you’re sick” kind of friends. The kind of friends that smile from the heart when they see you. Those that ask, “How are things going?” and have time to listen. Political comrades. Readers of the blog. A family kind of friends. It was up to me.

It was then I found my little church, different from the moment I first walked in. A small group of church members supporting each other through tough times. Covid isolation hadn’t been easy for any of us, and being able to meet again for fellowship held new meaning and importance. God fills this chapel. I’ve been there at different times of the week. It matters not. There is a calm and comforting feeling in the building before scripture is even added. As the weeks have gone on, I’ve realized how much I love these new friends. It was this week, I realized they are becoming family.

I’d been attending everything they had for over two months. Sunday morning Bible Study, Sunday service, Sunday evening Bible Study with Pastor C, Tuesday morning Bible Study with the ladies, and Wednesday evening Bible Study with the Pastor. The Bible has come alive while listening to normal folk talk about applications in normal life. Each time I attended another class, I went away knowing a little more about my heart in ways I hadn’t expected.

And then……. I caught the cold. Not the Mother-of-All-Colds, just a nasty, sneezy-sniffling kind of cold. Not wanting to this little bug to circulate through the pews, I sheltered in place like we’re supposed to do when ill.

The phone calls started. All my favorite people from church called me. Just quick little check-ins because they’d missed me. Little did they know, I’d missed them, too. Today, Pastor C called. Just the sweetest man, on a calling to spread The Word, was checking up on me, a friend, to make sure I was okay.

A friend came to my rescue with Meals on Wheels. Making sure I had everything needed to get well, she hovered at a respectable distance. Giving me space to rest and recuperate, I only needed to holler for anything needed. In the blink of an eye, I’m a visible and valued member of the community. My absence is noticed. I’m loved and it feels wonderful.

Friends are family we choose. In sixteen months, the number of people I’ve added to my high desert family has grown. No longer a new town, this is now my home. No longer alone and lonely, I’m lucky have so many great friends that notice an empty church seat. A sweet neighbor guy who keeps me in chicken fried steak and gravy. And Oliver, forever at my feet as I sign off. Stay well, cherish your friends, and have a great Friday!!!

As the fires rage around Lake Tahoe, evacuations are in place. If you haven’t visited, you have missed one of the most beautiful mountain areas anywhere. World class skiing awaits. Mountain sports of every kind. Fresh air and pine trees. At least that’s the way it was before the fire.

I remember the times I’ve needed to evacuate due to fires. The worst year was 2013, while VST and I were enjoying our last years of employment in the Central Valley of California. While living on our mountain-top hideaway, above the fog and smog, fire preparedness is always a Top-5 task.

Folks move to the foothills to live in the wilderness. The reality is, without defensible space, your mountain hide-away can turn into a deathtrap. Defensible space is 100 feet of cleared space in all directions of your home. In a small foothill neighborhood, if everyone complies, you soon live in a small treeless city. This becomes exactly the type of environment people hoped to escape. Many people resist, loving the privacy provided by plants like mature manzanita. Fuel-filled and explosively flammable. Manzanita grows dense and is full of oil. In a fire, it burns hot and fast, often destroying homes to which it provided with privacy.

On our mountaintop, we had the view of all views. Our backyard lawn dropped off the cliff like an infinity pool, and there we were, suspended like two old crows. Space defended, we could see for miles.

In the spring of 2013, a different kind of evil was brewing. A neighbor couple was about to lose their home to foreclosure. Not being of sound mind, they concocted a wonderful idea. With enough fires set in our foothill community, it would be easy to start one by THEIR house and burn it to the ground. No one would suspect a thing. The insurance money would set them happily on their way to a better future. With that bit of evil brewing, the fires commenced.

For two months, at precisely 4 PM every day, a new fire would begin. These fires were set in very dry conditions with manzanita ready to explode. Each day, I’d notice a deadly plume of smoke as a new fire began. Calling to report the new fire, I felt something to which I was unaccustomed. Terror. Like being the ultimate Scarecrow. How fast could the fire travel? Would the afternoon winds carry an ember to our property? Was our defensible space defendable? How many firemen would be injured, or worse? Would anyone lose their life? Could I become trapped in an evacuation traffic jam? All questions asked each day as a new fire started. One a day for almost two months.

This evil duo lived down the hill from us. As their plan came closer to our doorstep, so did the evacuation order over our cell phones. We were to make sure all pets and livestock were moved to safe ground. Being prepared, we had a plan in place, already knowing what picture albums and personal belongings needed to come along. Clothing and shoes for the first week. Cash. Credit cards. Insurance papers of all kinds. Legal documents. Everything was neatly organized and waiting for our turn at disaster as the daily fires continued. When we finally needed to go, the vehicles were stuffed and down the hill we went.

It’s a tough thing to leave a home behind. Being prepared, there’d been extra time to include things we hadn’t considered important or may even, essential. Old paper medical records from the 1900’s, before every cough and sniffle was digitized. Dental records. Address books. Every spare place in the vehicles was stuffed. Still, there were things we just couldn’t grab, because the fire was coming.

Driving away, a fog of smoke and ash made it difficult to breathe or even see. Due to the number of homes in the mountain community, large bombers were deployed, as the skies rained with huge loads of orangish-pink fire retardant covering everything. Helicopters dropped thousands of gallons of water on each day’s fire. With hard work and determination, only one house was destroyed during those two months. No one died.

With great detective work and undercover agents literally hanging out in the trees, the culprits were finally caught. The nightmare was over, but not without emotional scars. It’s hard to sleep at night when you aren’t sure if a copycat fire will be set. The two received 30 and 40 years respectively due to the wonderful work of the agents. Unfortunately, due to the insane laws of California, the monsters have been released to live wherever they like. Evil walks among us, folks. It truly does. (More information — Google Yosemite Lakes Arson Fires, Madera County, 2013)

The fires of today are even worse than those VST and I experienced in 2013. Forest mismanagement and the ravages of bark beetle and drought have left mountain residents vulnerable. Escape routes are not usually large boulevards, but pitted, gravel roads, not designed for heavy evacuation traffic or emergency equipment. Evacuation centers fill up early. Large animal transportation and care is limited. Horses need to eat. A lot. Sometimes it’s necessary to simply turn them out, making sure contact numbers are written on hooves with black sharpies. In a fire, human family members come first. A missing cat or dog may need to fend for itself until the owners return, if they can.

Disasters come in all sizes and shapes. Evacuations can be necessary for any number of reasons. Are you ready? Do you have a go bag equipped with a week’s worth of medicine and copies of important phone numbers and policies? Have you planned with a family member in a different area in the event of a disaster? Do you have numbers written down in case your phone gets lost? All things easily done when things are normal and calm.

Please pray for those evacuated from their homes from flood, fire, or the other natural disasters happening today. These families are experiencing something unforeseen and horrific. Not knowing if there’s a home to return is a horrible feeling. Losing everything near and dear is devastating. Thank goodness for the kindness and generosity of Americans. Keep praying for rain where we need it and none where we don’t. These are trying times.

If you had fifteen minutes to pack your life into a car, what would you take? Thoughts about this are somewhat important in these crazy days. Hard to tell if the 1,000 year flood or the 100 year fire will come knocking. Maybe The Big One in the form of an earthquake. Here in America, we have an abundance of belongings leaving some to define themselves by the toys they keep. But, in an emergency, What Would You Take?

The answer to that has changed over the course of my life. I remember the Loma Prieta Earthquake of October 17, 1989. Ironing while watching the Oakland A’s play in the World Series, the broadcast was interrupted by a terrible earthquake in the San Francisco Bay area. On a crystal clear seas side day, the television transmission started shaking and went to snow. From that moment forward, the news held horrors as camera angles showed downed bridges and overpasses that had squashed cars and drivers into mangled pancakes. For days, first responders raced at full speed, saving those they could, and making note of those for which there was no hope at all.

My parents owned a vacation condominium in Santa Cruz, California, hard hit by the jolt. Family lived in the little town. Phone calls let us know our people were shaken but fine, but would the condo still be standing? It was too dangerous for anyone there to check.

The next morning, the three of us jumped in the car to cross over the coastal mountain range to assess what damage had occurred. What did I take? Batteries, flashlights, a change of clothes. Oreo Cookies. Two packages. Why? Because everything is a little better with chocolate. Oreo cookies are an extreme comfort food. Would I have done better taking something more sensible to help those in need? Probably. But, the cookies went instead.

As we drove the three hour trip, damage was obvious along the entire route. Huge hay stacks had toppled. Roads had cracked. Buildings were at precarious angles. The closer we got, the more damage we noticed along the highway. The little coastal town we all loved so much was in a state of shock.

At the condo, a second story plate glass window had popped out and fallen straight down in a single sheet to cut through a 2″ x 4″ redwood deck like butter. If someone had been sleeping in the lower bedroom and run out of the sliding door, they’d have been killed. The free standing fireplace had danced across the floor. No doubt, the condo had been jumping up and down during the earthquake, but amazingly, it remained standing and sound.

Houses had slid off foundations. Roofs collapsed. Windows shattered. Power lines were down. Roads buckled. The famous Santa Cruz Book Store was a disaster, with every title laying in heaps like rubble on the flour.

One young family was without a home, as theirs had fallen apart. My parents immediately made the condo available to their use for as long as they needed a place to stay. Without thinking of logistics or risks, they handed the keys to their ocean view hideaway to young parents of two adorable kids. With nothing but the clothes on their backs, they were in shock from the disaster, but also from the kindness of two senior citizens from the Central Valley of California, doing what they could to help.

What would you take? What would you give? How could you help? We all need to consider that questions, because disasters will come. It might be our turn to suffer or our turn to help. Only God knows.

Carefully construct your list. Don’t wait. Have a flexible plan. Stay prepared. If Covid taught me one thing, it’s that the smallest disaster can cause the most profound shortages. Don’t become complacent. We’re all only one sneeze away from more empty shelves.

With that said, enjoy the beginning of Autumn. Here in the desert, the skies are trying to return to the deepest blue. The days are noticeably shorter. The pre-sunrise temps are hovering in the 50’s, making morning yardwork crisp and delicious. If you are lucky enough to awake to an unevacuated day free from disaster and smoke, be grateful. Happy Sunday!

With the Twentieth Anniversary of September 11 just around the corner, I would kick myself if I lost the chance to tell a wonderful story. I’m shocked at how few know about acts of human kindness that shine brightly next to the stark horror of that day. The Story of Gander Newfoundland is a jewel among the heartbreak and rubble. Just a quiet little story that will make you smile.

For passengers on 38 wide-body aircraft flying West over the Atlantic, 9-11-2001 was an ordinary day to travel. Movies were watched and meals consumed. Flight attendants were carrying out mundane tasks, along with caring for the needs of the passengers on these 38 jets. Pilots were checking logs and readings, with everything in good order as they made their way West towards the US. Everything was smooth, quiet, and routine.

38 Jumbo jets. About 6,600 passengers and crew. All going or coming by airplane. Unaware.

On the ground, in Ganger, Newfoundland, the population hovered at less than 10,000 residents. All going about their daily business, they didn’t know what would be asked of their tiny little town.

In an instant, all the serenity vanished as the United States of America was attacked in New York City, Washington, DC, and Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

Radio alerts to all 38 jets, instructions for landing as soon as possible came through loud and clear. These jets were rerouted to Gander, Newfoundland. They would be grounded for an unknown period of time because something tragic happened. Not much information was shared. Just a urgent need to clear all airspace as soon as possible.

For six September days following the horrendous attacks, passengers, pilots, crew, and residents would become a family. Every one of those 38 Jumbo jets landed at Gander International Airport with all United States airspace closed. When the news came that visitors were “Come From Away”, home kitchens came to life. Closets opened and pillows were fluffed. The townspeople came to the rescue to make Gander a home away from home for weary travelers. 6600 of them. Across town, casseroles by the thousands were cooked. Bedding and sleeping bags were needed. Regular townspeople became chefs and waitresses. Everyone came to life to welcome the strangers who had “Come From Away”. The town made it work for those that had no choice but to disembark and wait while airspace remained closed.

Donations poured in. Breakfast would need to be prepared and ready. Everything travelers would need must to be provided, for suitcases would remain in the holds of the aircraft. Prescriptions, diapers, underwear, toiletries. All for 6,600. Traveling animals would need food also. Everything was carefully considered, while few slept in the tiny town.

When the jets landed, passengers needed to stay aboard over 24 hours. Then, one by one, the jets unloaded passengers into waiting school buses for transport. The terror that must have been felt by passengers and townsfolk alike. Passengers didn’t yet know what had happened as those onboard had been told nothing. Townspeople were still trying to absorb the shock of it all.

A prestigious pilot named Beverly Bass was one of those stranded. She happened to be the first woman pilot to become Captain in American Airlines. A love story bloomed between two lonely Senior Citizens. Heartbreak coated everything. Mother’s whose sons worked in the World Trade Center held hands and prayed. People of a different skin color or language were embraced as family. Drama of every type waited to unfold.

How did I find out about this?

Years later someone brilliant decided to write a musical about this amazing story. Called, “Come From Away”, it will be released for purchase on Apple TV on September 10th. Please look for it, you won’t be disappointed. I would expect that on Saturday, we’ll all be feeling the familiar heartbreak while watching coverage of the day. Watch something brilliant and wonderful the night before. The lyrics in this musical are beautiful and unforgettable. Turn up the volume, as every word is part of the story that transpired. If you want to listen to the soundtrack before, go to YouTube. There are uninterrupted versions of all the songs taking about one hour of time to listen.

My favorite story is about Beverly and her love of flying. Called “Me and the Sky”, the last words of her song make me cry every time. The one thing she loved the most caused horror and devastation and came between her and the sky. I loved being a passenger as much as Beverly loved flying. How our world has changed! What was lost, youngers can’t truly understand.

I do plan to visit the Dover Straight. Someday, I plan to go there with someone I love dearly. I want to eat a dinner in Gander and leave an hefty tip, leaving some smiles in the town. There is so much to be learned by this story. Please do some research. It will make your heart glad to be human. Remember, there is always something we can do to help, no matter how small. Have a wonderful day.

A little country church along a wide space in the road has proven to be my peaceful spiritual retreat on Sunday mornings. Upon entering the church, one can feel the presence of the Holy Spirit. Comforting to a weary soul, this little building is much more than dry wall and windows.

“Pastor, there’s something I feel when walking through the door. It is REAL. RICH. It fills my heart,” I shared with him on Sunday.

“Joy, it’s the Holy Spirit,” he answered, as if he’d given that same answer one hundred times before. Goosebumps flashed across my arms. But of course! The Holy Spirit!

Since I started attending, the friends I’ve made have grown in depth. One of my favorite women reminds me of an older sister. Willow is tall and beautiful, looking much younger than her 70-Something years. She is the first to pass out hugs on Sunday morning. Sadly, her hip is worn out, and needs a replacement. On Wednesday, she’ll undergo surgery which will put her out of commission for a bit.

One of Willow’s extra duties at the church is changing the message on the church sign once every two weeks. She asked if I might be able to take over that job. I can easily do that when I go to clean for an hour on Thursday morning. Just like that, I’m closer to being a real church member than ever in my life. It feels great.

Sunday was wonderful day for three people to receive Holy Baptism. That morning, during Bible Study, running water could be heard filling up the baptismal font. The Baptistery, or designated space within a church for baptism by immersion, is located in an area beyond the stage. There, people are submerged underwater, symbolizing a life before accepting Jesus, a death, and rebirth after accepting Jesus as Lord and Savior.

Two steps up, the church has a stage on which the choir and band sit. At the back of the stage, here’s a wall with a space missing in the middle. Through this opening, a stunning mural of Pyramid Lake can be seen. From any angle inside the church, the mural takes on an entirely different look. Gazing at this mural so many times before, I never noticed the baptismal font below. The Pastor and those baptized are clearly seen entering the pool and then, under the water through a plexiglass window.

A young couple and their boy of 10 years had been visiting services for some time. It was father and son that were baptized on the same day, in the same baptismal font, one after the other. When both were done, they hugged while still in the water and there was more than one person crying at that precious moment. Nothing is more beautiful than a little man looking up to a bigger man in adoration. The timing only made it more breathtaking.

Sunday’s have come alive for me. It isn’t a building. It isn’t a certain religion, or a new dress and pair of shoes. It’s God and his only Son, Jesus, that make Baptist on Main sparkle. It’s parishioners with love turned on and their cell phones turned off. It’s singing slightly out of tune or rhythm. It’s generosity and prayers of healing. It’s all wonderfully uplifting.

This confirmed the spiritual nature of my little church wasn’t something I’d misread or wanted so much that I’d made it up. I smiled from my heart. There is a place in this crazy world that still makes sense after 2,000+ years. People gathering that KNOW the truth while being happy to share. People embracing others in need of a hug. Just a dusty little building on Main which comes alive with the Holy Spirit several times a week. Another magical place in this wide spot along a dusty little road in the town I call home.

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Please note, I shared incorrect information with you yesterday.

Correction.

“Come From Away” will be available for purchase on Apple TV starting September 10th. I’m not sure of the price, or other places it might become available. The soundtrack and many videos on the subject are available on YouTube for free with commercial interruptions.

Please forgive me. 20+ years as a teacher. Argghhhh. I should’ve double checked my info. My apologies. A special Thank You to the Coastal Goddess in the Classic Convertible with Tresses Flowing. I love you.

Twenty Years of Tears. Every September 11th, for the last 20 years, we’ve all cried throughout the day. Such horror and heartache. So much lost that day, we grieve. How can it be possible that such hatred walks among us? Evil took to the sky on that brilliantly blue Tuesday morning, changing our way of life forever more.

Flying used to be something I loved so much. People were kind to each other on flights. Dressing respectfully, it was a treat, not a right. Airline seats were bigger. Without cellphones, there was a chance your seat mate would be an interesting chap with a story to share. Flight attendants, called Stewards or Stewardesses back then, were wonderful and helpful, because they were in the air where they wanted to be. Before or after the flight, captains gave out golden wings to the children and asked them if they wanted to see the cockpit. Times were innocent because no civilized human being would have ever thought of using a plane for a weapon. 9-11 changed all of that.

People were expected to be on their honor, because, Americans were trustworthy people. Rules were made to follow, especially in an airplane. No one would’ve dreamed of harming anyone, let alone a plane full of innocents and children. No. The simplest of human decency and kindnesses made those days magical.

The week leading up to 9/11 is a tough one for me. Last year, my first widowed autumn, I was in the dumps. Each day, I’d run to Walmart to buy something small just to get out of the house. It was then that would see them. Kids and coaches. The first group I would notice was the High School Cheerleaders practicing high kicks and flips. This group of girls was out every day in In-Town Park, doing their best to follow the instructions of their watchful coach. School was closed. There would be no football games or competitions, but these girls showed up to work with their coach day after day. Just a group of girls working on their skills as a team.

The second group ran. They ran and ran and ran. The cross country team coach and his runners paced themselves as they ran along Highway 85A. With rhythmic footsteps, they followed one another on a mission. Bringing up the rear was their coach, watching to make sure everyone was okay. Again. No school track meets. No race to be won, except personal ones. They ran as a team for the sheer love of running.

Two teachers working with their students, doing what teachers do best. Caring for kids. Being a good example while helping everyone to strive for personal excellence in an empty arena. Great teachers are angels with a clipboard, and most teachers ARE great teachers. No one I ever knew taught for the paycheck.

It was September 9, 2020 when an idea came to mind. A random act of kindness. Sitting at my desk, I wrote a handwritten letter to each coach. I didn’t know them. That mattered not. The letter explained the impact their team had on me. I challenged them and their team to choose a small way in which to make something better for someone. In each envelope, I slipped $100. The letter remained unsigned.

On the morning of September 11, before school, the letters were left with the secretary. One addressed “Long Distance Track Coach”, the other “Cheer Coach”. Smiling, I crept away feeling better.

No. I never heard whether or not they chose to do something good with the funds. I know in my heart, they did. I know kids. I know teachers. The release and healing was in the giving. That was reward enough for me.

On this, the week leading up to 9/11, I’ve planned two Random Acts of Kindness.

#1. I’m delivering a letter and $100 to the auto shop in town. There, I’ll ask the owner to apply it to the next single mother’s bill. I remember being that mom. A broken car would’ve been something else I wouldn’t have been able to afford. It’s not a new car, but, I can do a little to help someone trying to do their best. The owner will know just who it would help the most. Who knows? Maybe he’ll donate some, too. Kindness has a way of rubbing off on people.

#2. $100 will go to the Senior Center to cover lunches for 50. That should be at least two days of free meals! Who doesn’t love a free meal? It’ll give everyone something to smile about. Again, maybe someone else will get the idea and do something else kind.

Small towns are a place we can all make a big difference. Kindness comes in all forms. Time donated. A neighbor helped. Sometimes just a wave and a smile can change the day for someone sad. 9/11 is a day for kindness and everyone has some small way to show it.

Please don’t ever forget. Don’t ever think enough years have past. Don’t ever think enough tears have fallen. Don’t discount kids and their ability to process something horrific. Kids need to know, too. Horror happened that day. It wasn’t just some people that did something bad. It was pure evil that attacked our country and way of life. We all need to remember what we lost and stop to think about those that died that day. We all did just a little.

Now, go do something kind. It will make your day!

One day, on the way to Walmart, I was caught off-guard while waiting behind a fire engine at a red light. On the back of truck was a bold sign. STAY BACK 343 FEET. Puzzled, I wondered if I was already breaking the law, as I was waiting about three feet from the truck’s back bumper. I’d never paid attention to the signs on the back of a fire truck, immediately wondering how the number was chosen the. Three hundred forty three feet is quite a distance to stay back.

As it turns out, many firehouses have a similar sign on their trucks. 343 is the number of fireman lost on 9-11. THREE HUNDRED AND FORTY THREE BRAVE YOUNG SOULS. This is a small way of honoring and memorializing the kind of men that run towards danger while assisting those in harm’s way to run from it. On that fateful Tuesday in September, 343 of them dashed into the World Trade Center to help others, only to be taken away far too soon.

The morning of September 11, 2020, I chose to REMEMBER with my town’s fire fighters at their station. Everything was in tip top shape, as the doors were opened to visitors for the program put on by our local Veteran’s association. The floor was so clean you could see your reflection. Everyone was in starched dress uniforms. Our local high school cadets guided elders to their seats and handed out programs. They also took temperatures of those entering the firehouse, which was the custom a year ago.

Our state governor, who isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, had ordered that all 9-11 remembrances be canceled due to Covid. Thank goodness for a Fire Chief that didn’t listen to the governor, but rather held his remembrance for the town. A Day of Remembrance can’t be cancelled because it is inconvenient or named a super-spreader event. Thank goodness some people haven’t forgotten. There are those of us that will NEVER forget. An hour’s worth of time to bow our heads in prayer for what we’ve lost isn’t a lot to ask.

That morning, the firetrucks were out front with lights flashing. The two largest rigs had their ladders extended with the biggest, brightest, and newest American Flag ever. As it waved softly between the two trucks, it spoke to the love of country felt by our dusty little town at a wide spot in the road. It made me proud to be living in such a beautiful little town.

During the program, solemn and quiet in nature, it became clear that our young local firefighters had lost older brothers. Maybe they hadn’t met in this life, but brothers they were. Grown men shed tears as they talked about friends that succumbed to cancers years after working the pit. In fact, the best friend of our local fire chief was in hospice care, waiting to put down his hatchet and gear in exchange for a halo and wings. One of the firemen sang “Amazing Grace” a cappella. Again, tears fell.

They spoke of the bravery of the brotherhood that took trucks from all over the country to New York City, providing help in any way they could. American men and women dropped everything to support those in need in any way possible. Distance doesn’t matter to true heroes during a disaster.

Last year, there were about 343 of us town folk that showed up. Just a guess, but I bet that number was close. I’d expect this year, there’ll be three times that many, because it’s the 20th anniversary. The doors open at 8 AM for a program that will start at 10 AM.

Wherever you live, there’s a local firehouse. These brave people give up family life to work long shifts. Sometimes just waiting around is the hardest work of all. When an unplanned illness strikes, it’s often the EMS from your fire department that run to help. They save lives and property. They miss many family events, as their shifts are often a string of 24 hour duty days away from home. They help in community events. They are silent watchers, keeping us safe. Face it, we all love firemen and they love us.

On Saturday, we need to remember the families of these brave men and women who died trying to save others. We need to remember and honor the firefighters that lived and worked through unspeakable horror trying to find and save victims. Those that lived through the funerals of their friends, day after day. Those that struggle with nightmares and illnesses they suffer through now.

STAY BACK 343 FEET. Remember those who ran those 343 feet and more on a beautiful September day.

The next time you are in a restaurant where first responders eat, through a $20 at their meal. Take a cake or cookies to a local fire station. Wave at their bright red truck on a day YOU are lucky enough to be enjoying normalcy. On Saturday, please give a prayer for these 343 American angels. Our world would’ve been a better place if we could’ve just kept them around longer.

Everyone has a story about where they were when they heard the news. My son had just left his duty station in New Jersey as an Air Man and young husband heading for California. My second son was in England working as a linguist. My parents were coming home from a very long trip. I found myself, like any other day, stopping by a convenience store to get my daily dose of Diet Coke before heading to my classroom.

In 2001, I was a 3rd grade teacher at a little community school. With 20 students to keep me hopping, I liked to be in my classroom each day by 5:45 AM. There were papers to correct, lessons to plan, and parent meetings to hold. Being a morning person, it made sense that my day would start early and end when the kiddos went home and I could become a farmer for the evening. A win/win all the way around.

That morning, the owner of the truck stop had the news blaring on the television. At that point, it wasn’t certain what type of plan had crashed. Dark smoke was rising out of the building and confusion was everywhere. Racing to get to school while listening to the news, the second plane crashed. It wasn’t an accident. By the time I entered my classroom, it was obvious. Something horrible had just happened, and with the potential for more than 20,000 deaths. No one knew how may souls were trapped in the flaming buildings or how many would be able to leave.

That beautiful day in the San Joaquin Valley of California, school buses arrived with children a little more somber than usual. Kids huddled together on the playground. Some parents kept their babies home. I would have. When the school bell rang, my little Room 20 family and I were together. We quietly recited the Pledge of Allegiance. I asked them to join me on the story carpet, a place of community and comfort for us. I sat down on the carpet and we all talked about what news was unfolding. Something bad happened in a far off city called New York. Our map came down to show the distance away from the safety of our school.

Third graders are some of the finest people alive. They are bright, intuitive, and thoughtful. They are made of heart, fire, and skinned knees. They love learning and want be good. They were the people I wanted to be with that day, and I was the person that they were glad to call teacher. And so, we brainstormed. What could we do to best use our time? What would keep us focused on good thoughts and deeds. We came up with a plan.

There were doctors doing their best. Firefighters saving others. Shop owners offered what they could. Policemen and women would work extra long shifts. We would write letters and draw pictures and send our love. Because right then, we had love and prayers that needed to be put to good use.

I was never more proud of class than that one on that day. They were brave and strong, even when they saw the teachers crying in the office. They were good and followed every rule. They drew their best pictures. They wrote in their finest printing. And, they remembered to give me lots and lots of hugs, which was a normal and wonderful part of school back then. At the end of the day we had a manila envelope full of love to send on its way.

Addressed–To the Doctors, Nurses, Police, Firefighters and Helpers on 9-11-01. New York, New York, it would arrive with thousands of others. On their down time, I saw tv coverage of the first responders sitting in a nearby church to read random notes of love from American children just like the ones in my classroom. Our letters had made it. They went on the Wings of Love from my kiddos.

As the years went by, there were less school hour remembrances of that day. Less talk about the horrors that happened. Less talk of the evil deed planned and executed by men from real countries we were not allowed to mention. Finally, there came a day when 9-11 was a normal school day with no mention at all. That was the day I knew I didn’t fit in the profession any more.

September 11, 2001, (my last as a teacher in California), I attended a special memorial in Clovis, California. Sitting deep in thought, the tears flowed as they had every 9-11 since the first. Attendees that day numbered 1,000, but it was two that came to find me that mattered. A beautiful young woman and her handsome boyfriend came up to me as I was bowed in prayer.

“Mrs. Hurt?”

Looking up, I recognized the young woman as a past student, now in her late teens. I needed to focus on the smile, as that’s what I’d recognize first.

“You need to give me a hint. I have a feeling I knew you many years ago.”

She smiled and said, “Mrs. Hurt, it’s Annie. You were with me on 9-11. I wanted to Thank You. That day has meant so much to me through the years.”

Of Course! Annie with the beautiful eyes. Annie with the impish grin. The smart and wise Annie of Room 20, grown up and yet the same girl from so long ago.

Just like that, it was 9-11-2001 all over again, but this time, the roles were reversed. It was she who comforted me. How blessed I was to have been with my 3rd graders that day. Did I mention they are the best people on this earth? Do something special tomorrow. Just don’t forget. We can never forget.

Amazing grace, How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved.
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come,
‘Tis grace has brought me safe thus far
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

When we’ve been there ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we’ve first begun.

Thank you for visiting today. I’ll be back Monday.

It’s hard to believe that just a year ago, I wasn’t blogging. No early morning trudging off to my studio to sit in the dark and write. For three decades, I lost my words. Exchanging them for teaching, farming, children, sawdust, and a guy named VST, I went to silent mode. Collecting stories to comfort my soul, I waited for a time they could explode in endless streams of vowels and consonants. For the last year, it’s been a dream fulfilled, as I watched my readership grow. Over seventy countries. Six continents. Reading me. Incredible.

Four seasons have passed. Through milestones and anniversaries, my words pulled me through widow’s fog and the darkest of winters. They pulled readers along, curious to see what stories unfolded. The writer of September 24, 2020 was a different woman than this writer today.

In the last year, I’ve had the opportunity to become the person I really am. With no one to shout “You should!”, “You shouldn’t”, or “How could you?”, I quietly became the woman I’m comfortable with. In no way a great example of a writer or anything else, but just a woman that likes herself. I’m really proud of that accomplishment, because, for many years, I lost myself. On very quiet days, a new part of me wanted to speak. My readers allowed her to have her say.

To anyone that isn’t a morning person, my schedule is insane. My eyes flip open at 4:30 AM. After a night of dreams, the stories are front loaded and ready to pop out of my fingers and onto the screen in between sips of coffee. It’s quiet. I can hear the noise of the far off interstate. Wind rustling the cotton wood trees. Cheryl standing watch, right outside the window. Oliver sleeps at my feet. It’s my time to create something for me, while recording something worth remembering.

“She stood in the light, turned a new corner, and burst all at once into bloom. The branches above her, the shadow at her feet saw her newness and gave it room to grow.” (I Am Her).

The autumn shadows are long, while he best time of year has arrived. For me, it’s fitting that my second year as a writer begins.

My muse, responsible for the beginning of my blogging journey, created a daily podcast for others. His thousands of listeners waited for his daily publication. I did, as well. Monday through Friday, his recording began in the morning, taking three to four hours. He researched and created his work of art five days a week, without fail. In other areas of his life, he wasn’t as organized. That was one place he could shine, and he did, until his light went out. One day, he put down his microphone.

I know what it feels like to have words trapped inside. Trapped words make me bitter and foul. Widows need to grieve. Words are meant to be shared. Stories are meant to be told. Writers gotta write. Women need to grow. It’s really that simple. In my quiet morning hours, I find new parts of me that want to speak.

Most of all, in my life, I’ve wanted to be a published writer. From the time I was a little girl, I knew that someday, writing would be a big part of my life. A person is never too old for their journal and pencil. At this point, it’s up to me how far I go.

With that being said, the progress of my first book, “Widow” is very slow. Not realizing the time this takes, I was very optimistic that it could have been done by September 24th. With self-publishing, there is no task-mastering agent to crack the whip. I’ll give you an update one month prior to publication. A few little detours, such a a pine loving neighbor, have complicated my days. As protective as a mother bear, I’m defending time for my words, making sure writing remains a large part of my day. Living the life I want, the future is getting brighter every day. What a journey!

Today, think about your passions. Take time to do something you love the most. Rearrange your schedule to include all the things you love. We all have 24 unrepeatable hours. How will you make yours count? More tomorrow.