Category: 2021

Just a year ago, if someone would have told me what today would bring, I would have said they were crazy. Unthinkable it was that VST would be brought down by cancer. With very minimal pain for a guy that was in perpetual arthritic pain, there was no way we could have known how soon our goodbye would come. A counselor referred to this situation as being similar to death by car crash. In many ways it was just that fast.

As life often does, the sudden finality left us all reeling. Remembering back, it was suggested in the sweetest of words that VST and I would take long walks together and say the proper farewell. That we could have “Love Story” moments, heart-breaking-ly sweet and tender in which we shared our last words with one another. Death had other ideas. There is nothing sweet and tender about cancer. There was no time for deep conversations that tied everything up with a bow.

Two days before VST passed, I had the rare moment to sit and hold his hand. He was slipping into a coma, but still held my hand as he had so often done strolling into Lowe’s with his Darlin’ at his side. Even though he said nothing, he was listening with eyes closed, and an open heart. As we sat quietly, I thanked him for the life he shared with me. For sharing my deepest worries and best successes. For being the one I would tell my secrets to, while knowing he would understand better than anyone else. Talking through my tears, I shared until he had slipped away from me into a world between here and there.

VST died the next day. He took half of me to heaven. Plain and simple, there is no other way to put it. Life went into a strange mode in which I needed to find my way alone. I continued to talk to him every day, while sharing my grief with the one person that would understand. My VST. I talked to him about everything. Wearing a mask while driving, it didn’t look weird as I continued to tell him about the latest problem or success. We had reversed roles, and I was now the driver, while he rode shotgun. Listening.

As the days turned into months and the season rolled on by, the conversations became less. Earthside friends filled in for him. Until I find myself in today.

Grief and widowhood are the strangest experience anyone can ever go through. Truly, a wilderness of the unexpected. The mind plays cruel tricks when you think you might have heard footsteps in the kitchen, or someone in the bathroom. You think of something sweet you just need to tell your loved one, and in a nano-second, you catch yourself remembering that you need to hold that until you meet again on the other side. But, each day, things get better. Slowly, you find yourself again. Little by little, you accept that life is different now that they are gone. You heal.

These days, I find that my sorrow has been replaced by a joy from deep within. There are so many things for which to be grateful. Just this morning, I was thinking of VST and his distrust and dislike for doctors. Having a brilliant and analytical mind, he knew very well how to choose the medical path right for him. I have no doubt, if given two years of medical treatments or one week of Hospice, he would have chosen the one week. He left me on his own terms, quietly closing the door as he escaped on that spring morning last year. As he left, he was no victim, but finding his own path to heaven with God’s help. I know that as well as I knew his scent in the dark, or his hand holding mine.

These days, when thinking about him, I often smile at stories that we wrote together. The kids. The farm. The mountain house. The cabin. VC. RVing. Just being us. The happiness we wrote as our life story is in my heart. I can turn the pages and remember it all any time I want, and now, it is comforting. The focus on what we created brings a peace that quiets the voice of what might have been. There is a comfortable place for the two to exist in my heart now, and that brings acceptance and closure.

No matter where you are in you journey of grief, please know, things will get better. They will never be the same. That’s a given. Somedays you will slide backwards. Somedays you will catapult forward. It is a crazy journey, this path through widowhood. But, as in any journey, it is possible to end up in a place of peace and happiness, with the best memories comforting you. It is this I wish for us all.

Widowhood and retirement change this person’s views on weekly life. No longer are there two special days of the week to wait for or avoid. For decades, weekends were the days that held all the things that overflowed from the week. Fun things. Extra work. Chores. Time to think. Time to escape. All of those things wrapped up into two silly little days.

Nightly television programs were like stepping stones to the two days of the week we didn’t have any scheduled. Saturday and Sunday held a rhythmic sequence all their own, and we cherished them. Now, Saturday and Sunday are just two more days inserted into the 300+ days I’ve lived without VST. No meaning or function, they are like all the rest for me. Some days, they are hard to live through.

In the 1900’s, without things like Netflix or YouTube, a person was at the mercy of Saturday or Sunday morning cartoons. With little else to watch, one would be encouraged to actually open the door and see the world outside. Maybe even spend a day in it. Now, we are all easily seduced into hours of entertainment at any time of the day or night. It’s as if the world has turned into the interior of a giant casino. Anything you want to do can be done 24/7. Rhythms I grew up with are gone.

These days, the one constant is the seasons. Thank goodness for the solar ballet, keeping some yearly cycles predictably recognizable. Yesterday, sitting inside my house, the most beautiful day was on display outside. I’ve noticed that my trees, mature and grand, are stretching their buds, getting ready for life, again. It will take a little more time, but, the swelling of the branch tips tells me spring is just around the corner.

Last week, the holiest of time in the Christian faith began with Ash Wednesday. In my state, even the practice of placing a small smudged cross of ash on the forehead is now a distant memory, and ashes are sprinkled on the head. It seems every single tradition we have is being eliminated, all in fear of a deadly virus. At a time when faith is needed the most, it’s being challenged in strange and sad ways. Traditions are being eliminated, leaving many of us wondering what will be left when all the restrictions are lifted. I sat pondering this in my house, as the sun warmed the day.

It was then my something caught my eye at the back fence. A happy little gathering of the cutest kind. The birds have returned. Little ones, big ones. Red breasted robins hopping across the lawn. Little finches meeting up like old friends, deciding who will be lucky enough to move into the high rent district of my two little bird houses. Squawking crows overlooked the entire party. Just like that, the weekend entertainment had arrived on wings. Busily, the new tenants were racing to and fro, carrying little bits of fluff for the new nests. Winterpast slowly comes to life, as the calendar marches on towards March.

Sunshine is great therapy for those of us that grieve. Spring is a time that reaffirms the cycle of new life, after a winter of sadness and grief. There are amazing miracles happening in our own back yards, while we heal. Just open the window and watch. Happiness can surprise you on the wings of new little friends just doing their thing on a beautiful day.

Good morning, dear readers,

Every girl needs a little holiday. I will be back tomorrow.

Joy

Days for me are filled with write-able moments becoming the seeds for a wonderful story. When one can just sit for in the moment and soak up the sounds, sights, and smells around her, the stories are endless. Choose something and focus intently, you’ll be amazed.

On Holiday for 24 hours, I visited the most beautiful of spas. Last week, deciding my desert-dry skin needed some real revitalization, I booked a treatment at Spa Italiano in Sicily, Italy. Okay, couldn’t quite make it to Europe, so I chose a close knock off.

I don’t do spas. Well, I might need to change my thinking, as this was something not experienced in my 65 years. I guess I never chose the right one before. The first step was entering a store front. Just your usual overpriced lotions and potions. Wonderfully soft mittens and booties to capture all types of emollients, allowing them to work with the heat of your body. This shop was intoxicating, with colors soft, boxes intriguing. Checking in, I needed to embrace the art of relaxation.

The sweetest people work at these places. Where do they come from? Breathing lavender for eight hours a day softens any bitchiness that can boil beneath the surface. These ladies were the kindest of kind, ready to send me off to the land of nod. After taking the necessary information for payment, which could end a blissful state after treatment, they ushered me into Stage 0ne, the locker room. Presenting me with a robe that was out of the movies, they explained the procedures and left. This robe was like a mini-coccoon. Just the perfect size, luxurious and warm. Heavenly.

When ready, the first group of spa angels sent me heavenward in an elevator, explaining the spa was on three levels. Level one, although elegant, was functional. I wasn’t prepared for level two. The elevator door swooshed open to a retreat of the Italian kind. The lighting was just this side of dark. You could certainly see where you were going, but, the glare of the high desert sun was blocked with the absence of windows. A ceiling to floor waterfall reminded me of Hawaiian nature. Soft music calmed my nerves. This was the inner belly of Spa Italiano, and I had just purchased a ticket to nirvana.

Another spa angel gave me a bottle of water and escorted me to an inner sanctum of relaxation. Large, puffy, white leather chairs held my formally tense muscles, as I started to melt like a warm cube of butter. The world needs to go to a spa. Everyone. All at once. The peace in this room was overwhelming. Closing my eyes, I sipped cool water and listened to the wall of water tinkling its little tune. A true blessing, my world stopped and breathed in the delicate scents in the air.

After sitting at few minutes, the masseuse came through the door and gently called my name. Mrs. Hurt. How long it had been since someone had been thoughtful enough to call me by the precious name of Mrs. Hurt. VST was smiling in heaven, seeing that I was doing something really nice for myself. I felt it.

I followed her like a sheep into the treatment room. With respect for privacy throughout the treatment, she began. I purchased a mineral wrap. That sounds boring. This was anything but. Let me explain. You get scrubbed as one would lovingly prepare a potato for the oven. The application of a warm, scratchy scrub lifts off a layer of dead skin, leaving your skin feeling the softest. Of course, the stuff they use is like a buttery concoction of scents that go into your brain and flip the OFF switch. As I lay on a heated treatment bed that quietly went up and down, she worked on legs, arms and back. The music was attached to the bed, causing it to vibrate softly with the base notes. An immersion of the senses. I went to a place in which I forgot she was there, while nearly falling asleep.

After the application of a second heavenly moisturizer, the next part came. I was wrapped up in a thin plastic sheet conveniently hidden under the sheeting on the bed. I was left to ABSORB for a time. Just absorb the emollients and music, while laying on the warm bed wrapped in warmer towels. Peace. It was tranquil bliss.

When she returned, she went to a computer screen outside the shower and with a few taps of the buttons, she turned on the next part of this adventure. Left in privacy, I entered the shower of all showers, in which I could have remained forever. This shower was comprised for four small squares two on either side of the shower. With the temperature set at 102, these squares randomly showered. I swear it was timed to the music piped into the watery cubicle. The sequence in which these squares emitted water made the experience even better. With the perfect temperature and pressure, this shower rinsed away the first two applications and left me waiting for the third.

After drying, she returned for a head massage, and then the final application of dreamy moisturizer I could feel my body absorb. It was if my hungry skin was feasting on nourishment. Hard to explain. And with that, I was left to rest.

Fifty minutes of sheer heaven. At the end, I was taken through the reverse routine, and allowed to leave. I really wanted to sneak back up the elevator and hide until they closed, just absorbing the peace and quiet.

Not everyone has a Spa Italiano. Especially not a three-story one. Not everyone can go out in a Covid riddled world right now. But, most of us do have a regular shower that can create steam. However it works for you, plan a little spa date. Dim the lights. Start a candle. Warm your towels and take a moment for private relaxation. It seems I lost years of bad in a 50 minute trip to nirvana.

A holiday is a delightful thing to take. It doesn’t need to be days or weeks. It can be less than an hour. Everyone needs one, especially now. Good luck and bon voyage!

Every day, I feel lighter. This could be compared to a very long back packing trip, where supplies are consumed along the way. Putting on a pack each morning, it feels the same, but as the days go by, you begin to notice a difference. The stress and strain on your shoulders becomes less. You have more energy as you settle into the rhythmic pace of walking from here to there. So goes the journey through widowhood.

Reflecting back on earlier journal posts, I smile at the woman that began emerging ten months ago. Through a spring of widow’s fog, a summer of healing, the fall of exploration and a winter of reflection, along the way, I am getting to know myself on a much deeper level than ever before, while accepting that I am still pretty lost. A new life I’m creating of my own choosing. A journey full of so many twists and turns, it’s only through my own words, journal-ed on very lonely nights, that I am beginning to understand the strength and toll this took.

My studio has always been my secret hideaway. Girlhood trinkets and treasures remained hidden behind closed doors, safe from prying eyes. So much evidence saved from a life rich with wonderful experiences is hidden there. Those precious mementos need to move into plain sight for my own enjoyment. Winterpast is becoming the supreme She-Shed, all my own. I feel the spring bloom just around the corner, and I will blossom right along with the flowers in my garden.

Flowers. Today, I visited Lowe’s and to my utter delight, I found the first spring flowers on display outside the store. Being a wise and seasoned gardener, I know it is too early to plant delicate blooms. Dangerous frosts still await the high desert and these flowers are only a tease of the spring to come. That reflection I need to apply to my own life, so very tentative and fragile. Wanting to dance away from this nightmare is only normal. However, to dance too quickly can cause one to trip up and fall flat.

Writing continues to be an outlet that I am living for. This morning, a marketing webinar carried me deep into social media requirements, newsletters, and more blogging. Marketing my words will bring such satisfaction, for in my own thinking, I won’t be a REAL writer until the first book is published. Silly, as I publish ever day here on my blog. But, the words need to be un-delete-able on cream colored paper, page after page thrilling my new readers or bringing them to tears. 2021 is the year for this to happen, again, creating a new part of life that I haven’t experienced yet.

Friendship and laughter are alive and well inside Winterpast’s walls. Life is coming full circle to rest in a very happy space. Happiness hums me to sleep at night, while past memories bring smiles of a life well lived. As the new pages are written, I know this is what VST would have wanted for me when he asked if I would be happy living in Winterpast. Yes, VST. I am growing in happiness and light.

My marketing webinar had some very good advice for me this morning. In life, we must make short term and long term goals, while scheduling our days to make the most of valuable minutes given to us. One must believe in unique abilities and visualize wonderful accomplishments while staying the course. Then, we need to DO. Just DO whatever it is your heart says is the right thing.

2021. Stay tuned. Ready to take off and fly with my writing, the possibilities are endless. Thank you for reading, and stay tuned.

Warnings about the deep end should never be ignored.

Tell me somethin’, girl.

Are you happy in this modern world?

Or do you need more?

Is there something else you’re searching for?

***

Tell me somethin’, boy.

Aren’t you trying to fill that void?

Or do you want more?

Ain’t it hard keeping it so hardcore?

***

I’m falling.

In all the good times I find myself

longing for a change.

And in the bad times

I fear myself.

(Words borrowed from “Shallows”. Song Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga from movie “A Star is Born”. Written by Andrew Wyatt, Anthony Rossomando, Mark Ronson, and Stefani Germanotta)

The Deep End. This applies to so many things in my tenth month of widowhood. Some days there are no shallows. No place to stand on the soft sand while the waves of Waikiki rock a person back and forth. No lengthy strands of shallow water in which to walk a very long way into the Pacific. No. Just unthinkably deep water in which some days this widow must tread like hell to stay afloat.

Spending most of my time at home now, I’ve been sheltered from the reality of damage wielded by Covid-19. Last weekend, a friend wanted to take me for a walk next to the Truckee River in the Biggest Little City in the World. A gorgeous river walk has been completed for some time, rivaling the most beautiful spots anywhere in the world. With the snow-capped Eastern Sierra peaks towering above, this park is tranquil.

Walking along, I was lulled into thoughts of how ridiculous it was to stay inside, cowering from life. I actually felt wonderful walking along this beautiful river, while watching a mallard couple flip their little bodies downward in the shallows to eat from the bottom of the river. Pointed duckie butts upward, their little orange feet whipped back and forth through the air. Just the two together, vulnerable to danger, as they ate whatever duckies eat.

The man-made portion of the Truckee River was pristine and inviting, with steps leading to the water’s edge. The most beautiful rocks had been placed invitingly for sitting with one’s feet in the river. With the bright blue sky overhead, the perfect number of white puffy clouds were overhead as if dashed up there by an artists brush. The sun warmed us, and if there was perfection in a moment, we were experiencing it.

Only a handful of brave souls were out for a walk in the sunshine. Sunshine is the best disinfectant ever. Having been a faux-hippie mom of the 70’s, I learned that hanging cloth diapers in the sun to dry after laundering disinfected them and bleached them pure white again. Sun and fresh air are great medicine and a healing element for cabin fever. The key is social distancing. It always has been.

As a child, my mother told about the days of polio or meningitis, when families would go to picnic near the local canal. Every family stayed a distance away from the next. Children didn’t go on play dates. You stayed with your own. Farmers knew these things already and didn’t need Public Service Announcements to explain it. You kept to yourselves. Any farmer worth his salt would immediately isolate a sick cow or pig from the others. It was common sense, uncommon today.

Walking along this perfect path on this perfect day, we enjoyed the moment. A man with a Harlem Globetrotter’s coat came up to us and wished us a wonderful year. An older gentleman, his eyes were kind as he smiled. He, too, knew the magic of a sunshine-y day next to the river. Goodness floated in the air as we exchanged niceties and both continued on our way.

It was then, we moved from the duckie shallows into the deep end. With a left turn, we entered the dark, real world of homelessness, poverty, despair, and abandoned hopes and dreams. In the bowels of the Biggest Little City in the World, it was immediately apparent to me that we were in the deep end of “No More”. The last time I had been in this part of town, VST and I were floundering in the deep end of Cancer. As I became our driver, we made several trips downtown for visits to CT and MRI machines. GI docs, and Oncologists. Just a year ago, the town was bustling. Store fronts advertised their goods. Visitors were crossing the street from one cavernous casino to the next. Now, the quiet ricocheted off the skyscrapers. Empty. Desolate. Urine stained streets. Beggars in alcoves. Immediately. The DEEP END. I feared for myself, while fearing others, as well.

Sunshine was gone, blocked by behemoth structures of stained concrete. There was no light or lightness in this place. As cars raced through the center of this place, they didn’t stop. No longer a hub of fun and activities, this was a wasteland of “What Was”. Broken humans, zombie like, dotted the sidewalk. Sadness coated me like an unwanted shower from a puddle splashed up from a rain soaked street.

My friend didn’t quite understand, being naturally skilled at swimming through these situations as a SEAL. In Sherpa-like fashion, he realized my fear and we returned to the JEEP, racing back to the safety of home.

Reflecting on that experience brings me back to my own widowhood. So many days and weeks string together like pearls of beauty. Happy days of buying bulbs for spring, or soaking in the new hot tub. Then, one picture or a song on the radio can cause momentary devastation, as if you hit a pot hole and need to tread water while getting back to the safety of the shallows. Never knowing when this might occur, the exhaustion from constant bombardment is deep.

Like the ducks, I find the shallows to be full of the best food and safety for now. There’ll be a time for venturing into the deep. For now, I’ll stick to wading.

Looking at the calendar, I remember facing December 1st, and the dread I felt over the onset of winter. Not a “Central Valley of California” winter, where the lows never got much past freezing. High desert Northern Nevada winters where the high might reach 20, while the wind chill factor would be much lower than that. That kind of winter. Postcard winter-white days, with mustangs standing in snow, their woolly coats hiding protruding ribs. Winters in which the cloudy sky kept the sunshine hidden for days on end. Winter days when my garden slept soundly.

Well, Day One of spring is three weeks away!!! The time will change on March 14th, giving us long evenings to putter around in the garden. The birds are gearing up for new life. More exciting than that, my lawn knows. Yesterday, I spent some time cleaning up. The lawn had a hint of green, being just a tad warmer than the surrounding air under the protective blanket of decaying leaves. How exciting! It thrills the heart of any gardener. Mine is no exception.

I’m itching to bring out all the lawn and garden furniture I tucked away in November. But, the high, as I write, is 23. Still a little chilly to tan with a glass of lemonade. The optimism spring brings makes me want to jump the gun and drag things out. I just may need to act on that impulse.

For Christmas, I bought myself a new wind chime. One with beautiful tones that will sing softly as the breezes of spring blow across the desert. With the stronger winds of March, it will complain louder. Clanging will occur as torrential spring rains pummel the ground. My yard came prepared, with a complete drainage system to carry away water from flash floods. The desert is a brutal place in so many ways.

Back yard sounds bring thoughts of widowhood. The torrential sobs, out of control and vicious, that rack a new widow with agonizing pain during shock and denial. Soft voices bringing comfort to a broken heart as it suffers through pain and guilt. Depression, reflection, and loneliness that blow over in waves like a high desert wind storm. Just as the chopping hoe removes unwanted weeds and the rake smooths the ruts, life is reconstructed. As the garden blooms again in the warmth of the sun, the heart works through the unthinkable. Acceptance arrives, just as surely as spring has, year after year, century after century, since the beginning of time. Predictable and sure.

Winter in my yard has been silent. Octogenarian neighbors have huddled inside, not even asking gardeners come to bring relief from the quiet. Sounds, created miles away, drift slowly towards Winterpast. The sounds of nature have been my only company on most days, and know them well. I know how long it takes for a howling bank of wind to buffet my house. I know their usual path and the sound tells me their strength. How many city dwellers don’t even know the wind makes a sound? In my world, the wind IS the sound.

Even now, in the newest of light in the day, the birds are talking. Planning their course. Flirting. Little birdie dates are being made. The search for nest material has begun. The fight over the bird houses is in full swing. Spring! Spring! Spring!

Get your shovels sharpened, and take inventory of your garden tools. Don’t wait! Go buy some new bulbs and plants to dress the garden in color. Time to nourish the soil and prune the roses. The show is about to begin. Don’t be late. Three Weeks Left!!!!! SPRING!!!!!!

It has been 326 days since I lost VST. The sweet lady on Day 1 and I are hardly recognizable as the same person in some ways, exactly the same in others. Learning along the way, I’ve become stronger, while appreciating everything it took to get me this far. Safe and happy, I approach the milestone of Month 11, only a week away.

The observance of the One Year Milestone will occur at our favorite place, Beach Town, USA. I’d never stayed there prior to enjoying it with VST. He made the place come alive with stories of his visits as a child, becoming a younger version of himself as he told them. Many times I asked whether we should have moved there instead of VC, but his answer was always the same. We’d never return to California, but continue to visit his beloved beach as often as we could.

326 days I’ve been in the wilderness of widowhood, however that number is only the days I’ve lived without him. The grieving started months before when Cancer threw curve balls that we dodged. Changes in personality and even the ability to stand normally while attaching a sign to a fence were written off to old age, as we snuggled into our dreams. A longing for our old life came to both of us months before Cancer made an entrance.

Thirty-nine days are left before I reach the Ist Heavenersary. The world needs names for everything and someone else coined this. Probably a way for Hallmark to pump out more cards. It works, because I’ve yet to meet any widow or widower to which this day is not horribly significant. A passage into another phase of life. Not to say I’m expecting things to be dramatically different, but they will be. Just as when 2021 arrived and I could finally say “VST died LAST YEAR”. A significant passage.

Yesterday, I realized my house needs a revamp that will be completed before I leave in early April. Just as the tide changes the appearance of a beach, pictures and mementos need to change places. Quite frankly, I’m turning my house into a She-Shed as there is just one SHE that lives here. It’s time to celebrate ME, discovering the style I love while I change things up. Yesterday, I started in the bedroom.

Spring cleaning the blinds, vacuuming under the bed, and polishing the furniture, the time to consider my adult taste in design has arrived. As a woman, it was already in place. The addition or movement of a picture can change up the focus which will be happening over the next month. It’s time for a few more precious and private possessions of VST to move to the guest room. For a few more drawers to become empty. It’s the final phase before I reach the Gate as I enter Year Two. It’s time.

Miss Firecracker and I had dinner last night. Being an absolutely sweet and wonderful friend with advise that is priceless, she knows all I tell her, and sees more I haven’t divulged in words. In careful discussions, our conversations tell me a lot, while her reactions tell me more. Everyone should have a Miss Firecracker as their bestie in life.

We’re both doing the same. Working in our nests, while working through our grief. Deciding what to sell, what to donate, what to box for the kids, and what to hold close to our hearts. Three decades and then some is a lifetime of sharing. Even a special pen can hold memories, given from a realtor as we sold the ranch. To others, it would be worthless, unable to produce ink on a page, but to Widow-Me, it is priceless. Miss Firecracker and I are going through this process. No one, other than another widow, knows the exhaustion this produces. Mental. Spiritual. Emotional. Physical. Cardiac. Total Exhaustion.

No one but a widow knows how good it feels with every box that is packed away. No one but another widow knows each box rips away a part of your heart that needs to heal all over again. As the process continues, the healing phase seems to go quicker, the goodbyes to precious items become easier.

There’s a peace in letting go of things to which one can no longer hold. That includes the longing for a mate that is gone. The strangest thing is this. I’ve let VST go thousands of times in thousands of ways. To release him totally to the universe is still impossible, and I suspect will be impossible for the rest of my life. His eternal love lives in my heart. No rearranging of those precious memories, as they adorn the most beautiful She-Shed that is my heart.

Oh, the joys of a fresh week! Just like getting a brand new journal in which to write! The possibilities are endless and the first words a delight to behold. So is it on this Monday morning as the sun is just peeking out of the East. The birds are singing outside my window as the week begins its journey onward.

I find comfort in the bustle of Monday morning. Commuters all leaving to head off to their jobs. Kids slowly finding their way back to classrooms. Teaching long ago, Monday morning meant different things to different kids. To some it meant saying goodbye to enriching experiences with their parents. A trip to the beach or snow. Immersion into a favorite book they had been waiting to begin. Or just time to rest their brains after a busy week. For a sad few it meant relief from a horrific home life and the promise of a hot breakfast while returning to a comforting routine.

For us all, it meant a week together as one functional Third Grade family. Room 20 was a place of safety and learning. First and foremost. It was a place in which we counted minutes as carefully as nuggets of gold, because they were that precious. It was there we all learned about time management. A day is a terrible thing to waste, because you can never get the minutes back. We made sure we spent them wisely.

As you can tell, I miss spending time with students. There is an amazing exchange that occurs between a wise and loving teacher and her kiddos. If your children or grandchildren are with such a person, please remember to thank them every day. When I taught, kids were with me more than with their parents, Monday through Friday. It was if I was their moon and the stars as they mine. Through that trust and friendship, I showed them the world of words, watching and learning as they became writers. Some would beg to write through lunch. True. Imagine my delight.

Never an athlete, I was a terrible PE teacher, unless it involved telling a story about injuries and how to avoid them. I wasn’t much better at math, carefully studying lessons the night before and hoping I didn’t misspeak, as the kids listened intently. Language Arts was my wheelhouse, and the kids spun into a kaleidoscope of verbs, nouns, adverbs, prepositional phrases and more. They spun ideas and stories into a vast array of thoughts we stapled proudly to the walls. They went on to do great things, one in a doctoral program learning to help disadvantaged children. Another surprising me as a pediatric nurse with her stethoscope hanging proudly over her scrubs. Hundreds more doing great things I can only imagine.

They came to me knowing letters and words, and in one school year flew away as writers. They always took a bit of my heart with them that last day, scooting out the door into summer. During 180 days together, they took memories of the time spent learning about important events and thoughts. They left me with my own memories of precious hours spent with golden children.

My teacher manuals rest on a shelf in the garage, long outdated for newer versions. Teaching strategies that worked well in the 1900’s have been replaced. Covid now tethers children to home computers where things might be great or not so great. “Teacher” has become a flat vision on a screen, not a sweet woman that could comb your hair for you before school because mom didn’t have time. Not the yard duty woman on the playground on a foggy morning giving out free hugs to whoever needed one. Not the whistle yielding ninja that could stop a running child from slipping on ice. Just a flat screen reciting the days lesson with no chance to see your reaction or watch your feet tapping softly because you really didn’t understand.

These days, my own time management is focused on personal writing as thoughts and words splashing up on the screen. My heart has waited patiently for years to tell its stories. Now it’s my time to practice grammar and spelling skills. A time to vent from my soul. Minutes now equal stories, weeks away from becoming my first book.

Monday. It is a fantastic day with possibilities for the week. Even retired, Mondays are special. A chance for re-dos while changing up a routine that isn’t productive into one that sizzles. Wake up! Day’s a wastin’! Have a great Monday!

Yesterday, the doorbell alerted me to the welcome sight of delivery men with my long awaited hot tub cover. The hot tub has been a wonderful indulgence, providing hours under the stars to contemplate life as a published author, among other things. Bubbles of luxury allow relaxation to overtake me, preparing my mind for hours of deep sleep. Yes, the hot tub was an important addition, although I’ll agree, a wee bit extravagant.

A girlfriend went a less expensive route, buying a “Spa-In-A-Box” (SIAB) for $400 at WalMart. Having soaked in both, her SIAB is absolutely perfect for her situation, and also delivers relaxation and a place to unwind. Good for moderate climates and three seasons, her tub is currently deflated and in the garage, awaiting warmer days. So many options are available when considering the addition of a hot tub to your life. Being outdoors in a tub of hot water is wonderful no matter the vessel in which you soak.

Delivered on Super Bowl Sunday, my spa was quickly hooked up by T, VST’s son, (totally claimed as my own). High desert temps are not especially friendly when attempting to turn cold water into 104 degrees of heated luxury. The cover was back ordered, while I was assured it would be shipped separately and quickly. So. I waited. And waited. And waited. And waited, until I finally reached out to investigate the cause of the delay. With several contacts, I finally found my cover angel and the problem was resolved.

Not before I received last months power bill.

Yikes.

Just.

Yikes.

Now, with the cover in place, I have every hope that the bill will return to a more acceptable amount.

The point of the story is this. I could’ve been raging since Super Bowl Sunday, demanding a cover that was back ordered and unavailable. I could’ve spent more money and ordered another cover. I could’ve sent angry emails and posted horrific company revues. But why? The outcome wouldn’t have changed. I chose time to relax and be happy in a beautiful, bubbly, luxuriously, wonderful spa while practicing patience. The cover arrived, and all is well. Happy ending.

Two days prior, a most welcomed visitor stopped by. Yielding his magic on several of my neighbor’s yards as spring approaches, my beloved gardener rang. A most interesting guy, he’s a proud new citizen, knowledgeable in every aspect of gardening and yards. He has a real occupation, but gardening is his passion, listening to Lindsey Stirling music while working magic on the yard.

As Senor B and I took inventory of needed projects, I found myself agreeing with him on necessary pruning and tillage. These are two jobs I can’t do myself, if only for the magnitude of the job. With over 25 trees of all varieties, all 10-16 years in age on 1/2 acre, there is no way for me to accomplish that task alone, or even with help. I needed to Fold ’em and say, “How much and when?” With answers to those questions, the pruning project will commence, including the removal of debris.

As a solitary widowed senior citizen, there are some things I COULD do, but SHOULD NOT do. Pruning on a ladder can tumble one right into a hospital emergency room. Not something I can accomplish at 65 years of age. I can hear a collective sigh of relief from my kids (that are not kids, but amazing adults). Thank goodness for Senor B and his staff of helpers.

There are so many spring projects left to complete. Using the warming afternoons to start spiffing up the place, my days are busier now. The high desert winter afternoons are choking out snow and cold. The bluest of skies are back with puffy white clouds streaking through. I’ll never grow tired of the beautiful place in which I live and thrive. Even the mustangs are spring-time-feisty these days.

Sometimes we all need to accept help, while taking a breath as we realize our limitations. Some things planned take time. Grief appears, demanding attention. Keep faith that spring will hold a recognizable normal, something for which we are all longing. Smile as you step outside into the sunshine. It’s good for what ails us.