Category: 2021

Checking earthly activities from heaven, I hope VST sees an earthbound constellation of glowing happiness while finding me in the center. My constellation is called “The Writer”, featuring me at my computer screen surrounded by stacks of books. Oliver shines brightly as a golden star at my feet, giving me inspiration to carry on. WP and all my sweet friends and family sparkling with kindness and love.

Everyone has their own sphere of influence here on earth. Choosing happiness or misery we carry on, day after day. Kindness makes every life twinkle. Those on the receiving end feel it. It energizes those that give it. Nothing could be worse than hiding our God-given gifts, positivity definitely being one. The world would benefit from emotional intelligence right now. Sadly, many people are unaware it even exists or the benefits of accessing it once in awhile.

As a widow, I plan to shine brightly, sending the best kinds of signals to the heavens. VST, I’m using my own wings as my words set me in flight. I’m finding strength to be bold, graceful, and hopeful. In your honor, I soar higher than I ever dreamed possible. I can sleep when I’m dead, VST. Just like we always said, Right?

Of course, with any constellation, many stars are needed to create this picture. From the very first day I was alone, the stars came out to shine. From hospice support to Ninja Neighbor. Winterpast. All the “Ya Don‘t Know who loves you ’till you do’s”. Strangers who smiled and offered a hug, becoming friends. My wonderful church family. New friends who made a difference in my life along the way. WP making a difference in my life now. CC. Da Girl. New star fusion even brought a most beloved D.O. back into my life. They’re all part of my earthly constellation creating the beautiful life I now enjoy.

As a writer, I hope my words are lighting the world on fire, one person at a time. Wondering how my words even matter, I’m still drawn to my computer at 4:30 every morning. As the words tumble onto the screen, I want them to be words that I’d like to hear. Something that would make me smile if I read it. Heaven knows, there’s enough sadness in this world to cover it with clouds a mile thick. Positivity is the wind that can clear those away.

People tell me I’m intelligent, cool, street smart, intuitive, independent, funny, sweet, accomplished, a bitch, a writer, bold, outrageous, fierce, self-assured, smart, a traveler, sensitive, brave, a gardener, persistent, faithful, loyal, a Christian, sincere, honest, loving, kind, helpful, observant, artistic, insightful, mechanical, mindful, obsessive, aware, creative, centered, playful, beautiful, soulful, spiritual, empathetic, sympathetic, self-aware, patient, exuberant, electric, demanding, exploding, authentic, observant, inventive, organized, and responsible. I wish I truly felt I was any of these things.

Most days, I’m unsure, scared, sad, lonely, and frail. Widowhood persists, rather like tinnitus. It never goes away, and so we learn to live with it. To make it through, I write.

Brand new to teaching in 1996, it was the first day of school. With my brand new designer outfit, shiny leather flats, fresh haircut, and perfect makeup, I drove 45 minutes towards the first day of my career. VST hugged me before I went out the door that day. His words were perfect.

“Remember this, Darlin’. Fake it, ’til you make it.”

I figured the kids would sniff out a fake right away. To my surprise, there was an inspirational teacher packed inside, enjoying the same wonder and energy held by my little students. I didn’t need to fake it at all. It was already there, waiting to be used.

I hope when VST sees my constellation, it makes him smile. Soon, he’ll be watching me at book signings and someday, maybe help me through a TED talk. Why not? This chickadee has plenty to say. I wave to the heavens some days as I write. Not knowing how these things work, I hope my constellation can be fluid. I hope he see’s me smiling. It’s in your honor I do this, VST. But then, you already know.

As a young woman, I did something that startled everyone I knew. I married as a mere girl of 21, and left on a plane headed from Russia. No, I’m not Russian, but a Volga German American. My Great Grandfather spoke very little English, remembering his boyhood along the Volga River in Russia. Born in central California in the mid-1900’s, I grew up three hours away from anything fun (including, but not limited to the mountains, desert, beaches, big cities, or Disneyland). Being a California girl, and blonde on top of that, common sense didn’t start to develop until later in life. I was a clueless child in the spring of 1977.

The bloke I married wasn’t Russian either, and also quite clueless. A city boy on a mission to learn something in college. On a job board during our Senior year in college, there was an interesting posting.

“Needed. One Agronomist. Tiraspol, Moldavia. Please apply.”

He did, accepting the job as long as his new bride could come along. That would be me. Arm candy on a foreign adventure. Why I accepted, I can’t begin to explain. I had nothing better to do. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Not accepting the position until the last minute, I received all necessary inoculations in one setting at the health department. A horrible two days followed, bedridden with the room literally spinning around me. Fever. Sweats. Chills. I think malaria, cholera, typhus, typhoid, liberalism, swine flu, bird flu, or Wu-Flu would have been preferable. In a matter of weeks, I was a college graduate, a new bride, fully inoculated, and off to the USSR.

With a ring on my finger and bells on my toes, I arrived in Tiraspol, Moldavia in May, 1977. Not speaking the language didn’t really matter, because the only person I knew there spoke English, although, we often didn’t speak the same dialect. For six months, I lived in a special hell that is communism. For anyone with a free will and intelligence, shear torture with no answers as to why things were as messed up as they were. The local “sheeple” didn’t know any better or different. I wasn’t about to point out how degrading and awful their life was.

Bibles were secreted deep under mattresses. Churches were boarded up. Elections had a single hand-chosen candidate who always won. Children didn’t smile or play. Adults were weathered and worn, with any hope or spirit beat out of them long before I came on the scene. Proper flush toilets were non-existent. Everyone walked in lock step to the beat of communism. If you didn’t….. Well….. Rest assured, everyone did.

I wore my daisy dukes and halter top to the beach. A little golden fish in a very small bowl. I was physically followed, watched with binoculars, taped, and documented. Hand written letters home were returned, edited by those in charge if stories were too sensitive or unflattering to The State. As I watched communist life grind around me, I knew one thing. America was a very special place I’d never again take for granted.

Our escape began in 2:00 AM darkness one early November night. We weren’t only fleeing communism, but the horrible American boss who ran our lives ragged for the six months we worked there. Risking jail, or worse, we lied and cheated our way to Moscow and eventually out of the USSR. Desperately trying to return to the country we loved so much, we would’ve told any story to get us to safety. We did, and it worked. Take a look on a map. There’s quite a story about two people who made it from Tiraspol, Moldavia to Moscow, Russia, with only a bottle of gin and a box of Juicy Fruit gum with which to barter.

Forty four years later, I wonder how in the world Socialism is even a discussion in this country. If it is your cup of tea, I have a little bit of advice. Take six months out of your life and go live in Russia. Not in the Potemkin village called Moscow. Go live off the beaten track. Try an outhouse on for size. Maybe a cistern well. Tote your own water, bucket by bucket. Try a horse and wagon on for size. Starve a little. Enjoy a room with no heat during bone-chilling cold. I did all those things. It gave me a perfect view of how lucky we are here in the United States of America.

I remember a reoccurring dream I had during the summer that Elvis Presley died. In my sleep, I strolled through aisle after aisle of the local Safeway. Every shelf was filled to the brim with all kinds of delicacies such as pasta, bottled spaghetti sauce, cheese, milk, rice, bread, lemons, and maggot-free meat. Delicacies not available to starving locals where I lived. Night after night, I’d dream this to be true. In the morning, the one grocery store was still there, stocked to the rafters with one product. Canned peas. Oily, grey, canned peas. Aisle after Aisle. Shelf after shelf. An entire grocery store filled with cans of oily, grey, peas.

We are so blessed with everything our heart desires here in the USA. An abundance of choices. Visiting Walmart last week, I found lots and lots of empty shelves. Let’s hope that soon, our way of life returns. That the shelves fill up with choices of the many different products we’ve become used to. Let’s hope we continue to embrace our American traditions, and, again, enjoy the holidays as a nation. We need to bring happiness back to Who-ville, because, we are the very Who’s that can do it.

Sorry for my ramblings. But, then again, not sorry. In my real world experience, I experienced it all first hand. Socialism and Communism don’t work. Just ask those immigrants streaming over our borders. They know a thing or two, as well.

How glorious it is to wake up to the sound of raindrops on the roof. Living in the high desert, we get very little precipitation. When it does come, the heavens open, causing flash flooding and drainage issues.

Visitors always comment on the cute little streambed that passes through my back yard. Yes. It’s landscaped with a rock bottom, and in its adorableness, runs through my 1/2 acre to the street. Every home in my neighborhood has part of this streambed, designed to carry off the torrential rains when they come. Winterpast’s section happens to be landscaped.

I’ve only been through one serious rain since I’ve lived here. It occurred shortly after Baily’s and Cream passed away (Miss Firecracker’s beloved husband). One mad skill he possessed was playing with electricity. He was brilliant in his field, having done everything from powering up a gold mine to working on huge projects in the wilds of Alaska. Talented AND handsome. Anyway, no one else could have contributed to the light and sound that night. The heaven’s opened up and it rained in sheets of water. As Miss Firecracker just mentioned yesterday, it was a great sign that Baily’s and Cream had made it to the heaven’s. Since that night, things have been quiet.

Yesterday, as I drove to church, a few drops were falling. By the time I arrived, I’d turned the windshield wipers on high. Roads around here are always slick in the rain. Either, they are slick with oils from the road or, it’s so cold, there ‘s ice. Driving carefully, I arrived safely at the empty church parking lot and waited for someone to come and open the building.

Everyone was in a great mood, but everyone included three people. We sat and started to wonder where the regulars were. Had we missed an important memo? Usually, our Bible study group arrives a little early to talk about our week. But, there was no one. Until the Pastor showed up.

Pastor C didn’t look well. It turns out he and his wife are ill. Not only he and his wife, but, the soprano, the alto, the percussionist, and the piano player were unable to attend due to illness. The leader of Bible Study. Out for the count. The back up sound person. Sniffling at home. And there we sat, now six lonely people, one of whom was ill.

I started to think about things a little more clearly. Not being the least bit ill, and wanting to stay that way, the door began to call to me. How many more people would struggle to come to church when they should have stayed home in bed? Who would give me a hug, and more?

It seems everyone probably got sick at the Wednesday Bible Study. We love to attend, but, last week, WP and I had more pressing things to attend to, and missed. It seems that was by God’s design. I DID clean on Thursday morning. Hopefully, my zinc, Vitamin C, and D are working and we dodged a bullet. Is it Covid that took out the church members? Not sure. The flu is also going around, and this year it seems to be a little more virulent than normal. It’s the season for all kinds of illnesses.

With a single phone call, I saved WP from exposure. I made a quick run for the door and back to the safety of Winterpast. Spending the day over a bubbling pot of spaghetti sauce while getting caught up on old movies was delightful. So blessed to have such a wonderful friend in WP, the day was a good one to get caught up on gratefulness.

Be careful, wherever you are. Do what you can to stay healthy. Remember, the vaccine doesn’t prevent you from getting sick. Neither do masks, really. My wet and muddy wide spot in the road is now a hot spot for disease. I plan to get in some serious writing hours tucked away in the warmth and happiness that is Winterpast. Have a wonderful day, whatever you choose to do.

At 65 years of age, there are some things I don’t like. It’s that simple. As I child, I was forced to try fish. “Just one bite”. A thousand times of “Just one bite.” Gagged every time. As a young woman, I was bullied into trying it. Left it under my napkin every time. As a mom, I felt it was my duty to introduce my boys to it, always eating a sandwich before dinner. As a Senior Citizen, there is no reason to torture myself with something I find awful in every way. I hate fish.

The smell. The texture. The preparation. The odor when opening the package. The slimy appearance. A lone scale here or there. Spiny bones secreted in flesh. I could go on. Everything about it disgusts me. Fish is not allowed on my counter or in my refrigerator. Certainly not on a plate I’ve paid good money for at a restaurant. I make my own rules now. I hate fish. That’s not going to change a this stage of the game.

As a college student, and later as a young mom, I did fish. With a hook. With a line. With a sinker. The least offensive of the bunch is fresh trout, but those need to stay in the lake, as well. I doubt I’m alone in my distaste for this food group. Face it. McDonald’s didn’t make their first Big Mac with fried Tilapia. It would’ve been curtains for them.

Many things have solidified my elimination of fish from my food group. One might surprise you. Fish are relatively innocent little beings. All day they just swim in their three dimensional world, being nothing other than the fish they are. They don’t harm things anymore than any other animal. Hidden, they just do their little fishy thing. Silent and out of sight.

Eating is everything for them. It seems they eat anything within reach that’s smaller than their mouth. Hence, a pea-sized brain get them in trouble every time. They’re not sharp enough to know worms don’t swim. Especially worms impaled on something shiny, like a barbed hook. Finding themselves facing a certain death, it’s too late. If death isn’t from the jagged hook, then, it results from horrors that come after being ripped off the hook.

Being pulled from water appears to be the reverse of human drowning. Terrifying and painful. I remember the look one trout gave me when I’d “caught” it. How silly. I did nothing but hold a pole, line, and hook. The worm made the ultimate sacrifice. Flopping around and gasping, my immediate response was to throw it back in the water. Of course, others in my group caught plenty that weren’t so lucky.

Fish don’t have a long shelf life. Ordering fish in the high desert of Northern Nevada takes trust in all those that handled it from boat to plate. In this day and age, I can’t trust the bagger at the grocery store to put my belongings in the bag without breaking something. I’m not trusting the hundreds of people it requires to process fish. Food poisoning is not a fun thing to experience. Old fish is even worse than fresh fish. Unless standing next to a coastal fish market, none of it is fresh enough for me.

People that LOVE fish are insistent little cherubs. Insistent that you haven’t eaten fish prepared in the right way. Quite sure that you just haven’t tasted the one variety you’ll crave the rest of your life. Positive their meal choice will change your 65 year old brain forever. Don’t even get me started on oysters.

If you know someone you love who hates fish, let them be. Swim proudly with your own preferences. Especially if the person is question is 65. We know a few things about what we like. If fish isn’t on our list, FERGETABOUTIT.

_{Song from “The Bucket List” Lyrics by John Mayer}

Take all of your wasted honor
Every little past frustration
Take all of your so-called problems,
Better put ’em in quotations

Say what you need to say. 

Walking like a one man army
Fighting with the shadows in your head
Living out the same old moment
Knowing you’d be better off instead,
If you could only . . .

Say what you need to say.

Have no fear for giving in
Have no fear for giving over
You’d better know that in the end
It’s better to say too much
Than never to say what you need to say again

Even if your hands are shaking
And your faith is broken
Even as the eyes are closing
Do it with a heart wide open

Say what you need to say.

After just watching The Bucket List, I long for the days when movies made us think and strive to be better people. Little stories shown on screen making us reflect on who we are as quiet little individuals trying to live our best lives.

In these crazy days, people are so afraid to say anything. Everything is dissected, with words becoming weaponized. Worse than any nuclear war, ideas put into words have managed to divide a nation of family and friends. Friendly discussions have long since left the building. What’s left is a sad and empty carcass of despair. We all need to say what we need to say. Carefully. Thoughtfully. Taking time to listen for a response.

In case you haven’t seen The Bucket List, you really must do so. Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson play together on the screen as two men dealt horrible fates. What they do in three months is what anyone would dream of doing throughout a lifetime. With time and money, all things are within reach. When health is taken out of the equation, things get desperate and very real.

How I wish we could’ve had three months to put a bow on my own love story with VST. Instead, we had nine ugly weeks. At the end of our story, I’m thankful we said what we needed to say when it needed saying. Hands shaking and faith broken, when his eyes were closing, I said what I needed to say. I wished he’d been able to respond, but then, we’d shared everything long before. I just needed to say it all one more time.

It’s better to say too much than never to say what you need to say again.

Say what you need to say.

Sir Oliver, Gentleman of Ashworth Hall has a name that fits him well. The picture speaks a thousand works. Intelligent and intuitive, he knows everything about me, accepting that I’m a crazy chick-a-dee sometimes. He knows when to wag and when to bark. Sleeping with one eye open, he keeps tabs on Winterpast, especially any rogue toads. He’s my wonderful and devoted friend.

Dogs are strange creatures. They love so unconditionally, they’ll do anything we ask of them. In Ollie’s case, he does it more quickly if there’s a treat involved. Even 1/2 a treat is better than no treat at all. He’s growing into a gentleman, and years from now, will devastate me. Dogs have that flaw. They pack a lot into their short lives, and then, run off over the rainbow bridge.

Some people debate the presence of dogs in heaven. For all of you non-dog-loving types, get ready. In my version of heaven, ALL my dogs are waiting for me. From my first dog, Roscoe, to the last one, whom I may not have met yet, they’ll all be there wagging and waiting for a treat. Heaven wouldn’t be heaven without dogs.

VST wasn’t a dog person. He didn’t want to be bothered and hated a stray dog hair on his tux jacket. They smelled. They barked. They got in the way of travel. Yup. He disliked all dogs.

Until Oliver.

Oliver was a puppy that needed walking. I’m not a walker. VST walked. Being a problem solver, VST decided if the darn dog needed walking, he’d need to take time from his retired day and walk him, as I wasn’t. Just like that, VST started asking Ollie if he wanted to walk before Ollie asked him if they could. It was a little vision of sheer happiness as Ollie did cartwheels waiting for VST to put on his heavy knee braces, one strap at a time.

Off they would walk. One slightly crippled Bionic Cowboy and a crazy little puppy on the leash leading the way. Wiggling to the sound of VST’s cane clicking along, off they’d go for their walk. I could never tell who smiled more, but there was no doubt, it was enjoyable for both. Just like that, VST became a dog lover of the best dog in the world. Sir Oliver, Gentleman of Ashworth Hall.

VST taught Ollie the finer points of being a Gentleman. Don’t jump. Don’t hump. Don’t bark. Don’t bite. In general, be polite and listen to others. Wink once in awhile. It throws people off. It took a long time for Oliver to embrace the teachings, but, VST had all the time in the world. VST was a natural at dog training, even teaching Ollie to wink. Oliver misses his dad just like me.

Yesterday was grooming day. To many, it doesn’t make sense that Oliver’s services are so far away. He loves his people and they don’t live in our town. Being thumbless, he really can’t drive. Besides, he’s too short to reach the pedals, so we agreed, I’ll take him. He has a reputation to uphold, as we discussed in a post a few days ago. His favorite person is his groomer Sam, as in Samantha. They met years ago when VST was still alive. Sam is magical. Ollie melts in her presence and yesterday held his paw out for her to trim his nails. He’s grown up.

Arriving a little early, we went in to meet the gang for the day. Two Corgi’s and a Cocker Spaniel. Cockers are obviously Oliver’s type. This one was an old gray with soulful eyes. Thankfully, a GIRL. The Corgi’s were there to chaperone. With judgmental looks, they told me they already KNEW about HIM and would keep HER out of trouble. Their cold little gazes made me look away.

Quick as a cricket, Ollie was one of the pack. No butt sniffing needed, he had friends for the day, and would lead the pack. So happy, he looked back once with a big smile. “Thanks, Mom-Oh. This is so fun!”

Upon my return, another Cocker had replaced the first. ALSO A GIRL. A young blonde with long, long legs. Being short has never been a problem for Oliver. Commanding the room, he ran the place, just like a judge in a court. Being an alpha dog, other dogs find him a likeable short-guy with a big presence.

The best part of my experience was watching his happiness and excitement with the others. His loneliness disappeared and he was one happy dog. But even better was the moment he heard my voice. Running to the gate he wiggled in delight. I’m still his best girl. The one he loves the most.

Oliver slept the rest of the day. Dogs need their buddies. In a perfect world, there’d be a Lady Friend cuddling up with him on high desert nights. In the real world, Oliver is a bachelor and will remain so. Two dogs are one more than I can afford in time, patience, and dollars. I know he understands and accepts his place as an “Only”. He enjoys the many perks, and for now, we’re in agreement. He has it pretty good.

Today, have a chat with your furry friend. Play a round of fetch. Give a nice ear rub. Enjoy a nap together. Our pets are a wonderful blessing.

Oh my.

I took off on an adventure yesterday to a place I used to enjoy. The hours and hours I’ve spent rolling up and down the aisles of Costco used to be amazing. In 1989, one of the first stores in California came to Central California. Being an amazing treasure trove of everything cutting edge and wonderful, my basket would be brimming at check out.

In those days, the associates were all known by name. It was fun to talk to Sylvia about her children as she scanned each item with her wand. She lived down the street from me, and we’d wave as she passed on her way to work. Anna always had the skinny on school issues. Marvin, in meats, could tell you lots of interesting things about upcoming events at the store. Being a membership only store, we treated each other like family. Hard to believe it, but we did.

Everyone knew we were the farmers with the two big dogs that ate one 40 pound bag of kibble every week. The associates knew that VST and I were a professional couple that farmed on the side. We never had to wait very long to get checked out, because we were faithful friends and customers. In those days, if the check out lines were full, the manager would open a lane to get us on our way. It was always fun to go to Costco. My how the years have changed things.

By now, the aisles should be full of Christmas decorations. In the old days, each year one special thing caught my eye. VST would slide it into the basket. Costco Christmas items were always the best quality, and often Made in the USA. My Christmas village was one of the first things we bought as newly weds. It fit so well in our little farm house, sitting atop the 1940’s dining room cabinets. Built in, they had a mirror above a center section of drawers, with two higher cabinets on either side. Since then, I’ve not found such a perfect place to display my tiny little town.

Yesterday, there was none of that. Now, I can’t complain. There were also NO empty shelves. Yes. The toilet paper was very low. But, as for the rest of the store, it couldn’t have been stocked more completely than it was. With a wide selection of this and that, the employees were doing a great job keeping up with the masses.

The problem was the masses. Rude. Arrogant. Rushing. Foolish. Zombie-like. How society has changed into a “Me First” group. It’s very sad. Every single aisle was open. But, of course, there were only two people checking receipts on the way out, causing everyone to form a line of hundreds stretching to the back of the building. I will never understand that procedure. Install more cameras. Make it digital. Do something other than physically looking at every single receipt.

At the meat counter, I asked the associate when the Thanksgiving turkeys were arriving. November 16th was the reply.

November 16th?????????

November 16th.

The thought of being anywhere around Costco from now until Christmas gives me a sick feeling in my stomach. Angry people who want what they want right now. Long before November 16th. With the state of our country, I am buying the very first turkey I see on the shelves. As of today, I’ve seen zero. It used to be that every store had a few turkeys in the frozen section. I like a turkey dinner once in awhile. There are special occasions that warrant a family dinner. Go take a look at your grocery store. I’d guess you’ll find no turkeys, either.

Just another American tradition being ruined.

Overwhelmed with our shopping adventure, we finally escaped only to find out that a person had been run over in front of the store. With a vehicle. With injuries. While the fire department and paramedics treated the person on the ground, we hurried in the opposite direction to load the truck and get out of there.

Folks. Plan time accordingly. Slow down. Take time to smile at one another. Be reasonable with Associates in any store. They are unsung heroes that are just doing their job. Say “Hello” to them by name. Smile at them. They aren’t part of the computerized system. They are tired and overwhelmed. Take note that they are not sitting at home because it’s easier to collect money from the government. Just that deserves a big Thank You.

With that little rant, I am off to clean Winterpast. So many things need dusting. With a bright a sunny day ahead, I need to rake a few leaves and take time for a soak in the hot tub. I’ll take time to hunt for the elusive turkey. Have a wonderful day, whatever you may do.

Thank you for taking time to read me.  Blogging, my chosen method of emotional survival, turned into something I still can’t believe.  Every so often, I get a comment requesting a few pointers for beginning a site. Here are a few helpful hints to get started. 

 1.  Start with Bluehost.  They’ll walk you through everything you need to do to create a free site.  It is so easy, I could do it. You follow very simple directions and all of a sudden you have a professional looking site. Please, oh, please, don’t choose the succulent I used. I love it so much. Your actual blog will be part of a site called WordPress.

Remember.  Your site is only free the first year.  The second year it costs $300-500 to keep your domain name.  After a year of writing, you’ll need to decide if you want to continue.

2.  Whatever your topic, write you.  Don’t write what you think others would like to hear.  It’ll be fake and your readers will know.

3.  Watch the inner workings of your blog carefully.  I’ve been seriously hacked one time.  I ended up having to pay another $350 for protection and haven’t been hacked again. The internet provides lots of great information on keeping your site safe.

4.  In the beginning, write every single day, choosing a time of day that works for you.  Make it your job.  Check your punctuation and spelling.  People do care.  I get reminded of that every day, so I do my best to make sure things are correct before publishing.  There are always mistakes, but, do your best to limit them. Punctuation and grammar are important. No one wants to read a poorly constructed blog.

5.  Wait to advertise until you have a rhythm, style, and brand.  Start with family and friends.  They’ll let you know if they like your writing.  And, they will.  I’m almost ready to start advertising now.  I’m not on Facebook, but plan to be, soon.  Using Instagram and Twitter, I plan to grow my numbers.  I have a self-published book coming out in April 2022.

6.  Journal your progress.  Blogging is the easiest thing in the world if you love to write.  It took me 3-4 hours to set up my site on September 23, 2020.  Since then, it’s been the most rewarding experience I’ve ever had.  I’ve been read in over 70 countries.  By Christmas, I hope my total number of reads reaches 100,000. Not astounding for the internet, but just right for a beginning blogger after one year with no advertising. Word of mouth adds a few readers every day. So tell someone if you enjoy my site. It’s helping me grow.

I hope this gives you inspiration to start.  Send me your domain name when you do. I love to read fellow bloggers. If you have more questions, let me know.  If you have suggestions, email me at Hawaiianhurts@att.net.

I’m truly humbled you like my writing. Happy blogging to you.

Joy Hurt

Some days, it seems that everyone is out to make a buck, regardless of how ruthless they are. With Christmas just around the corner, I’ll share my latest experience about shopping online. It involves a store that begins with a W and ends with a T. You can figure that out.

Being a girl that prefers the site that begins with an A and ends with an N, I haven’t ventured far from the tried and true. I mean, how can you beat it? You think of something. You enter it in the computer. It’s available, ordered, and on your doorstep in a couple days. Pretty wonderful shopping experience, without ever needing to put on real clothes. PJ’s are the new shopping duds. Gas in your tank isn’t required. Just a cup of coffee and a computer work fine.

Anyway, I’ve been wanting some new bedding. One store was out of anything worth buying. Another didn’t offer great prices. Never having shopping W_____t’s online store, I turned to them as a last resort. There, I found what I was looking for. A down comforter and sheets made of 650 thread count cloth. Fancy-shmancy. I ordered both items. A little later, I found a king-size fleece blanket and ordered that, as well. It was all over but the waiting.

A week later, the comforter arrived first. To say it was a disappointment doesn’t cover it. It felt like a piece of canvas. I think there was down in there somewhere, but not enough, by any means. The comforter was stiff as a board. Not something one thinks of when using the word down comforter. It could have been mistaken for a piece of cardboard.

The next item that arrived were the sheets. If these sheets were 650 thread count, they must have used spider web filament in the cloth. Scratchy and thin, the corners of the fitted sheet were held on by the cheapest of and elastic band that went around the entire mattress. This would last a couple washings and break. The sheets got a lower grade than the comforter.

Finally the blanket arrived. The most beautiful deep lavender color, it’d surely be a hit. But, arriving in a shrink wrap affair, it was covered in soot of some sort. The sheets and comforter didn’t come in boxes, but were shrink wrapped, as well. Very odd. Very dirty wrapping. Very cheap items. All three were duds. At least, I could return them to my friendly W_____t. right?????

Wrong-o.

Upon presenting the items to the associate, I was told all items presented for return must be in boxes.

But, wait. The items were delivered to me in shrink wrap. There were no boxes sent to me in the first place.

Didn’t matter. These didn’t come from the store, but the W—–t MARKETPLACE. Therefore, any refunds would need to wait until the MARKETPLACE received the returned goods. And besides, their label maker was down, so fergetaboutit. End of story in their minds. Next in line, please.

Standing there, I felt my Inner Karen come to life. This couldn’t be. With another Associate coming to the rescue of the first, the answer was “Sorry, Karen”. Returning home, I was on the hunt for boxes for these items. I’d try again at another store.

Driving to the W_____t 30 miles to the east, I hoped for better news. Dragging some boxes out of the trash, I made sure everything had a bar code. Off I went across the desert, trying to cool off along the way.

At the second W_____t, a sweet Associate did manage to accept the items for return. Her label maker had just been fixed. She warned me the MARKETPLACE takes awhile to process returns, so I might not see my refund for a week or so.

With Christmas shopping around the corner, be careful with online shopping. The W_____t MARKETPLACE must be a very, very dirty place, perhaps in the middle of a war zone. Don’t expect things to smell great. The fleece blanket smelled heavily of toxic chemicals, along with a covering of soot. The sheets were anything but 650 thread count. And, W_____t really doesn’t care if you are buying from a warehouse or the “MARKETPLACE”. They want your money, plan and simple. Buyer beware. Save your empty boxes. You just never know when you might need them.

When VST became ill, we were in the middle of a huge life change. The Dunmovin’ House in Virginia City was in escrow. Our new home, an hour East, was in a nice neighborhood, part of a town at a wide spot in the road. An “F” on a hill above the new neighborhood marked our spot on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Seventeen days before our move, VST died on an April morning in 2020. Packing became a chore for one lone woman lost in a widow’s fog of despair. Me.

Days turned into weeks turned into months into a year. With less frequency, I still run into things that aren’t mine. Sad reminders of the beautiful life we shared which stopped on April 8, 2020. These beloved belongings need to be returned to children that long for their dad as much as I do. T and K are the twins to which I send VST’s precious belongings.

One day while cleaning out a closet, I ran across a coat that belonged to VST. VST was a clothes horse if there ever was one. He easily filled two very large closets with everything from jeans and sweats to two (not one but two) tuxedos. He had dress shirts in every shade of blue. Ties, ties, and more ties. Shoes of every type. Socks in every color. VST loved clothing.

The particular coat I held was one of his favorites. His scent had faded, but, in my mind’s eye, I could see him wearing it. During the beginning months of Covid, I had to dispose of much of his clothing in the worst way. All thrift stores were closed. No one was collecting clothing for the poor. And besides, dress shirts that need ironing don’t appeal to a wide variety of people. Sadly, I did the only thing I could. They were discarded at the local landfill in a flood of tears as I prepared for the movers who charged by volume.

This coat had made the cut with memories so strong. But now, what? I couldn’t keep holding on to the past. No matter the variety of clothing items I still had, VST wasn’t coming back for a weekend visit. It was time that the coat would go to his twins, T and K. They could decide who in their families might need a nice coat.

Little did I know that my adorable grandson would be that person. JJM grew much taller than his Papa VST. A senior in high school, he’s a thespian, just like VST. He sings like VST did when we met in high school, so very long ago. He’s handsome, wearing his heart on his sleeve. He adored his Papa VST, and felt the loss deeply. The coat was a perfect way to receive a hug from heaven.

His mom, K, sent me a little video as he was leaving for school last week. It wasn’t lost on my, his Grandma Joy, that he said “I Love You” to HIS dad as he left the house. His last October day as a high school-er. On his way to one of the last autumn days as a Senior, he wore his Grandfather’s jacket. Being so proud, his smile said it all. He’s on the young side of manhood. I remember his grandfather well at that age, over 50 years ago. JJM is a knock off the old block.

Proudly, he wore is Papa’s coat as he left for school. It fit as if made for him. His smile and happiness left a wonderful glow over their courtyard. Frozen in time through the video, how wonderful to hear his heartfelt “I Love You”. His dad is such a lucky guy. He not only has two sons that adore him, but the love of our beautiful K. VST and I did our best to teach our kids about love. VST, it seems we did okay.

Hugs from heaven are within our reach to give out as widows and widowers. They are within our reach to take for ourselves. Next to the jacket given to K is another one. A snow shoveling jacket that kept VST warm on cold winter mornings when the snow was thick and the air crisp. I made the mistake putting it on and taking a deep breath that morning. It was as if VST was around me, hugging me one last time. It took my breath away, leaving me in a puddle of tears for a time. A hug of my own from heaven. Something I, too, need once in awhile.

When deciding about belongings of those that are gone, consider those family members that are longing for a hug from your lost angel. A coat is so much more than a coat. It is warmth. Happiness. Smiles. A heavenly hug from an angel gone too soon.

Have a great day! More tomorrow.