Category: 2021

(Cadance Borrowed from “Oh, The Places You’ll Go” Dr. Seuss)

Spring is arriving

The clocks, change them back!

Lose one hour of shut-eye

Squint-eyed on our backs.

Change the clock on the stove

Change the clock, microwaving

Change the clock on the mantle,

Changing clocks, you’ll be slaving.

On your own, you. Go quick or go slow

Directions without, it’s a yes or a no.

Now sun on the street, shines at 6AM

You check this clock and that

Trying not to forget ’em.

On your own, you. You go quick or go slow

Directions without, it’s a yes or a no.

With the speed of a youngster

To this room and that,

You flit here and there

Time not for chit-chat.

And you may not find any

In some certain rooms,

No clocks in the shower

Nor next to perfume

Time speeds away on this very bright morn,

What was 7 is now 8

It makes you forlorn.

Not very hungry for lunch you now feel

Because noon was eleven

Yesterday, Making you squeel.

The day is off kilter,

It brings up a frown,

You feel sort of angry,

A little bit down.

But finally, each clock,

On this race-away day,

Is now showing time right,

Or that’s what they say.

You sit down and ponder

Smiling broad and sincere,

You did it, you did it,

Without any fear.

No directions were needed

To set your world straight.

When Six became seven

And seven became eight.

You don’t lapse behind,

You’re right on the money,

What?

It’s bedtime already?

Time change is quite funny.

To bed in the twilight

That used to be seven,

Now eight and fifteen,

My brain says, “Oh Heaven’s”

Where are my glasses

A book I will read,

Time slow as molasses.

Changing the clocks,

A simple task, not,

Thanks for listening to my tale

I thank you, a lot.

Thank you, Dr. Seuss, for introducing me to words and helping me learn to read. J

The time has changed, and I’m a little behind this morning. As I smile about my day yesterday, I’ll share with you what made it special. Just little things that unfolded throughout the day, that when rolled together, made the most beautiful day on which to reflect. I often forget to rejoice in a day full of little bits of happiness stirred with a dose of surprise.

Yesterday started out in very normal fashion. Feeding Oliver, enjoying the first cup of coffee, and blogging. All very enjoyable on any day. I’ve found the luxury of having my groceries delivered makes any day a grand one. You can’t imagine the delight I feel when the doorbell rings and my bags of carefully selected groceries await. A luxury I feel blessed to enjoy. At any rate, with my feeble brain, I forgot some key elements on my list, and needed to head off to Walmart to finish shopping.

The first bit of great luck was that they just put out the new swimsuits. Having just acquired a hot tub, a girl can’t have too many, so I bought a variety in different sizes. As it turned out, the three styles were made for me in my 65th year. No movie star or model body here, just a regular senior citizen body. Happiness strikes at the soul of any woman when she finds the right swimsuit. I found more than one! Home run!!!

As I was rejoicing over my find, a sweet girlfriend and I ran into each other and had the best chat! You know your town is not that new to you anymore when you meet a friend at Walmart. How wonderful!!! We visited about this and that, and decided we’ll have a dinner and soaking party in the next two weeks. She was bubbly, cute, and wonderful, as she always it. Again, happiness filled my heart, as I thought about how lucky I am to have wonderful family and friends.

Once home, the gardener came to spruce up Winterpast and prune my trees, not a task I could do myself. When I receive services that I’m unable to complete, I’m deeply grateful. The man who cares for my gardening needs is such a good guy. Referred by a neighbor, he too, is a friend. We enjoyed getting caught up after his long winter absence. Winterpast looks ready for spring now. Fresh and crisp under the brightest blue sky.

I also decided to go for a walk today. The first one of the year, it was the perfect day for it. I found that my walk is 23 minutes long, around a very busy neighborhood. Now, I pay attention to little details in the yards surrounding me, getting ideas for my front yard project. I.m taking note of which home owners own their own tractors and heavy equipment, in case I might have a need for such services. Every day, I rejoice in the choice I made when moving to my neighborhood. Such a beautiful place. I’m truly blessed.

As the day continued to get better and better, my sweet K called to check up on me. She is the most beautiful daughter anyone could ever ask for. As we talked, I remember that not all that long ago, I was her age, with sons of my own in their late teens. Where did the time go? She and I chatted about this and that. K is the most gracious and sweet soul, having had the worst year in her life with the loss of her beloved dad. She has grown so much through the loss, becoming even more beautiful. I am the most blessed to have her in my life.

Bearing two sons, I never really understood what it meant to have a daughter of my own. Through the saddest of days, VST’s daughter became my heart-daughter. In our conversations, I’ve shared about this crazy new life called widowhood, and she’s always been there to listen, even when I know it must be weird and hard. For that, I am tearfully grateful, as I rejoice at the love we share in our family.

Finally, I got a call from a dear friend that was craving a bit of homemade spaghetti. With the pot simmering full of Italian sausage, ground beef, diced tomatoes, basil, spices and goodness, I readied the house for dinner. Bringing laughter and sweetness into my life, I’m grateful for the day we met.

All these minutes were rolled into a normal day. Others might find my day mundane and boring. I find it was everything that a wonderful day should include. Great Weather, Family, Friends, and new bathing suits that fit. It really doesn’t get better than that.

Rejoice in the little things!!!! And check your clocks. The day’s a-wastin!

Please forgive me. The time change robbed my blogging hours.

I will be back tomorrow

Thank you for supporting me by reading!

Joy

Optimism — Hopefulness and confidence about the future or the successful outcome of something.

Optimism –In philosophy, the doctrine, as set forth by Leibniz, that the world is the best of all possible worlds.

Tax Day — April 15th. A day dreaded by all. This date is not usually accompanied by an optimistic feeling. I wish to change that for myself.

Yesterday, while remaining optimistic, I spent the morning massaging the entries in Turbo Tax to come up with an amount of money that will represent my donation to the United States Government.

Tax Day. Last year, preparing our taxes was one of the last things VST lovingly did for me. His 2019 Tax folder proudly displays some of the last numbers and words he wrote. Although I always joined him to approve and sign the resulting document, he created the tax return after completing the heavy lifting all year long. Just one of the hundreds of things VST handled so quietly and perfectly while he was alive.

Grateful that Turbo Tax is available, I started entering documents a month ago when the kids (who aren’t kids, but adults) were here. It’s pretty amazing how many tax documents arrived after the first of the year. I’d just put them in my own tax folder marked 2020 Taxes, just as VST would have done. Pretty soon, my little folder was bulging. I must admit, I was a bit overwhelmed by the number of important documents.

Soon, I couldn’t ignore the task at hand. One by one, I entered the information written on the forms, and soon, I created my very own 2020 Federal Tax Return. Just ‘Like That! One entry at a time, until my folder was empty. Then, I created a binder of supporting documents, printed a copy of the tax return, while reviewing the numbers many, many times. I found some glaring mistakes and a few not so obvious, until the resulting Tax Return is one that makes me smile. Professional and complete, with supporting documents and worksheets.

During this little adventure in computer entries, the worst thing occured. My internet service went down. Drat. With terrible timing, I could have run aground. But, with a simple phone call, I reach a lovely technician who found the trouble and got me back online. She, too, had such a sweet demeanor, which made the entire situation better. In an hour, things were fixed and I was computing taxes, again. Our combined attitude helped to make the situation conquerable and pleasant.

Later today, I’m going to see my Certified Public Account (CPA) for one last look. It never hurts to have things checked over by a professional. Just maybe he’ll look and find a glaring error that will save me hundreds or thousands of dollars. Maybe the government owes ME money. Maybe A LOT. Maybe………. Well, maybe I’m a bit giddy that I just got the darn thing done. I accept the amount that I owe and will send it off as soon as I get the green light from the CPA.

Optimistic at the entire process, I hope a least a small portion of the money I send in can be used to help someone, adding to the greater good. VST would be depressed for a few days after the taxes were done. Just moping around with a heavy heart. We all have a choice in how we look at things. I could easily go down that path, fuming about the waste in government and how the small amount I’m contributing (Not Small To Me!) will be thrown to the wind. Or, I can just envision it doing some good. I’m choosing to be optimistic, because either way, I need to write a check and send it on its way.

My CPA owns and runs a prestigious accounting firm. When I met him last fall, we had a great visit. He’s upbeat and positive, which makes today’s visit something to which I’ll look forward. His secretary called me on Friday to confirm the appointment, and she was a bit of bubbling happiness on the phone. Just checking to make sure I’d be there. I’m thankful she wasn’t down in the dumps, too. After a drive through the high desert, today’s trip to the state capital will be something different and fun. Another milestone will be met. My first Tax Return as a widow will be completed. Another thing I’ve accomplished, that I didn’t know I could.

Optimistically, I am cleaning up the desk, feeling the taxes are complete and ready for the mail. A coat of furniture polish will bring out the shine on the rich mahogany finish. After a bit of shredding, the process of saving documents for next year will again begin. I’m hopeful that next year, I’ll need to report income from book sales. Don’t worry, Uncle Sam, I’ll save a little for you. Just don’t be too greedy. A new author needs some pocket change left over for fun.

Time changes for me are never an easy thing. Truly an early morning person, there is a limit to how early I rise. Trying to wake at 5 is really 4. There is a limit.

As I drag around this morning, please forgive my inability to produce a wonderful blog. My sleepy cobwebs are just too thick.

Please enjoy earlier blogs for today. Tomorrow, I will return refreshed, with interesting topics to share.

J

Even the best laid plains run aground, at times. So it was with my late night tax project. Two days earlier, my ego was riding high. I waltzed right into the Accountant’s office, pretty as you please. In my arms, I held a mint green binder, complete with all appropriate tax documents in individual page protectors. Each type of document was placed in the appropriate category, behind section dividers. Tax Returns were printed and placed in front for inspection and I felt victorious.

The accountant looked through everything, saving me a quick $400 in the first three minutes of my visit. As he worked through each section, I won his approval. My head was swelling at a rapid rate, as he complimented me on my work and organizational skills. Ha. I’d indeed conquered something I’d never done before. At least, not in many decades. I was on top of the world. With our meeting completed, I paid him $100 for his time, saving $300 by visiting. I was singing on the way home.

One bit of advice given was that I E-File. “No problem, “ said I, smugly. VST and I E-Filed the last several years. My tax program would guide me through the last steps, leaving me finished with the 2020 Tax year.

When I got home, I looked through the taxes once more, knowing this would be the last time in my life I would ever file as a married woman. It was an odd feeling. Like stepping off a life raft into a sea of hungry sharks. In black and white, there’s no denying it. I’m single and will be that until the end of my forever. Of course, there are the obvious financial implications, with higher tax rates for single people. But, more than that, there is the lonely fact that VST is gone and I’m now a family of one, with Oliver my dependent.

The words printed on the top of the tax form were stark and final. Deceased. 4/8/2020. I’m glad I’m experiencing this near the One Year Anniversary of his death, ending another chapter, as well. As a couple, we’d always come to an agreement on when to start and complete our return. VST was on the conservative side of taxes, making sure that every deduction was supporting by the correct document.

Once, we were summoned to the local IRS Office. There was a discrepancy they needed to discuss with us immediately. Terrified on the long drive into town, we wondered, out loud, what the discrepancy involved. We were hoping for adjoining cells when they locked us away after finding years of mistakes unknown to us. It was a dark drive.

Upon entering the office, the IRS agent brought out our taxes. A line was highlighted in which we had entered a $100 donation to Job’s Daughters.

“Here at the IRS, we take donations very seriously. These donations cannot be made carelessly, and declared when they’re not valid. Mr. and Mrs. Hurt, one cannot make a donation to a person’s daughter. Job would need to be part of a non-profit or religious organization. What do you have to say about this???? ” The agent let the last few words hang in the air, while looking over the top of horn rimmed glasses.

We were speechless. Job’ Daughters is a Masonic youth group for girls aged 10 – 20. It’s a 501 (C) (3) organization, for which all donations are completely tax deductible. We left holding hands, relieved that we would not be ushered to federal jail.

Returning to last night, perched at VST’s desk, I was ready to send the taxes into cyber space. I checked, once more, that all entries were correct. Everything seemed in order, as I pushed the FILE button. An email arrived stating my taxes were on the way. Everything was just great. For 32 minutes. Until, with another email, I found my taxes were rejected. Just like that.

I repeated the procedure two more times, finally realizing, there was a missing code. I needed the code to complete the transaction. A code from last year. A pass-code that VST would’ve hidden in that unusually sharp brain of his. A code now gone forever. A code I would have no way of every finding again.

It was with those thoughts, my ego returned to normal size. There are just some things that are not worth fighting. Pass-codes are one of them for me. The line was drawn there. I threw in the towel. Defeat cuts deeply into the ego. But, defeat it was.

My taxes were mailed in a legal size envelope, Certified Mail, with tracking, thank you very much. There are postmarked March 17, 2020, including a check for taxes due, and all required documents. Just like that, I have cut the rope, now in my own financial life raft. I can create my own codes and carefully record them for later use. There are bound to be rough seas ahead, but also starlit nights, enchanting and peaceful. Let the currents carry me where they will.

Driving is not my favorite past time. Being a cautious driver, I observe the speed limit, rules of the road, and the antics of others. My only wreck was in 1973, when I totaled my brand new sunshine yellow Mazda RX3. It was a very fast car, driven by an even faster young lady. The jaws of life were involved to extricate me, uninjured and furious that they would be using such a device on my formally beautiful car. Confusing, as the devastating damage couldn’t be seen from the inside where I was sitting. Luckily, I wasn’t injured, those being days of the 1900’s, before air bags and seat belt laws .

Yesterday, with taxes in hand, I left with my postal delivery in hand My new little town is just that. Very little. The US Post Office is about two miles away from my house, all on country roads, usually empty. Leaving my neighborhood, there are a few twists and turns and then……. The Straightaway. Yes. A portion of the road that just begs for speeding. There are houses on one side, and BLM land on the other. It gives off a sense that no one is watching. Anywhere. I speed on this stretch of road.

Now, I don’t mean to. I know it is highly rude to the people living on this stretch. The road is clearly marked 25 MPH. My speedometer clearly says 40 MPH as I speed on to the STOP sign. There are families that live on this road, enduring the speedway right outside their kitchen windows. Each day, I promise to do better on the next trip. Each time, I speed.

Little Town, USA, in which I live, has another peculiarity. Very seldom are there visible patrol cars of any kind, any where. One reason could be that there’s very little crime in our town. At least, that is what I wanted to believe. However, the little bank was robbed yesterday. My bank. With my quiet, professional tellers that like to give big happy smiles and wish you the best day when your business is done. The sweetest people run my tiny little bank. With only four or five employees, they are polite and efficient, providing a sense of family while you bank. A man with a gun robbed them yesterday. He stole their happy place. And mine. He hasn’t been caught yet.

My little town has crime. Lots of it. Something not to be forgotten, as springtime can conjure a heightened sense of complacency.

So, it’s easy to speed on this quiet little stretch of road, without giving it a second thought in my quiet little town that has next to no crime. Until yesterday, when this senior citizen lady in her souped-up white Jeep with the sunflower tire cover (ME) came rolling around the bend, already going at a pretty good clip.

Rounding the corner, engine roaring and waiting for the straightaway, brakes were applied immediately when trouble appeared ahead. Patrol car lights. Yes. A sweet neighbor was sitting, mortified, in her beautiful SUV, while the officer was writing up a speeding ticket. I guess I’m not the only one that shoots down that road like greased lightning, rattling the neighbors. I slowed to 23 MPH as I carefully passed the officer and his perpetrator, formally known as my neighbor.

It brought me back to the moment. I can’t forget to follow the speed limits. Watch for signs. Avoid erratic drivers. And, stay in my lane.

Things always go a little better when you follow the established rules. You can avoid collisions and road rage by doing so. It may take a little longer, but by observing the speed limit, you will get to your destination safely. Going a little slower, you can enjoy the scenery and blue desert skies. You have more time to react to pot holes or stray items on the road. You can watch for renegade mustangs crossing your path.

All those points apply while going through life, as well. Speeding through, you miss so much. Quarantining at home, time has slowed and sometimes even seems to stop. The days still go by at the same rate, but pass more slowly. The great outdoors begs for leisurely walks through beauty. In solitude, I’ve found time to consider life and the direction I want to go.

There are so many choices to make now. Physical choices involving the yard and my 2021 landscape additions. Choices of spring clothing and footwear. Choices in home decoration and organization. The list is endless. However, physical choices are only a cover for the deeper spiritual and emotional landscape of life. It’s there where we all fight demons and find angels. In the quiet of the desert, I find the solitude gives me wide open spaces in which to dream new dreams and put nightmares to rest, once and for all.

Today, I’ll be practicing safety first, with doors locked and a watchful eye. The bank robbery makes me want to bake a plate of cookies, delivered warm to my financial friends. They will be re-evaluating their own safety procedures, while hugging each other a little tighter. Masked robbers with a gun steal more than the money they take. Innocence was lost yesterday, in this, out little wide spot in the road.

Slow down, my friends. You never know who is watching around the corner. Just waiting for you. Could be your friendly highway patrol, or a bad guy. Keep your eyes peeled and slow down.

In the last year, there’s been little opportunity for something as simple as a date on Friday night. With the virus controlling the show, restaurants have been all but shuttered. Things that we used to consider routine, like a dinner date, are now rare, treasured events. At least for me they are. So, last night was something special.

Finding a new friend is a wonderful experience of life. Like beginning a book by an unknown author, rich and exotic stories await as time is spent together, listening. My new friend and I grew up in entirely different ways, in places as different as Zimbabwe and Paris. Although born days apart in the same year into large families, the similarities of our early lives stop there. I’m learning about life in the refined East, while sharing about life in the wild West.

As different as we are, the more we find we are similar. A close friendship is building, as we keep track of shared interests, similar tastes in food, and things we find humorous. Yesterday, I was asked to join him on a Friday night date.

Discussing options available in my little town, the subject of KFC came up, (as in chicken). It was then, I knew my dining choice would be in Virginia City, Nevada at the most beautiful of restaurants named Cafe Del Rio. As a past resident of VC, I’ve spent hours dining in this fantastic venue, seated at comfy wooden chairs and surrounded by the history of the Comstock. Just eating in the dining room is an experience. The surrounding walls are rock, holding mysteries of the miners that might have handled them. The food is divine, the service, extraordinary. This is a place where the entire staff cares deeply about your dining experience, because, they own the place.

Driving to VC in the white Jeep Wrangler, dark clouds covered the vast desert sky. With another storm forming, we could see the mountaintop on which I lived for so many years from Highway 50. Blanketed by clouds, we were traveling to the base of Mt. Davidson at almost 6200 feet. Since April 8, VC has been an easy place to avoid, holding too many memories from my life with VST. But, last night, it held the promise of good food and friends.

Driving along 6 Mile Canyon Road, I remembered all the times VST and I scurried up and down the windy route. Any road that leads to VC is treacherous and needs the complete attention of a sober driver. Making the tight twists and turns while creeping higher and higher, sweet memories surrounded me. Thriving there for a time, it was our happy place for many years. Yesterday was the first return visit that didn’t involve tears and a heavy heart. I saw the town for the charming, quaint place it is and became just another tourist looking forward to dinner.

The owners of the restaurant were happy to see me. So many nights, they provided food for me when VST was sick, and after. The last 17 days of my life in VC, their food kept me nourished. Last night, the Gospel Fried Chicken didn’t disappoint, complete with HOMEMADE mashed potatoes and gravy, corn cut right off the cob, fresh coleslaw, and the centerpiece of the plate, boneless chicken breast prepared in a very secret way. All heavenly. We then shared a piece of Apricot-Ancho Chili Cheesecake with Chantilly cream on the side. Everything served with friendly banter between friends.

We now have another thing in common, both being true fans Cafe Del Rio Gospel Fried Chicken. We’re finding that time between us is sweatshirt-and-jeans-comfortable. Whether discussing the finer points of growing up on a farm, or being a Navy Seal in Desert Storm, we talk easily, seasoning our discussions with laughter and good stories.

For now, I’m looking forward to more Friday night dates to new and fun restaurants as Covid loses its deadly grip on our lives. Meals, movies, walks along the Truckee River, and friends. The last year has held enough horror, sadness, and tears to float the 7th fleet. With caution, its time for me to explore the world that awaits me.

Throughout life, there are sayings that stick with a person. Each generation has a special selection of these, which leave the youngers scratching their heads at the meaning. Almost like a secret code to another world, these phrases bring a smile and knowing to those that understand. They leave those that don’t get it confused.

Once upon a time, VST and I farmed in the Central Valley of California. On our ranch, there were 109 rows of vintage grapevines. Planted before 1936, these grapes were a variety lost to the ages. Their flavor and texture were of another time. They were not for shipping, for their skins were far too fragile. They were Thompson Seedless grapes, green in color. Not the huge grapes you find in the store, which are tricked into being that huge size. These were normal sized grapes, which when dried in the sun, turned into delicious Sunmaid Raisins.

For seventeen years, VST and I carried for our vines the best we could. We worked two full time jobs to support our little farming hobby. Forty acres is a lot of land to care for. One fourth of a section of land. If you every need to walk down a vineyard row, picking up discarded thick wood removed during pruning, you begin to know how long the rows are. Especially if it is a cold, foggy Central Valley morning, when your irrigation boots get stuck in mud.

There you have another phrase. Stuck In The Mud. Until you have been, you don’t know. A terrible predicament. A Stick In The Mud prefers their life to remain that way. Stuck in the mud. Horrible situation.

On our farm, there were 109 rows, most of them, very long, continuous rows, stretching from one side of the ranch to the other. Whether irrigating or shoveling, one would start at row 109 and work back towards the house, which seemed ever so far away. Hours later, you might be at row ninety-five, depending on what you were doing. Fixing wires that supported the grapes. Shoveling in gopher holes or shoveling off sucker vines growing at the base of the stumps. Cutting down weeds or tying up tendrils. There was always something that needed doing.

Our house sat in the middle of rows 1 – 30-something. A nice square space in which our house was, along with a big red barn and out buildings. This divided those rows into two sections which were named The Short Rows.

Every one of us would look across the vineyard toward the house wishing we were already there. Plodding along in the cold, wet, or extreme heat, we moved at a snail’s pace. There was time to think and ponder the problems of the world. Time to wish we could win the lottery and never need to pick up a shovel again. Surprised, we might scare up a quail or coyote. Always, we moved toward the house and the short rows.

Now, in life, I’, working the short rows. No matter how I wish the days would zoom past April 8th, I plod along. Each day a little bit closer. There are more opportunities to sit and rest, but, I’m not done yet. The last year has worn me down. Emotional blisters are healing, but the heavy weight still makes them sting a bit. I find I’m a bit more calloused from widowhood. I’ve found I could carry more than I thought I could. Looking back, I am proud that I made it through, a stronger and more competent woman.

The best thing about the short rows, is that you could find rest at the house. There was a bathroom right there. Grabbing a cold water, you could sit under the shade of the patio and take a break. The breeze seemed a little stronger there, promising that the job at hand was almost finished.

In life, there will always be another pass to be made. Another daunting experience in which you return to Row 109 and start all over again. So glad VST and I could experience farming and life together. Someday, he’ll be waiting for me at Row 1. Bring the lemonade, VST. I’ll be tired.

September 24, I began blogging without a clear goal. Yes, there were murky thoughts of completing a book. But that was all in “SOMEDAY” status. Nothing was visualized as a memory before it even happened. Each morning, I’d look up stats for my blog and remember squealing when I had ten readers from the preceding 24 hours. There was only one constant. I wrote, every day, inching along with the excitement provided by those first few readers.

Slowly, the readers and number of reads increased. I remember the excitement I felt when I reached 50 readers and 100 reads. It was an amazing feeling. But, it didn’t meet a set goal. An un-aimed arrow always hits its target, they say. My arrow sailed gracefully hitting a perfect bullseye into thin air.

After a few months, with the realization that my numbers continued to grow, I set a few goals and upon reaching them, said a little “Ya-Hooooo”. I continued writing.

This morning, my past readers number over 5,000. My total reads are over 11,000. Not shattering in the world of the internet, by any means. My past readers come from more than 48 countries and 29 states. I average 100 readers in a 24 hour period. It’s time to set some new goals, so I know when to plant my flags. One goal is to have readers in all 50 states. Slowly, I march toward that mountain top.

When journeying through life, goals help us move along, rather like a tow strap. I can’t imagine not having daily, weekly, monthly, and annual goals, monitoring them for needed adjustments. It’s just the way I roll best.

Thinking about the future, it was suggested that I consider the point in which I will embrace the fact that I’m a published author. The blog is one milestone along the way. But, when I close my eyes at night, I don’t feel I am a true writer, yet. So, what will it be? The first day my book is advertised on Amazon? My first sale? My first book signing? When I have my first book available in hardback, e-book, and audio versions? Those are all flag plantings I need to decide upon. Until I do, I won’t know where to plant my flags, and they’re pretty heavy to carry along.

I plan to celebrate when I reach these pointy peaks in my writing life, envisioning a shiny sports car with the license plate “PAGES” proudly displayed. I see it. But, the real prize will be when I reach all the things listed above, and have multiple books in print.

This last year, goals have helped me get through some pretty tough days in the wilderness of widowhood. During April, 2020, I listed hourly accomplishments while struggling to breathe. There were so many things needing to be done as I readied Oliver and I for our big move. I’d make a list of three things. When they were completed, I’d list three more. Without tiny goals, I wouldn’t have had things ready for the moving truck.

Tiny accomplishments grew into bigger ones over the last eleven months. Journal-ing along the way left a bread crumb tale of memories. What a unique year it has been. One that none of us could have predicted, packing punches delivered one after the other. Each time the knock down blow was delivered, we all regrouped and stood tall again. Here we are on the brink of returning to some sort of normal. Bruised, but standing.

I have a big flag to run up the pole on April 8th. One year will have past since I lost VST. During that year, the trails have been treacherous. Some days, the winds, rain, and snow have been blinding. Sand storms have caused me to hunker down until they ceased. Each storm left me stronger and more determined to move forward. That’s the point right? Don’t get stuck in the mud. I find these last few days are more harrowing than all the rest combined. No one can warn a grieving gardener about that for it’s an experience all its own, individual and unique to each person.

My flag is huge, and reads “An Appeal to Heaven“. We can all hope for someone to show us the way, following leaders. We can try things we’ve heard online that might be helpful during a crisis. We can wait for stimulus checks, and new laws to lead us in the direction of someone else’s choosing. But, when all else fails, and hopefully before that, An Appeal to Heaven will show the way.

Pick milestones along your journey and remember to plant your flags. You need them flying high as a celebration of your accomplishments, and a sign to others behind you that things will get better with time.