Category: 2022

As the gardens of Winterpast have gone into a deep sleep, my focus has now turned to areas in my yard that need some help. In 2023, I intend to pamper and better care for my existing roses while adding a few new bushes to the family. My father loved his rose garden, bringing a freshly cut rose to my mother every day.

In shopping online, I was amazed at the colors that are available. As I was looking at a royal blue rose, I realized they weren’t selling the actual bushes, but seeds. What? This cannot be! Any self-respecting gardener knows roses come from cuttings. At least that is what I believed for 66 years.

Immediately researching the subject, I had to shut my mouth and open my brain to a new concept.

Roses DO, in fact, have seeds!

Not wanting to believe this for myself, I contacted the only other gardener I know. The Mysterious Marine. I asked him the question, “Do roses have seeds?” I got the same answer I’d come up with.

“No.”

“Roses do not have seeds.”

This was a puzzlement. Here are two very smart people with a combined age of 134 years. Both gardeners have nurtured roses throughout their entire adult lives. More investigation was needed.

MM has the most beautiful rose garden. There, vibrant colors spring forth in fragrant blooms. He and I may have the only two green yards in the entire desert, being luscious and green throughout the hot summer months.

When I arrived, we hurried to his unpruned plants to harvest rose hips. According to the internet, the flower produces a bulbous structure that is often referred to as the fruit of the rose, or a rose hip. The hip is useful as well as attractive. It’s nutritious and has a pleasant taste. Like the petals, it can be used to make an oil.

Rose hips can be eaten raw. They can also be cooked to make jams, jellies, syrups, soups, teas, and wines. Their SEEDS contain an oil that is popular in the cosmetics industry. This oil is known as rose hip oil, rose hip seed oil, or rosa mosqueta oil.

With hips in hand, we began the dissection. The first two had nothing. Just about to give up on our quest for evidence, there, in the third hip was a perfectly formed seed. It was true. Roses DO have seeds.

In further research, it was stated that growing the seeds is a tedious process that may or may not provide the desired results. If your roses are hybrids, the seeds won’t grow into the same kind of rose, or they may not be fertile at all. It will take a few years to get an actual bush, but it can be done.

Throughout the adventure, MM and I were looking up our favorite roses, which brought back memories of past homes and lives. Roses are just like that. MM’s mom even thought of a rose that the family transplanted upon moving from one house to another. The bush is now over 80 years old and still producing the most fragrant blooms.

In the gardens of Winterpast, I had one tea rose that hadn’t produced a bloom in 2020. That summer, I looked everywhere for a Peace Rose which was my Dad’s favorite of all. His was of the climbing variety, having blooms the size of salad plates. It was late in the year, and none were to be found.

Then, in the spring of 2021, the barren rose came to life. Indeed, the plant is a Peace Rose. Planted in the wrong spot, it struggles. Next year, I’ll fix that.

Today, spend some time looking at your own sleeping yard if it’s not covered in feet of snow. Look for bare spots and create your plans for next year. Bulbs and bare roots are wonderful Christmas gifts for the gardener in your life. Tools, pots, plants, and yard art are also welcomed gifts for those that love their time in the garden.

Above all, keep learning. This world has so many fascinating secrets. Rose seeds…..Well, shut my mouth……

More tomorrow.

Happy Monday, Everyone!!! A most happy Monday to the best Godmother in the Universe!!!! TJ!!!!! Today is HER special day. If you know her, call her up and tell her to kick up her heels!

This weekend was so full, I hardly know where to begin. It started with an adventure in Christmas tree shopping. MM and I both own widow/widower trees. Mine is tall and skinny, his is tall and fat. Both are lighted. Both are in their respective corners. But, as with so many things on which we agree, neither were not the tree we’d hoped for when we picked them out.

For many years, I’ve depended more on live poinsettias to show my Christmas spirit. I have them everywhere. A trio hero, a single there, I was up at dark:30 on Black Friday to purchase them at the local Lowe’s. So far, I’ve lost one. The others are thriving. In the dining room stands my very skinny, tall lighted imitation Christmas tree.

Try as I might, each year, the thought of decorating a Chinese tree made of metal and plastic doesn’t capture any sort of spirit. Christmas 2020, I decided that a lighted tree with a skirt was all Winterpast needed. No ornaments. Just the tree. With all the poinsettias, a tree skirt, and the lights, it works nicely.

A REAL Christmas tree should be something that involves a little vacuuming, a bald spot that needs to be camouphlaged, a tree stand that doesn’t quite hold the tree in the right way, and the constant threat of fire. At least, the trees of my favorite memories involve those things. VST was thrilled when I finally gave into the Chinese version.

MM’s tree, on the other hand, was a lovely tree. Lighted and clothed with a velvety tree skirt, it sat in the corner of his family room proud as could be. When I first saw his tree, I was impressed. It was lovely in every way, but not in the ways that pleased HIM.

After talking it over, we decided to form the JOLLY Christmas tree partnership. JOLLY is one of those crazy made of words made by blending our first names. In this case, it just works. We’d purchase a tree that would put these two to shame. 2022, it will reside at MM’s house, 2023, at mine. Joint custody of a most beautiful tree.

After a few hours of team work, the 7.5 snow covered tree is a thing of beauty. A few ornaments of his, a few of mine, his angel and tree skirt, and both our efforts, the tree is sits complete with it’s first present underneath. As for the placement, I’m quite okay with enjoying my poinsettias and the very skinny tree that still sits in my dining room corner.

All day Saturday, the threat of snow hovered over us with heavy cloud cover. An atmospheric river was moving in bringing the possibility of torrential snow and rain. Maybe. At least, possibly on Donner Pass. It could happen.

Let’s just back up.

In the winter, it snows in the Sierra’s. It rains in the flatlands of California and Nevada. Clouds form. The rains come. There is not need to call a winter storm by a terrifying name. Can we please just call a cloud and raindrop by less sinister names? As it turned out, it was too warm to snow, so a lovely rain fell throughout the night.

Saturday night, the entire town turned out for the Christmas Parade of Lights. Children were cartwheeling next to the road. Babies were snuggled in strollers. Someone brought a fire pit to warm their hands. An adult woman (we hope) dressed in bunny PJ’s which MM didn’t understand. If you don’t get the connection, please, please, please watch the movie, “A Christmas Story”.

Soon, police cars went blazing by, lighted in all their glory announcing the beginning of the parade. It wasn’t the longest parade. We didn’t have helium balloons standing 20 feet tall and tethered by tenders. Nope. Just a small town parade of a few residents that lighted up their floats and vehicles to drive down Main. Candy canes passed out to waiting children and a good time was had by all.

To finish the perfect Saturday, MM and I returned to a pot of bubbling hot Clam Chowder. Perhaps the best I’ve ever made, I finally prepared a recipe that impressed. Served with Red Lobster Cheddar Cheese biscuits drenched in butter, it was a dinner fit for royalty by the light of the new Christmas tree. A Saturday doesn’t get better than that.

Whatever you do today, make it count. New traditions are necessary in the land of widow’s and widower’s. What worked before doesn’t really matter. Today is all we have. Weave past traditions into today’s actions and move along. The road to Christmas will be filled with many holiday miracles. Be grateful!

More tomorrow.

Widowhood is hard enough before adding the responsibilities of our late spouses. My mind takes me back to May 2020, when I was fogged in with the newness of grief and overwhelmed with the recent move into Winterpast.

For new readers, VST lost his battle with an aggressive form of liver cancer after 9 short weeks. Shortly before his illness was revealed, we had found a buyer for our home in Virginia City, while making an offer on Winterpast. After VST’s death, I became responsible for the care and maintenance of not one, but two vehicles. Me. The me that never paid attention to vehicles except to ride in them. The me that could be quite the complainer when vehicles didn’t work right, while not understanding much about the car itself.

Every day, during the month of May, 2020, I’d take one of the vehicles and drive 45 miles one way for a load of boxes from the storage area. With 350 boxes of everything from Christmas ornaments to heavy Psychology books, it was all I could do to drive back and forth, hoping not to crash as the tears flowed. One round trip took 90 minutes of travel along the loneliest highway in the America. A real title, I found it to fit the road well.

While driving miles and miles through the desert, it never occurred to me that I should attend to my car’s needs. I didn’t check the oil. I didn’t check other fluid levels. I didn’t even walk around the car to make sure I still had four wheels. I just got in and drove.

Until one day…….

I had driven the Ram 1500 that day. I don’t often speak of this vehicle. It belonged to VST. So many memories are engrained in the upholstery. So many vistas we enjoyed through those windows as we took to the road. We were feral parents of the most wild kind, pulling a trailer behind this pick-up for the better part of a year. VST always drove. I always rode shotgun. Hooked up, off we went. These days, its just a cool truck. Back then, it was an emotional ride just to open the door and sit in the driver’s seat.

VST always made sure it was maintained except for one tiny detail. He had a problem with tires. He would wear the last tread off tires, long after they were safe. In the Central Valley of California, that was just fine. Not too much ice or snow to worry about. No windy roads with the reputation of Geiger Grade which hung precariously on the side of Mt. Davidson on the way to Virginia City. I remember having a discussion about new tires in the fall of 2019. He assured me HE would handle the car issues when it was time. But then, time ran out.

On this certain day in May, I’d returned from the storage area with 24 banker boxes. That seemed to be the maximum number held by the pickup, no matter how I arranged them. Dropping the keys by the front right tire, it was then I was face to face with reality. My tires were BALD. Not just a little used up. Not just a little overdue for new. The tread was gone, or nearly so. So dangerous, I had to get new tires before I drove the truck again. That was my introduction to car maintenance.

At the very least, as a widow, there are some things you simply can’t ignore or refuse to learn about. You Tube is rich with instructional videos. My truck’s hood latch was tricky to find and open. After watching a simple video, I figured it out. It is the same with all the things you need to know about your car.

Please. Make sure your spare tire is in working order. Make sure you know where it is and how to get to it. At the very least, carry AAA Roadside Assistance, so that someone can come to help you in the event of a flat tire. They will also bring gas if you run out or a battery if yours goes dead.

With the cold weather upon us, check your tire pressure to make sure it is correct for your car and driving conditions. Your car’s Owner’s Manual has all kinds of marvelous information, including the type of tires your car requires. Be sure to read through the manual again to refresh your knowledge of your vehicle.

Don’t forget to replenish your windshield washer fluid with the right type for your area. Here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, I need the type that doesn’t freeze. Your auto supply store will know the type you need for your area. If you are traveling to areas that freeze, that’s something to remember. A windshield full of frozen fluid sucks. We’ll leave that story for another time.

Find a mechanic by word of mouth, not just Google or Yelp. You need a mechanic that is trustworthy and knowledgeable, not just some guy on the corner. I have a local tire shop that I prefer. For maintenance, I like the dealership in town. A little more pricey, but, they sell both Rams and Jeeps. It’s their business to know the vehicles inside and out.

Do learn how to open your hood and check the oil regularly. If you have a newer vehicle, change the oil when the light comes on. Use the best grade of oil and filter offered.

Even though the sticker price will shock you, replace your wiper blades before winter sets in. If you need a new windshield, call your insurance company and get it set up. Some companies will change them right in your driveway.

Above all, don’t ignore the code. It code lead to much bigger expenses than a trip to the mechanic to find the problem.

Knowledge is power. In this case, knowing a little about your car and paying attention to how it sounds and feels when driving down the road will help a lot when something breaks. And, something will. Things always do.

That’s my helpful hint for the month. Boring, but necessary. As widows, new responsibilities can be overwhelming. However, being able to care for ourselves is also empowering in the best kind of way. Although we may not be able to physically fix the problem, it’s wise to know there IS and problem and what to do.

Whatever you do today, don’t forget that your car could use a detailing. Mine sure did. It felt good to dispose of empty water bottles, dust bunnies, and dog hair. With just a little vacuuming and elbow grease, my Barbie Jeep looks like she just rolled off the showroom floor. Now, that’s something positive!

More tomorrow.

Be Kind. Be Kind. Be Kind. Repeat for two hours in the freezing cold. That’s what I’ll be doing today.

Our community does such amazing things in the time of need. Right now, winter is knocking at the door. The days are short. The nights are in the 30’s. Gas is over $4.50 a gallon. The shelves in the stores are either empty or stocked with overpriced goods. The holiday season is upon us and there are people that need kindness and help. Small town people take care of their own. That’s just what we do.

When the sign-up sheets were passed around at church asking for help with the food drive, I was one of the first to sign up. Yes. I remember Thanksgiving 2020, when I was a brand new widow facing the holidays. It was “then-strangers-now-friends” that greeted me with their smiles and hugs. I bought everything on their dinner list and brought it out to some very cold but also very happy volunteers.

That memory that took little money and an even smaller amount of time to make stuck with me. In July, on a day when I needed friends the most, it was the memory of that cold November day and the warmth from those community members that steered me to my new church friends. That day, Jesus did take the wheel, taking me to a Bible study that was two minutes from starting. The Lord works in mysterious ways. He sure does.

Yes.

You bet I’ll be there. Today. In the cold. Smiling in front of the grocery store with free hugs for anyone that needs one.

Being kind doesn’t cost anything. It isn’t something you wrap up with a bow or take hours to plan. You need to practice it once in awhile or else you might sour. Our world is home to people with many problems. Everyone needs kindness on a daily basis.

There’s another word that we could all practice being a bit more.

CORDIAL

 adjective

cor·​dial | \ ˈkȯr-jəl  \

Definition of cordial

1. showing or marked by warm and often hearty friendliness, favor, or approval. a cordial welcome: politely pleasant and friendly

2.  sincerely or deeply felt

3.  tending to revive, cheer, or invigorate

Of course, that is the definition when used as an adjective. After dealing with the un-kind among us, we all might need the noun version.

Today, for two hours, I’ll find all the kindness I can give which will warm my heart against the biting cold of Nevada’s high desert. Having lived in this environment for over 8 1/2 years now, I have plenty of extra warm clothes to fight the wind. If it rains, I have a large umbrella. Grumps will walk on by. Bags of needed holiday food will magically appear. The two hours will go by in a flash.

Today, whatever you do, be kind at least once. It costs nothing. It takes no time. Kindness is a mindset. You need to practice it until it becomes second nature. Smile when you don’t feel like it. Say “Hello” to someone that looks like they need a “Hello”. Remember to have a grateful heart. Grateful hearts are the burning ember that keeps us going and doing. So, get out there and fan your own flames.

More tomorrow.

In this age of computers, no one has time for more traditional skills. Need a signature? Sign electronically. Sheets of paper? No need. Go Paperless. All the while, the lost art of penmanship and hand-written manuscripts are going the way of the Edsel. How sad for a teacher that loves to teach penmanship and writing. Those skills are just not valued or considered necessary anymore.

Growing up, there was nothing as intoxicating as the smell and feel of real books. Opening a new book, I always put my nose between the pages and breathe in. Each book smells just a bit different and all have a feel you get to know as you spend time reading stories and gathering information. Pages in my Bible have the soft and delicate parchment feel, while my teaching manuals are so heavy I need to wonder why any book publisher felt the need to make them so. Some novels are so heavy, I prop them on pillows to read late into the night as the words carry me into another place and time. Words hold power like that.

My 1st graders don’t have current text books. Someone found it more prudent to use online programs and hands-on kits to teach Language Arts and Science. Needing and wanting a tangible book, I scoured the cast offs before school started and hit the jackpot. One more year, I can use a reading series appropriate for littles, even if it was printed in the early 200’s. The colorful pages full of stories and poems are enchanting. My students find them pretty interesting, too. I also scored Science and Social Studies books. My own private stash.

Yesterday, with dangerous levels of particulates in the air from the California fires, I spent one entire day with my class.

OY VEY.

By 1:15 pm, they were ready for a recess, so I showed an exercise video on the Promethean board. This is a large, television like screen covering part of my desert mural of six mustangs and local mountains. This screen does everything you could imagine. I can even write on it with my finger. It projects work from my desk onto the screen for the children to view and follow. It also projects my lap top images and videos. This exercise video was 7 minutes of high intensity exercises by a guy that was a cross of the Incredible Hulk and Superman.

While I sat in my chair trying to catch my breath for just a moment, my 19 kiddos did jumping jacks, push ups, and lunges. They never missed a step. It was a mass release of energy that I should have filmed. Outdoor recess is necessary for these kids. Yesterday, there was no fresh air for anyone in our desert home. Thank you, California fires.

Because our time together was extended by almost 1.5 hours, my plans lacked an activity for the last hour of the day. A grand day to break into the science books with a book for everyone. Brand new, although dated in the early 2000’s, it was apparent past teachers didn’t like science, or just didn’t have time. These books hadn’t seen much use.

There is so much to be learned by watching a class of 1st graders with new books. They stroked the paper, thick and rick. They looked at every picture of living things in the book. They had questions about the subject, Living and Non-Living Things. How rich and simple to hold a discussion with 6 year old’s about what makes something alive. One of those amazing and sweet moments I’ll take away as I journey back into the land of retirement.

The message was so pure and simple. Living things grow and change. Non-Living things do not. It was then I passed around my class roster with the sweetest kinder pictures of my littles. It was from this roster I first came to know them before school had even started. I looked at that roster many times a day while dreaming of all the fun we were to have over our year together. Looking at those pictures now, these children are certainly living organisms, because they’ve grown and changed. Some of the children could see and appreciate that, while others thought they looked exactly the same. What a moment salvaged from a day that ran out of work before the school minutes ended. Teachable moments are the best and not always written out on a lesson plan.

My littles are starting to write now. I did remind them that I am a real writer. I still feel I’m a fake when I say those words. A REAL writer. I still prefer the pencil and my daily journal, where ALL the stories of my life are jotted on blank pages. Dates, names, and all the juicy details are scrawled out in Number 2 graphite. Never to be copied or distributed on the web, they are just words that flow out of my fingers at the end of very long days. Yes, I’m a REAL writer loving written words as much as I love teaching them. For, we all know, writing IS life. A fifth grader once told me that.

Today, I begin the laborious task of administering THE TEST by computer. I’m not looking forward to it. Testing will take the entire day, covering Math and Language Arts. THE TEST is read aloud to the children. In the old day, that would have been my job. Now, it is just heard through headphones. I’m just the monkey in the room making sure the computers keep working. The old days were certainly more fun.

With pencils in my pocket and sunshine in my brain I’m off to the land of littles. It’s my last September 14th as Mrs. Hurt, 1st Grade teacher. The weather has changed to fall at last and with any luck at all, we’ll get recess today. Who knows, I just might sneak a swing under the desert sky if the smoke stays away.

Whatever you do today, consider journaling. Nothing to write about, you say? Then start out writing down three things for which you are grateful. And then, increase that by three more. The next day, do the same and write the “WHY” of your grateful nature on the pages. It just flows from there. In a year, you’ll be amazed as you look back at the journey. Writing has such healing powers. How far I have come since September 24, 2020. It’s all there for you to see. I kind of which some of it was in pencil.

More tomorrow.

Well, today is the last day of summer for me. When I finally get around to looking at the gardens again, leaves will be falling. Until then, I have so much to do, it’s mind boggling. Yesterday was a day of setting up my classroom library. Sounds easy enough, except that at the start of the day, I didn’t have enough books for even one shelf. Because of my wonderful teacher sisters, I now have two full bookcases holding a wide variety of reading materials. All well used and from the 1900’s, there isn’t a bad book in the group. I know. I looked through them all while organizing them.

Today is ladder day. Amazon is such a blessing. Each box arrives holding just a little more to adorn my room. Today, I’m stapling and sticking charts and color up. Then, with a quick cleaning, I’ll turn my attention to the desk and student materials and planning.

There are NEVER enough hours in the day, (even if a teacher didn’t sleep), to finish 100% of everything on any given day. But, there is progress towards the finish line of June 2nd. By setting goals, I’ll avoid the agony of defeat of being left behind my lofty goals.

These are some daily benchmarks I’m coming up with.

Don’t trip over anything. Above all, do not fall in front of the children.

Smile at least 25% of the day.

Don’t let the kids make you cry in front of them. It a bad look.

If you don’t know the answer, look it up in front of the students. No Guessing, Miss Teacher.

Hold firm and don’t cave to their adorableness. It’s their secret weapon.

Drink lots of water and eat a good lunch.

Enjoy the first three days of school while it’s still puppies, kittens, and flowers.

Repeat. “I am the teacher.” at least once every 3 minutes. NOT OUTLOUD, JOY! Just to yourself will do.

There are so many more things I need to remember. There are a lot of things I’ve already learned through 23 years of experience.

I can teach out of a box. Don’t sweat the lack of curriculum or materials.

I don’t need to save the world. Just 20 adorable littles who are just as excited as their teacher.

Everyone will learn many things each day, especially me.

With a good plan, the details will fall into place. Don’t map out the year, it won’t go the way you planned anyway. No one could every pre-plan the surprises the school year holds. Just look at 2020 and Covid.

Love each minute. Embrace it. Experience it. At the end of the day, it will have turned out just as God planned, even if it doesn’t seem so at the time.

The last teacher to be hired for our team is seasoned with sage just like me. She lovingly came out of retirement like me to teach again. We have much in common. We both gave away every box of teacher stuff we had. Now, we’re starting from scratch, all over again. The difference is that she is down a week. She just got her keys yesterday. Another difference is that she has a husband to help her. How envious I am of that. VST was the best support person that ever lived. It will be lonely teaching without him.

In my personal journal, I’m keeping close notes of all the happenings. In May, I promise to re-read the school year to decide if there will be a second. Nothing written in stone to say this won’t be my fourth retirement from teaching. It is kind of fun. You get to have a little party and cake. But, there’s also nothing to say that I won’t smile at a summer rich with possibilities while collecting more stuff for Year 2.

At this point, my heart is saying, “Way to Go!!!” Although many don’t understand how or why I could want to go back to the classroom, I do. That’s all that matters.

So, I’ll be a 50% for the first week. For everything I plan, if 50% is accomplished. It will be a win. If 50% of my yard looks, okay….. Ya-Hooo! If 50% of the dust bunnies get vacuumed, Oliver will lick up the other 50%. If it takes me 50% shorter of a time to fall asleep, (at present that is about 45 seconds), all the better. Yes. 50% is enough for the first 7 days. Then, we’ll work towards 75% the next week.

A teacher never finishes 100% of her dreams. At least, not this teacher. But the dreams fulfilled are magical, just as they should be. Dreams are magic in the making. My room full of littles and I will dream big this year, and trust me, it will be magical!

That’s 100% the truth.

Whatever you do today, have fun. Be ready, because life can throw a curve ball and you need to react. I’m off to the ladder, stapler, and glue. That just might be the title for tomorrow’s blog.

More tomorrow.

If you are reading this at a later time than normal, let me assure you of two things.  At this writing, I haven’t died, and I awoke at my normal time of 4:00.  The problem was not on my end, but an irritating technical glitch on the blog site side.  Sometimes these things happen.  It’s fitting it’s happening on my last few days of summer.

Although the Autumn Equinox hasn’t arrived yet, summer is indeed ending of million in two weeks because we’re all heading back to the classroom.  For me, it’s a space I’ve yet to meet or nest.  Its appearance is like a nebula in my brain.  Swirling colors and possibilities more heavenly than you can imagine.  A combination of every teaching experience I’ve had for 22 years. In reality, it will be four walls that I will magically transform into a beautiful classroom in seven days or less. 

Reality will hit when I pick up my keys at 10:00 AM on Monday morning, August 1.  Early that morning, I’ll be at the Nevada County Office of Education finding out the procedure for getting fingerprinted and dropping off my grade for the course required to free my credential.

Ah.  My college course.  Well.  I’m holding on to my A-.  In my book a 92% isn’t an A-, it’s an A, but the screen shows an A-.  I was working on accepting the “-“  part until I got her explanation.  It was then, I came apart at the seams.

She explained……

Didn’t I KNOW that this assignment from the PRINCIPAL was to write a DISTRICT-WIDE Newsletter about parent engagement????  A K-12 Newsletter (there is no such thing, never has been, never will be, doesn’t exist).  AND, my Newsletter, although lovely in every way although not in a A+++ way), was a CLASSROOM Newsletter. 

Lovely in every way.  Every “A-“ way.  Fuming, I let this digest for days.  It ruminated, coming up like left over cud to chew again and again in my angry little head.  I re-read the instructions repeatedly.  Nowhere did I interpret this little bit of information.

“Your principal asked you to create a Newsletter explaining parent engagement”.  Period.

I finally did write a “lovely in every way” e-mail asking for more precise instructions for students to come.  Graciously, (because she is the nicest instructor I EVER), she offered to let me redo my assignment.  Well, we all know.  An A- in the hand is worth much more than what could come out from under a bush.  No, I’m back to working on humility and acceptance.  I’m at peace with my A-.

Yesterday, Winterpast got her yearly cleanup.  The gardens look fabulous.  I had one dead cottonwood tree removed from behind my garden shed.  Dead limbs and low branches were removed.  Bleeding stump scars were sprayed with sealant.  Dead leaves were blown and collected.  Stumps were ground, all during 5 hours of a whirlwind of activity.  She’s ready for the yearly shower of golden leaves.

I found myself at the computer most of the day finishing up two more major assignments.  With only left for Week 4, I see my CLEARED State of Nevada teaching credential flashing before my eyes.  My first paycheck will be deposited on August 20^th and just like that, I’m part of the working world.

Today, I’m putting all things computer-related away.  I’m closing up shop to run away with Miss Firecracker.  After one year, it is time to give her the biggest hug ever, and have fun laughing well into the night.  We are going to enjoy our old favorite places.  Share war stories about our wonderful husbands, now years gone.  In general, we are going to eat too much and sleep too little at a beachy little location known only to the two of us.  Just look for fireworks and a lot of laughing.  You’ll find us with our toes in the sand.

On Monday, I’ll be picking up my keys and officially morph into Mrs. Hurt, 1^st Grade Teacher, Room ?.  Amazon is loving my new career, sending me a little of this and a little of that.  As my classroom arrives at my door, one box at a time, I’m remembering all the stuff from my past.  A good teacher can teach out of a rolling cart.  I know.  I taught K-12 at a hospital in just that manner.  But a HAPPY teacher is something all together different.  She has a mountain of lovely teacher stuff.  That’s pretty great, too.

Ollie is off on Puppy Safari until Monday, searching for lizards, birds, toads and an occasional cat.  Everything just came together in the perfect jigsaw puzzle, as Ollie would have lost his mind with the party and yard clean up.  He’s far happier with his friend, Angus, on Safari.  Oliver is a very lucky little dog, indeed.

It is for the those very reasons, I will be absent for a few days, returning on Tuesday morning to fill you in on the fun created with my bestie.  There is nothing better than girlfriends.  True dat.

Please check out my early writing.  My very first post was in on September 24, 2020.  On the blog site, there’s a menu where you can find my posts from the beginning. Click on “Select Month” and then choose September 2020. I just fixed this link to include all my posts. September 30th will come up. If you scroll to the bottom, you will find a picture of VST and me as well as my very first post on September 24, 2020.

Please accept that my spelling and punctuation were rough on some days. Life is imperfect just like my blog. I smile through the eyes of an A+++ teacher and know my life was a D- at that time.  Continually leaking eyes do that to a person.  Some articles were too long.  Some too short, but all from the deepest sorrow and loss a woman can experience.  Widowhood.  Please remember, that woman has left the building, leaving bread crumbs of words so we can find her again, when needed.  Returning to those first days of widowhood is a wonderful reminder of how far I’ve come and how much I’ve grown as a woman.  I hope you like her as much as you like me.

More on Tuesday.

Never in my wildest dreams did I envision myself as a blog writer. But, this week, my total reads since September 24, 2020 reached 250,000. In internet terms, I’m not fooling myself. This is peanuts. But without advertising, while showing lots of patience, it’s huge to me. These reads have come from all over the world. From the beaches of the Philippine’s to the shadows of Mt. Kilimanjaro, for whatever reason, people have been reading. Around 600 times a day, someone is reading another one of my posts, and slowly the numbers rise.

There are platinum awards for records. I think there ought to be a Golden Pencil award for the first 250,000 reads on a blog. I think I’ll create that very award to hang in my new classroom. I’ll be the first recipient.

The Golden Pencil Award — Joy Hurt — July 22, 2022.

God has always been by my side in life. Yesterday, I was labeled a new Christian. I have my own thoughts about that. Indeed, I was baptized December 12, 2021. That is very true. I am reading the Bible from cover to cover for the first time in my life. But looking back over the years, I’ve had a relationship with God, deep and truly tested, throughout my life. One doesn’t survival the perils I have without God’s assistant. He has carried me through many fires throughout the nearly seven decades of my life.

Surviving a terrible car crash at 17. Escaping from Russia at 21. Healing from an abusive marriage. Finding VST. Farming. Teaching. Cancer. God has always guided me. I know, because I’ve asked for his guidance, mercy, and grace thousands of times through the years.

I especially remember being the hospital teacher to my sick kiddos. An aide and I were the face of school from 2010-2015. Every morning, as I drove the 45 minute commute from my mountaintop, I spoke to God about the kids. The ones that were mending and the ones that were irreparably broken. I cried out to him for miracles. I sang his praises when miracles even the doctors couldn’t explain occurred. Then there were the darkest of days on which I cursed him when heaven got a new angel.

35 times, God and I had some pretty rough discussions. 35 times, one of my students went to heaven. On the worst week, I lost seven kids. They all know I’ll ring the school bell when it’s my turn so our lessons can begin again.

The human definition of being a Christian can be rather limiting . God searches and tests my heart every day. He knows the light and the darkness found there. He sees my intentions and the fruits of my labor. He and I talk about it. He knows me by name, as does his son. This I know as well as I know my own name.

His messages often come through loud and clear. It is by his direction that I’ll be teaching at my new school. I know there won’t be one problem that I can’t get through with his help. There will be days when I wonder “Why me, Lord?” But there will be more days when I say, “Thank you, God”.

In the case of my blog, the idea came to me in the summer of 2020. I was in a new town. I had one girlfriend, but couldn’t see her because of Covid. I knew my Ninja Neighbor and a girlfriend from Walmart. I was planning VST’s memorial to be held in the Gardens of Winterpast. That was the extent of my daily human contact.

One morning, I awoke with the words “Grieving Gardener” flashing like a road sign in my brain. Over and over, my first thoughts that day were these two words. Being rather literal while still in a heavy widow’s fog, I decided I’d start a gardening group of widows, using the spacious and very empty RV barn. In a flash, I planned the year’s curriculum and was all set to go. But, something held me back.

I planned for tables, chairs, books on gardening, and the coffee pot. I designed a flyer for bulletin boards around town. Still, I didn’t go forward. The name kept flashing. So much so that I even bought a green and white road sign to hang above the door of the RV Barn. Grieving Gardener.

It was September 23rd, 2020, when inspiration hit. I’d been inspired by a gentleman that did a daily podcast. Like clockwork, his dedication led him through hours of work each morning to produce a Conservative podcast from his home. On that very day, I knew in my heart that I would blog. I would own the domain name of Grievinggardener.com. In 24 hours, my first piece was published. My healing journey began.

Each day I would look at the number of reads. Two here, five there. When I hit a consistent 10 people a day, I was amazed that ten people were interested. From there, it slowly expanded. When I hit my first 1,000 reads I cried. I stopped counting at 80 countries and 30 states.

As you all know, for me, writing IS life. There isn’t a more powerful elixir or drug in the world to calm my heart while my brain comes up with a plan. There is no better way to leave a string of my life’s story for one of my Great-Great-Great grandchildren to pick up and read someday. There is no better way for me to cultivate happiness and contentment than sending out one little blog a day.

Stories are meant to be told. If you don’t write, then record them. They tether us to the way things used to be. Because those of us 1900’s models know that the way things used to be were flat out wonderful. Maybe with enough stories, generations to come will find their way back to that way of life.

With so much to collect for my classroom, the next two weeks are hectic ones. On Monday, 1/2 of my college course will be complete. Next week, I’m hoping to meet my room. Summer school is still in session, so hopefully, I’ll get my keys to the kingdom on the 1st of August. Then, the real fun will begin.

Whatever you do today, add a dream for good measure. You, too, just might earn the Golden Pencil Award just a few short months later.

More tomorrow.

In a perfect world, a couple of decades from now, this is how they’ll find me. In some quiet backyard on the perfect island of Molokai. My right arm propped up slightly to support my head like a pillow. The softest robe of miniature clover will give me protection from the soft Hawaiian rains. No doubt, my extremely straight hair will resemble the sea grasses growing here. Having just laid in the cool of the garden for a moment, I’ll slip away. Two or three decades from now, in the garden on the perfect island of Molokai.

On some days, when my tomato plant hasn’t even grown 1/2″ in the last month, or my shriveled roses struggle, I really consider moving to the islands. Hawaii was our trip to the beach. VST’s and mine. It didn’t take much to get us moving in that direction. We visited 30 times over the years. If we had only put our trip money towards a beach house, we could have had a nice one. We visited so often that in many ways it became home.

For one year, I’d like to curse thriving plants that grow inches in the night. With a color of green so lush and deep, the dense foliage would beckon me to walk further into the jungle. That would be just feet from my back door. Tropical flowers sprouting from every possible plant with fragrances oily and rich. Fruits ripe and ready for the picking. In my mind’s eye, I go to the islands as often as I can to sit with the memories made there, as soft as the trade winds gentle caress.

The reality is, I live in the desert. In 2015, my springtime trip to the garden center involved the purchase of everything that grew beautifully in California. Delicate plants begged to be potted in designer containers and placed on our enormous deck in Virginia City. Over and over, as if the angels of darkness had planned it, an unexpected frost would come to kill. Any hope of colorful spring blossoms would be dashed.

I don’t buy what they’re selling anymore. If it isn’t a succulent or cactus, it won’t survive. Succulents and cactus only live until the killing frosts and snows of late fall. In the spring, we begin again, wishing again that maybe this year will be different. Well, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. Right?

Most of the neighbors around here have embraced desert landscapes. Not that it makes them happy, it’s just cheaper and easier to accept reality. Since 2004, Winterpast has been home to oasis dwellers. Those of us not willing to let the green die water. And water. And water some more. I’m so thankful for the first owners of Winterpast and their vision for gardens with paths and green lawn. For planting roses and fruit trees. For setting out bulbs that shoot up through the snow to say hello before anything else is green. For my apricot tree, as big and wide as a banyan.

The maintenance on keeping all this watered is costly. This weekend, my gardener, Mr. B will come and work his magic on the sprinkler system that waters the back of the property. Broken since the summer of 2020, it’s time that it works on its timer. Broken solenoids are annoying. They’re also very expensive. Hence is the life of the gardener.

In April, 2020, I was the grieving gardener. I spent countless hours manicuring my yard through tears. Weeds were plucked as soon as they sprouted. Everything was fed on time. I replaced every emitter as fast as Oliver ate them up. I put out special lighting and I grieved. Oh, how I grieved.

Two years ago, the lush grass of Winterpast was the site of VST’s memorial with 45 of his closest friends and family. On that day, I wish I could have laid on the lawn and been swallowed up by the lawn. Thank goodness I wasn’t. That wasn’t the plan.

Each month on the 8th, a lonely widow went out to release balloons showing the number of months since her beloved “HE” had gone away. Each month at precisely 10:30 AM, muffled sobs came from Winterpast until finally, on a windy day in April, the last 12 balloons floated towards the heaven and one year gone.

Winterpast and her gardens have sheltered me through the seasons twice. She’s helped me to focus on the needs of my gardens, moving towards a different phase of grief and a different stage in life. Acceptance and healing.

Living in Hawaii is high on my bucket list. I imagine Oliver would like it, too. A year of morning walks on the beach. Of course, it would involve the most intense year of gardening ever.

Bucket lists are a funny thing. VST and I never shared one. When we came up with a worthy dream, we made it a reality. He always reminded me that someday might never come. Today is the day to embrace every worthy dream. That’s the way we rolled through one adventure after another, never looking back with regret.

With the desert heat to reach 100 today, I need to roll right outside and get to work. The weeds around here laugh at me. They know this old woman just might let them live for a few days more.

Whatever you choose to do today, find time to sit with some memories of your own. Grieve what you must, but also spend time celebrating the happy’s of your life. Being grateful makes life wonderful.

More tomorrow.

It’s all fun and games until someone signs a contract!

Such was the case after a long, productive Sunday. The day started out in a prayerful manner. My dad used to say that he found his week on Sunday morning. I didn’t truly understand that until I reached my 66th year. Yes, Dad. You can relax. I now find my week on Sunday morning at church.

Each Sunday, the Church Ladies connect Like magnets drawn to one another, the women of our Bible study group have bonded into a unit. What a beautiful thing, friendship. Especially between women. A magical sisterhood of caring and concern. These women have become my soft place to fall in the short time we’ve known each other. Each one of us has experienced profound loneliness and isolation. Through this group, we’ve found the other pieces of this puzzle we call home. It’s a precious gift.

One of the gals suggested that we share a meal at The Tee Pee Bar and Grill. Okay, throw a small casino in along with the Bar and Grill. My goodness, it’s Nevada. Casinos are everywhere. It’s always shocking to see slot machines at the front of the grocery store or service station. Although I’ve never seen any desperate housewives playing them, they are there for a reason.

Times have been tough for the TPB&G. The veteran waitresses left their posts for greener pastures. The customers, mainly an older generation, have stayed away. A once thriving 24-hour diner has become a 7:00-2:00 establishment, while the slot machines remain open 24/7. Going there made me wish like heck Miss Firecracker would have walked through the door to join us. We shared so many secrets, always drawing attention when shrieking with laugher leaking tears down our faces. We were two women finding their way through a widow’s wilderness in the Autumn of 2020. We made it to the otherside, Miss Firecracker!

Chatter. Chatter. Laughing. Chatter. With future plans for puppy play dates in place, in a flash our plates were clean and we were hugging out our Goodbye’s until Thursday.

Racing home, faster than the desert’s Zephyr Winds, I morphed from Church Lady into College Coed. I had an assignment to finish and my papers are never late. That’s not how I roll.

Oliver had his first experience with what will become his way of life. The laundry room and the doggie door. On the way home, I panicked a little that I would find my loveable little piece of lint laying in the back yard. Dehydrated. Steps from his freshly filled pool. Too hot to take a dip. Panting his last little doggie breath in the desert sun just steps away from the shade of the apricot tree. Little x’s over his little green eyes having just succumbed to the desert heat only minutes before the sound of the garage door opening.

Not to worry. That little survivor didn’t even break a sweat. He had been inside enjoying the air conditioning. Happy as a clam to see his Mom-oh, I think he liked his time home alone. I’ll find the damage when the sun comes up later today.

Within a couple of hours, my assignment and the rest of my Sunday would be peaceful.

It was just that until 6:32PM when I received 10 emails all containing employment documents. Computer-generated forms. Last night, I promised to report all child abuse, safety infractions, bullying, and side-eyeing. I promised not to use my computer for outside activities such as shuffling funds to the Cayman Islands or other nefarious deeds. I was informed that Title IX was respected in the district. That there was no discrimination when I was hired. My direct deposits were directed and the government will now get a hefty portion of my check in the form of taxes. Twenty-eight forms in this batch, each one needing a cyber-signature from me.

The last and most important one signed was my contract. It’s now official. I am an employee again. My yard duty whistle will stop hallway runners in mid-stride. For 185 school days, I will again be Mrs. Hurt. Eyes-in-the-back-of-the-head-one-of-a-kind-loveable Mrs. Hurt. The one and only. I will watch a group full of littles grow up to read, write, and add with carrying. We’ll sing. We’ll laugh. And, then, we’ll all be tuckered out every night after long days of learning.

People are still in horror that I’d be willing to teach once again. I guess some people don’t have an intense love for something they do well. Writing and teaching provide inspiration in my life. I’m relevant again. I have a place to go in which profound and life changing things will happen every day. My group of students and I will form a bond over the year that will last a lifetime. Do you remember your 1st grade teacher? Mrs. Erickson was mine. All my teachers remain in my heart to this day. All dead and gone, they taught me critical elements of a successful life. In honor of them, I’m thrilled to return to the classroom.

I must leave you to finish my assignment. Proof reading is the last task. The paper is written in the proper style. The word count is correct. 2000 words+. 25% of my course work is now complete. This week, I’m tasked with creating a classroom Newsletter. Perfect, because that’s on my To-Do list for the school year.

Have a wonderful day! Do something you love. Love something you do. Find creativity. Enjoy a quiet moment in the day. Pet your dog or cat. Sit outside for a little while. Enjoy life. It’s beautiful.

More tomorrow.

Know yourself and you will know what to do.

The birds are showing ultimate respect to Sir Oliver these days. He patrols the yard making sure there are no ground dwellers. If you have a toad or bird problem, Oliver’s the guy. The Exterminator.

The birds around here should remain mindful that Oliver is a master at figuring out how to achieve his goals and get what he wants. He will only need to practice tree climbing for a short time and they’ll need to choose higher ground or a different yard.

When he’s on the prowl, they sit comfortably on the tiniest branches. They aren’t worried about the branch breaking, because they know the strength of their own wings. They don’t think or believe they can fly. They just flap their wings and DO IT. What a great gift!

These days, I’m testing my own wings. Testing the things I KNOW and the things I’ve BELIEVED to be true. There is a big difference there.

I used to believe in Santa and the Easter Bunny. Both of them, one in the same, died on April 8th, 2020.

I choose to KNOW someone worth knowing now. The King of Kings. Not just a belief in human doctrine. A deeper knowing in my heart that brings comfort on the saddest days.

When I find myself standing on the fourth rung of the ladder, I still depend on my legs to hold me upright. I wouldn’t want to trust an old, rusty ladder because I’m not blessed with wings. As a human, we still have the duty to choose our branches wisely while using our brains. Some branches in life are just to fragile to hold us securely. Some break unexpectedly, leaving us scrambling to find a new perch.

It’s good to know when to fly for our lives, even if the day is windy and the journey difficult. The next place will make it all worth while. Then, we’ll appreciate the fair weather days that much more. That’s called Faith.

Have a wonderful summer Sunday.

More tomorrow.

Covid and the memory of being locked up like caged rats is no longer a reality here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. On our small town Memorial Day, along with remembering the heroes that served our country while paying the highest price for our freedom, we celebrated. Just plain old fun with all the bells and whistles.

In the last week, I’ve received more phone calls and invites than I thought possible. I did get my new crowns last week. Perhaps that’s why I feel like The Queen of Everything these days. Establishing even one friend in a new town isn’t the easiest thing to do, especially in a town that is just a wide spot along a dusty part of the interstate. But, slowly, my friendships are growing.

Last Thursday, with Zephyr winds howling, Ace and I attended a Thank-You BBQ given by my beloved Realtor and her husband. In the middle of 25 mph winds, they pulled off the entire event with a great band and wonderful food. Of course, this was held in “In-Town Park” (as opposed to Out-Of-Town Park which is out of town). While there, a friend from church and his two children joined us as we tried to keep our hamburger buns from flying away. Going to an event and actually meeting up with friends is a new and exciting experience after two years of isolation. Ignoring the crazy winds, we all had a wonderful time enjoying the music and great food.

Saturday, Ace and I went to place flags at the Northern Nevada Veteran’s Memorial Cemetery. The event started at 8:30 am. We arrived at 8:35 to find almost all the flags were already handed out to eager helpers like ourselves. Finding one last crate of flags, we took a bundle of ten and a carnation for each grave. In a matter of minutes, our part was done. By 9:30, every grave was dressed with a flower and flag.

Dogs always catch my eye, but any time I see a service dog with a vest that says “Guide Dog Puppy in Training — San Rafael, California” I must approach the handler. As a young country girl, I raised Guide Dog puppies while in 4-H. So when I spied the adult puppy raiser holding the leash of an adorable black lab, I had to go to her. We were friends at “Hello”. During our conversation, she mentioned the names of several 4-H-ers that had raised puppies with me in the 1900’s. Such happy memories came flooding back. We knew many of the same people, even though we’d never lived in the same town.

While I visited with her, Ace visited with her husband. It turned out he was born in the California town in which Ace lives now. Both being Veteran’s, they exchanged information about their duty stations. This man had served in the Coast Guard on the Jersey Shore near Ace’s childhood home. Small world.

Saying our Goodbyes, it was time to go to the polls for early voting. Again, waiting in line, friends were everywhere. I’ve finally lived here long enough to know who I know and run into them once in awhile. I never realized how lonely I was until now that I’m not that alone anymore.

New friends have been calling to visit. This week, I’ve been invited to a 75th birthday celebration for a wonderful new friend. People are returning to their natural state of friendly around here. It’s all new to me after my move here in April 2020 when the fear of Covid had us all cowering behind closed doors.

I hope your Memorial Day weekend was just as you wanted it. As the year flies by, remember something special about each day. Our world can heal if we do normal things again. Carry on with a smile.

More tomorrow.

For those of you that don’t know, Winterpast is the name of my home. Not ever thinking about naming a house, in April 2020, I named two of them. My old home is named The DunMovin’ House. It sits on A Street in Virginia City, Nevada. If you visit there, look her up. She’s a beauty.

My new house is in a tiny town at a dusty little wide spot in the road. I knew I loved her when I first found her on Realtor.com. Her name is Winterpast. She didn’t have that name before I moved here. Now, it’s displayed by the front door. Forevermore. Winterpast.

As a new widow, heartbroken and lost, I’d teleported into the next phase of life. Physically moving only seventeen days after VST’s death, I was in a deep shock-y fog. No routines were established yet because everything needed attention right then and there. There was so much to do that on most nights I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

During the move, I found a series of books I’d been meaning to read. When VST was alive, I never had time. We were too busy building, remodeling, or RVing to even begin a have a moment to read. But, the need for distraction was real, so I began. The series is about a town named Mitford. The author Jan Karon.

One night, deep into the story, the author spent a chapter introducing an old woman and her memories of love lost. Her one true love, an architect, had built a mansion in her honor. She would have moved in after their marriage, but her father wouldn’t allow it. Her lost love secretly carved the name Winterpast on a hidden beam, in memory of the woman he lost and loved still. He had told her about it in a yellowed letter he’d written to her so long ago. On her dying bed, the woman asked the priest to go to the home and see if the word was indeed carved on a beam in the attic. All those years she had wondered while she spent her life alone. The home had been sold to strangers when completed.

Indeed, chiseled onto the beam was the word “Winterpast”, hidden for decades.

The author then went on with the next chapter without explaining the reason for the name. Scrambling to get my bible, I read the verses in Song of Solomon — 2:11-17. I knew. It was if the angels had whispered the name in my ear. I’d just moved into my very own Winterpast. Plain and simple.

Winter has past me for a little while. Spring is here. “The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.” Now, in some versions of the Bible, the Turtle Dove’s voice is heard in the land. In my Bible, it is the voice of the turtle. It makes me smile every time I read it while thinking of little singing turtles enjoying life.

Get out and enjoy the spring time; it’s here such a short time. Lot’s to do here in the gardens of Winterpast.

A Song for Winterpast

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic ’til I’m gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love

Oh, let me see your beauty when all the neighbors have gone home
Pretty roses growing after the day’s work is done
Show me slowly spring’s beauty with your sweet allure
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the autumn now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We’re both of us beneath a desert sky, above us twinkling stars
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the apricots who are ask a ripened orange
Dance me through the curtains to the gardens that need work
Raise a tent of breezes now, until all the tilling is done
Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I’m gathered safely in
Touch me with your natural beauty, sent from God above.
Dance me to the end of love.

_{“Dance Me to the End of Love” –Originally written by Leonard Cohen, changes written by me, inspired by Winterpast.}

More tomorrow.

A brilliant Easter was enjoyed by all at Baptist and Main. Wondering where 1/2 of our Bible Study students were yesterday, someone made an odd statement.

“Well, it IS Easter.”

Exactly. EASTER!!! Wouldn’t the sanctuary be overflowing? As Pastor said quietly, it was a day for CEO’s to attend (Christmas and Easter Only). If you’ve never attended a little country church, give it a try. At times it is most entertaining.

Anyway, the crowds did come and fill the church with not a seat left to spare. In the Christian faith, Easter symbolizes new beginnings. Appropriately, there were two baptisms along with a fine message. Excited children raced to the classrooms when it was time for Children’s Bible Study, right after the time we sing praises. The service and message couldn’t have been nicer.

My friend, Willow, was having a pretty rough day. It was her first holiday without her husband, who passed away on 2/2/22. Although ill, no one was expecting him to get Covid and die a few days later. Still in deep shock, she is lost. Watching her takes me back to Easter 2020 when I was the widow who hadn’t expected things to go so badly. I was the woman in shock that thought everything was FINE, FINE, FINE. I was the widow in the fog.

Watching her now, I realize just how much my life has healed over time. I also see that decades will need to pass before memories don’t haunt me on a lonely nights here at Winterpast. A different type of memory now, they’re often the type that I would love to share with someone that could remember a certain time or day. The feeling of baking sun when raisins had to be boxed and shipped because rain was on the way. The excitement a family of seven crowded into a Volkswagen Van going to Santa Cruz for the weekend to see The Monkey’s play a free concert at the beach. Weekends at the Delta enjoying the ocean breezes on the deck of Club 19. Memories stored and waiting, all bright and shiny like they happened just yesterday.

Willow is having trouble remembering the day and time with everything so new and overwhelming. Tasks she never thought of doing continue to need attention. A woman that never asked for help with anything needs help with everything. Swimming in the deep end without a life preserver, she’s treading water as fast as she can. Doing really well, she just needs to get to the place where she believes in herself. That takes time.

Sneaking out a little early, I raced back to Winterpast. Decked out in Easter-Pink, the tables were set for twenty. A guess, as it was an open call to a morning worship service of 90 people. “Come on Over if you have no where else to go. Joy’s house is open.” During the service, I quietly envisioned all 90 people and their kids coming to clog the streets and my plumbing for a free lunch.

Fresh ham, turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, green salad, macaroni salad, and fresh rolls, with freshly made Carrot Cake for dessert. There was a lot of food, but for 90? We could always order some pizza, if needed.

Slowly, all SEVEN guests arrived. None of them had been to Winterpast. It was fun to see what people asked questions about. The pictures of my grandparents. Our wedding pictures. A bauble here. A gewgaw (now, THERE’s a great word) there. Things taken for granted because I see them every day, and yet each one holding a really great story. Everyone’s homes are like that.

The difference in a widow’s home is that you could pick up a bent nail sitting quietly on a shelf, and it could be the most precious thing she owns. It could be from the very day her sweet husband was installing solid oak hardwood floors just for her. Looking up to see her paint smudged face, the need to kiss her overwhelming, a stray nail was bent. Like I mentioned. The things most precious to a widow are sometimes entirely worthless to the rest of the world.

The seven of us sat in a room waiting for 20 guests. We enjoyed the food, all eating way too much. This little country church has helped me find my way. These wonderful new friends brought different sounds to Winterpast. Sounds she has missed since her family of long ago met for Easter inside these same walls. Winterpast and I have some parties to throw. We need to get our game on.

That was my Easter. A usual church day with unusually happy people. Friendly new faces I hope to see again somewhere in this dusty little wide spot in the road that I call home.

Have a wonderful Monday.

More tomorrow.

Ballet — using movement to illuminate human emotion and endeavor.

April 8th, I visited a place that’s become my favorite when a change of scenery is needed. The Lake. To be quite sure, this isn’t a place to park the car and go for a stroll. Vast and lonely, mysterious stories and secrets surround her which is one of the reasons I’m drawn there. On days when my focus is disrupted by sorrow, nature’s beauty comforts me best. Friday was a day just like that.

Needing a picnic, I stopped at the local Subway on Main. I could easily live on Subway sandwiches for the rest of my life. My little town has a busy shop and the sandwiches are always fresh and tasty. I’ve recently discovered the Child’s size sandwich. 4″. Perfect for lunch.

Stepping outside, the crisp spring day made me smile. Across the street, the hardware store was bustling with activity. Just minutes before, I’d stopped to buy couplers for my decaying sprinkler system. Fix one spot, three more leak while becoming a never ending project. Who needs the gym when one has a beautiful yard that needs tending?

With Easter just around the corner, I’d love to buy spring flowers and put them everywhere. Nature has other plans. For the next week, nightly frost will blanket us. Tahoe is expecting 12″ of snow. The winds continue to howl. Expensive spring flowers would be ruined this week. It was announced last week that Nevada is the most expensive place in the US to garden. After looking at 2022 prices for flowers, I’d have to agree. Nope. That project needs to wait a little longer.

Driving out to the lake, the clouds were performing a ballet just for me. Big Sky. If you haven’t experienced it, you need to. It’s something wonderful to behold and nourishment for the soul. Driving along while listening to tunes from the 80’s, I had plenty of time to think. 1987 changed my life forever. I met four people that transformed me into a better woman. VST and his three kiddos. Along with my two boys, we became a pack of 7. What an adventurous life we shared! Time remembered a little differently by each one of us, but cherished by all.

The terrain on the road to the lake reminded me of all the places VST and I traveled through the years. The coastal ranges of California, the plains of Wyoming and South Dakota, and the Central Valley of California where we both grew up. The spring rains have given new life to the hills, turning them the prettiest shade of desert green. At The Lake, shore birds come to rest and nest. With the high salt content of the water, grebes, pelicans (yes, PELICANS), cormorants, waterfowl, gulls, and terns all enjoying time there as much as I do. On the vast and wild lake, life is abundant. You just need to stop long enough to eat a sandwich and watch.

My time at the lake was cut short when a fisherman surprised me as he up over the ridge towards the bathrooms. With Naomi’s murder fresh in my mind, the Jeep and I were already rolling before that gentleman got any closer. Miles and miles of silent emptiness is the perfect place for one old lady to be snatched and never missed. Not happening on my watch.

Driving back home under the brilliant blue sky, the clouds danced along, changing shape and speed. A show just for me and the memories that tagged along for company on April 8th, 2020. Such a beautiful day to mark two years since VST’s went on his way.

With Mother Nature in the middle of her indecision, garden hoses are stowed and soup’s in the kettle. The winds are wild today, just the way I like them. All the while, the clouds dance on, eastward.

The desert. A most comforting place to call home. I’m so glad it’s mine.

Have a wonderful Sunday, whatever you decide to do.

More tomorrow.

Life is just that. A complicated balancing act of so many varied responsibilities. Retirement makes me wonder how VST and I ever kept so many balls in the air at once. At times, life seemed nearly impossible, and yet, thing always got done. In the prime of life, productive people don’t have much time for examination of the belly button.

April 8th will be the two year anniversary of VST’s death. Remembering back to those last days, a variety of needs were put on the back burner with one main focus front and center. Hospice care for my dying husband. Those days were the darkest of my life. Horrific memories still pop into my head from time to time. What could I have done differently? How could I have made things go more smoothly? Being a hospice team of one on the hillside of Mount Davidson, I did the best I could. How difficult were those days with only VST and I knowing the toll “Goodbye” took on us.

During the last 726 days, so many challenges have been conquered. From moving 350 moving boxes from storage to keeping a 1/2 acre yard lush and lovely, life’s been busy enough. There were days when I spent too much time weeping. Other days when I wasted time sleeping too much. Some days were spent just thinking about life. Each day, writing took me to a focused place that I could express an abscessed wound. Coming to the end of my second widowed year, I find that my life is finally coming into balance.

For those of you just entering the foggy wilderness of widowhood, I send my prayers and love. I wish I could send you a road map. That was the original intent of this blog. After all this time, I realize that was a bloated and arrogant thought. No one can lead another on the journey of grief. It’s all a new widow can do to put one foot in front of the other and find her own way. I know that the prayers of T, K, Miss Firecracker, CC, Ninja Neighbor, Ace, and all the others who supported me helped me find a new life, one day at a time.

Today, I was taking inventory of the parts of myself that need nurturing. Thinking of my recent activities, a personal balance is finally coming into focus. Spirituality, artistic abilities, social needs, grief, financial security, home-owner responsibilities, self care, creativity, intellect, community service, and love of nature. Listening to my inner voice, I’ve slowly plugged in nurturing activities. God’s grace and mercy have given me strength to carry on.

As a widow of 66, these are the last years in life I can enjoy activities of my very own choosing. Slowly, health and circumstances will enforce certain limits. Until that happens, I need “make hay while the sun shines”, as my dad would always say. VST would just tell me I can sleep when I’m dead”.

Awhile back, when things weren’t very balanced, I made a pie chart of my activities to see from where the imbalance came. Being a visual person, it was interesting to see that laziness was taking up more of my life than necessary. A little more social interaction was necessary. By adding a little of this and taking away a little of that, the balance I’m currently enjoying is starting to feel natural.

726 days represents quite a journey in my life. In reality, it’s only 3% of my days on earth, yet sometimes consuming 100% of my thoughts. In the big old world, April 8, 2020’s heart wrenching loss wasn’t even a hiccup. Life goes on. Grief is something we experience as we continue living. At some point along the way, the 8th’s of every single month now hold promise instead of loss. Instead of two years a widow, I’m coming up on two years with my own personal angel. Tall, dark, and extremely handsome he will always be to me. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. What will I choose to do next?

Look for your own balance. If one activity is taking up too much of your time, try a different approach. Add a new activity to spice up your life. The choices are too numerous to count.

Continued prayers for Ron and Beverly Barker. As of this writing, they haven’t been found.

More tomorrow.

Thinking back to my college days, I became fascinated with terrariums. They could be made from anything, but the container of choice was the coveted 5-gallon water bottle. With the help of a funnel and a long grabber tool, soil and plants were placed inside. Little tropical plants would thrive in the artificial space created just for them.

With the proper amount of sunlight and water, the level of humidity was perfect for those small plants to thrive, never growing bigger than the container. Transplanting those little plants was so much easier than transplanting an entire human life. As long as their nutritional requirements were met, the survived.

Moving to the desert, I’ve found a culture and way of life that is unique. Certainly not for everyone, even the shades spring-time green take some getting used to. Four distinct seasons are pronounced, each with their own distinct challenges and beauty. VST and I quietly moved to The Dun-Movin House in Virginia City, Nevada, sat back, and waited for our roots to take hold. Having each other, we had a wealth of shared memories to talk about. We had plenty of adventures to create over our six years together. It’s easier to transplant when you are a unit of two.

Seventeen days after his death, I transplanted to Winterpast as a Unit of One with one little dog to keep me company. The move has been easy in some ways and the most difficult thing in the world in the other. Choosing desert life has been good for me, being very similar to the one in which I grew up. Farmers. Ranchers. The Feed Store. Rodeo. Living with nature. Understanding weather patterns. Spring time and harvest. Those things are second nature to this farm girl. To someone transplanting from city life, those things can be learned, but it takes a lifetime to internalize them.

The Central Valley of California was a desert before it became the Bread-Basket of the United States. Anything you could imagine grew there until that was all abandoned and it returned to desert status. Without water, a desert is just that. Barren wasteland. Add water and can see what happens. Here in my little town, there’s not much help for the soil. Even at Winterpast, where gardens have blossomed for 18 years, the soil is still marginal. Some things can’t really be changed.

Will my tap root really grow strong enough to keep me from blowing away in the Zephyr Winds of the desert? That remains to be seen. I’ve transplanted myself in a nurturing, positive environment. My new friends are encouraging me to do my best by moving forward one day at a time. I’m finally finding out who I am and what I can accomplish. I’m also discovering all the limitations that come with my age.

At the present time, the town is comforting its residents, still in shock over the nightmare of the last three weeks. Visiting the local Walmart last night to get a few things, I noticed people staying a little closer to their loved ones. It will take some time to get over the unthinkable that took place on March 12, 2020.

One of the family members spoke yesterday, cursing the desert lands that kept Naomi hidden for weeks. The blame belongs with the one that caused this, which wasn’t Naomi or the desert. I, for one, find comfort in the wide open skies with their puffy white clouds. As the desert night skies reveal beautiful galaxies of stars more plentiful than I can count, I feel extremely blessed to live here. Nevada’s state song says it all.

Home Means Nevada — _{Written by Bertha Roffetto}

Way out in the land of the setting sun,

Where the wind blows wild and free,

There’s a lovely spot, just the only one,

That means Home Sweet Home to me.

If you follow the old Kit Carson trail,

Until desert meets the hills,

Oh, you certainly will agree with me,

It’s the place of a thousand thrills.

Home means Nevada. Home means the hills.

Home means the sage and the pine.

Out by the Truckee’s silvery rills,

Out where the sun always shines.

Here is the land which I love the best,

Fairer than all I can see.

Deep in the heart of the golden west,

Home means Nevada to me.

Whenever the sun at the close of day,

Colors all the western sky.

Oh, my heart returns to the desert grey

And the mountains tow’ring high.

Where the moon beams play in shadowed glen,

With the spotted fawn and doe,

All the live long night until morning light.

It’s the loveliest place I know.

Home means Nevada. Home means the hills.

Home means the sage and the pine.

Out by the Truckee’s silvery rills,

Out where the sun always shines.

Here is the land which I love the best,

Fairer than all I can see.

Deep in the heart of the golden west,

Home means Nevada to me.

More tomorrow.

Yesterday, the town came together for another search. This time, it was on foot on a very hot, dry desert day. This says a lot. As I pulled weeds in the garden yesterday, the sun was getting pretty warm by 10 AM. 150 citizens went out in the desert to look for any and every clue, down to the tiniest thing that looked out of place.

All the while, the arrested piece of soul-less flesh sits in an air-conditioned cell. Something is so wrong with this picture. You see, he’s an experienced murderer. At 17 years of age, he helped kill a man and dispose of a body. That’s who stalked and kidnapped an 18 year old girl in our town. Truly, a real-life monster among us.

Listening to her mom’s pleas, I wish Naomi could be teleported into her arms. I can’t imagine waiting and not knowing. We’d love a few minutes with this monster. The community would make him talk, the easy way or the hard way. But, that’s not who we are. We aren’t monstrous. We have hearts. And so, we wait and pray for Naomi’s return.

The sky was flaming with rainbow colors on the evening the monster was arrested. The rainbow is a beautiful symbol hijacked by one particular group. Rainbows and lollipops. As a child, I certainly grew up loving them. I still do. As a woman, they represent an everlasting covenant between between God and man to me. Their exquisite beauty make me stop in my tracks whenever I see one.

At only 18, Naomi was a still a girl in many ways. She grew up in many different countries in the world in which the rainbow didn’t have hidden meaning. I can assure you, a rainbow in Russia or South Africa is just that, a RAINBOW. How refreshing that she loved rainbows for the beauty they hold. I wish the world could go back to a simpler time, when a rainbow was something magnificent to behold far beyond ridiculous earthly symbolism.

Winterpast knows nothing of current headlines and human strife. The gardens are sprinkled with an abundance of weeds. They weren’t so prevalent last year. Almost non-existent the year before. It seems I need to apply a pre-emergent treatment which will stop weeds from growing. Caution. It stops anything starting from a seed from growing. Be careful where you apply this. “Preen” comes to mind. I need to check and make sure Ollie will be safe with whatever product I choose. Although highly effective, pre-emergents do wear off after many years, especially in a harsh desert climate.

The irises are just starting to awaken. So funny that in California, the irises and daffodils are in full bloom, along with every other flower known to man-kind. We cherish our desert blooms because it takes water and effort to grow them in the garden. In my neighborhood, there are only three or four houses that have traditional yards with mature trees. The rest of them are desert-scaped. It’s a luxury to have an oasis in the backyard. For me, a necessity.

Trimming the roses, I wonder what type of crop I’ll have this year? It’s time to start developing the blank areas in my back yard. Plant some nice hedges next to the back fence. A few more bushes. Some flowering plants. And, lots of annuals. My completion date is July 4th. Who knows? Maybe I’ll host a big party this year.

Last night, Mr. B, the gardener, called to remind me it was time to turn on the water. It sounds easy enough. Go to the faucet and turn it on. When living in a harsh environment with snowy winters, it’s a little more complicated. The garden water must be turned off at the main line when the night frosts begin, and turned on again when the temperatures remain above 32 degrees Fahrenheit. It’s that time of year. Once the sprinklers start sprinkling, everything will come back to life.

Two years after arriving at Winterpast, she and I are a unit. Her garden walls provide peace and tranquility in troubled times. The desert gave a rainbow sunset on the evening Naomi’s kidnapper was arrested. Now, if the desert will just give her back. She’s out there somewhere. Hopefully, today will be the day she’s brought back home.

Prayers for Naomi.

More tomorrow.

Who would even think that creating, purchasing, and setting a headstone would become a nearly impossible task? Of all the things I’ve gone through as a widow, this wasn’t something I considered as difficult. It seemed it would be something easily done. Two years later, I’ve found out differently.

Choosing the right place to memorialize VST took some consideration. There are family plots in the Central Valley of California, but that’s too far away. VST wasn’t a US Veteran, so that eliminated the National Cemetery in my town. Although his ashes will be spread, I wanted a place to go. A place to think. A place to grieve. A place for friends and family to remember him. Virginia City, Nevada was the last place we dreamed and lived together. My “Bionic Cowboy” was never happier than taking his daily walks on the boardwalk. Everyone in town knew VST. A headstone would be fitting there.

The next step was to find a stone cutter to create the headstone. This was not to be an easy task. In case you haven’t done this lately, you are in for a surprise. In the biggest little city to the west of me, headstones are ordered online. Can you pick your own slab? No. You can’t even see what it might look like when finished. All are computer-generated and delivered by Fed Ex. That didn’t sit well with me, but the next part was horrifying.

“I’m planning to place the headstone in the cemetery at Virginia City. How much will it cost to set it in concrete?” I asked.

“Virginia City?” he asked with a puzzled expression.

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“We don’t set headstones there. You can come pick it up when it arrives and set it yourself.”

Excuse Me, Mr. Funeral Guy????? Are you kidding me??? You’re kidding, right???? This little old 66 year old woman is going to come to your office, pick up a 180 lb. headstone, hoist it in the back of my Jeep, travel to Virginia City Cemetery and set the stone in concrete? Has this man lost his flippin’ mind????????

These days, I’m constantly floored by society. In this case, Mr. Funeral Guy (MFG) works in the business of grief. Wearing shorts and tapping his little flip-flopped sandal, our conversation was obviously going no where. Besides, he had a tee-time and was sure I knew that. Only one thing raced through my mind.

FERGETABOUTIT!

I wasn’t purchasing a headstone online. This wasn’t a casual purchase. This was a stone that will last hundreds of years, like the others in the Virginia City Cemetery. Although two years have passed, I’m a grieving widow. Widows don’t set their husbands headstones as they did in the prairie days. Zero Stars for Mr. Funeral Guy.

T and K met in on a sad day in the Central Valley at a real headstone manufacturer. They chose all the elements, lovingly creating a beautiful headstone. Even so, it took months to create. The headstone will still need to be transported to Virginia City by family, but it feels more personal coming from the Central Valley where VST became a man, married me, raised our children, and became a Grandpa.

I met with the Virginia City Cemetery care taker, Donald, almost six months ago. On a fall day, we walked around the cemetery to choose the right spot. As it turns out, when placing a headstone in Virginia City Cemetery, you just pick a spot. There are no pristine rows of manicured plots. In a mosaic of headstones, you just find a spot you like and claim it. Donald knows who is buried where. He makes the rules.

“How do I select the spot once I find it?” I asked.

“Just set a rock on it.” Donald replied.

Just so you understand, Virginia City is a big pile of rocks. Big rocks. Little rocks. It’s a town that has been mined numerous times. Everything sits on one big pile of rocks. This is not a green cemetery. It’s a rock cemetery. One rock looks just like all the rest.

Finally, I found the perfect spot. VST’s headstone overlooks all of VC and The DunMovin’ House. VST always had to know what was happening around town. From his spot, C Street and all the excitement of the tourists can be seen and heard. From this little cemetery hill, the Washoe Zephyr Winds will gently blow from the west towards the east. From where we came together to where he left me alone. In my new little town, evening winds will pass over VC to me, connecting my past with my present.

On April 8th, we’ll meet in Virginia City one last time. Neighbors, friends, children, grandchildren. I hope the Sheriff stops by.

Donald did agree to set VST’s stone. Thank goodness that isn’t something I need to worry about. I’ll put a little heart in the concrete for good measure. With all the yards and yards of concrete work VST and I did over the decades, signing our pieces was something we always enjoyed.

After we’re done, we’ll have a meal at Virginia City’s finest restaurant, Café del Rio. So many happy memories were made on the side of Mt. Davidson, elevation 6200 ft. Although our life story ended on April 8th, 2020, it’s a story I’ll remember with love for the rest of my life.

More tomorrow.

Childhood on a farm is as magical as it gets. The world is open for experimentation and exploration. In the mid 1900’s, there were few boogiemen that ventured into the vineyards of the Central Valley of California. Sure, there were roaming hippies high on drugs and love, but they just sauntered on by on their walk towards the coast range and the Pacific beyond. Nope, it was an idyllic place for a blonde little tomboy to grow up.

Although we did have animals, we could never have had enough for me. The ones we had really didn’t count as REAL farm animals. No cow. No pig. Not even a rooster if Dad could help it. Just chickens, rabbits, pigeons, and 4-H lambs. On a farm, it’s not wise to name the animals. Whether furry or feathered, they all met their end at the dinner table.

Of course, there were the dogs. Through the years, many many farm dogs. There were also the visiting Guide Dog for the Blind puppies that came to stay for a spell while we helped them grow and learn. Although I raised five puppies to maturity, all five were rejected due to physical birth defects. Random problems that broke my heart each time. Crooked ears that never straightened. Hyperactivity beyond the normal. Hip dysplasia. A pronounced limp that never went away. Just a few of the problems that came with little puppies delivered in the amazing Guide Dog for the Blind van.

An amazing imagination was necessary because toys weren’t plentiful. It wasn’t smart to be bored because plenty of chores could be found to amuse you. Living on a farm, there was always dusting and ironing, if nothing else could be found. Our farm was a 45 minute drive from town, so there were no matinee movies for us. Just long sunny days outside.

An old rusty bike from the 1950’s always had a flat which always needed fixing. Goat Head stickers were tough on tires, even those with thick tubes. Grammie and Grandpa lived down the road to the north. A best friend lived down the road to the South. Two feet never failed me in either direction. That was my world.

Name brand toys were just starting to become popular. I had my cousin’s hand-me-down doll, Lula Belle. A Madame Alexander baby doll, she was about to be discarded when I snatched her up for my own. She sits in my guest room today, having earned some down time in her old age. She still hasn’t gotten over the fact that Barbie and Ken came along.

As a young girl, my nose was always in my Dad’s shop. Girls weren’t allowed. Ever. Except for me, his favorite. A dark, mysterious, rusty place of dust, rust, grease, and oil. Dangerous beyond anything in today’s world, open bags of chemicals and heavy equipment were everywhere. Spray rigs for the ranch were waiting for repair, dripping with toxic goo. Big disc blades that could cut off a toe, or worse were propped by the 12″ galvanized sliding doors. A huge hoist could lift up a butchered cow’s carcass like a feather. Mysterious and wonderful things were in the shop, and I loved sneaking around there to check out the equipment. Boys had all the fun. Sadly, we were a family of five girls.

Presents of any kind didn’t happen too often and certainly not without a reason. At Christmas, there was one gift for each girl and occasional gifts from relatives, if they remembered. My Auntie TJ never forgot. Her gifts were always the ones I waited for. Special and just right, she knew us so well.

On my tenth Christmas, Santa brought one gift so special it left me speechless. My first box of Legos. Primary colors. Little square and rectangular blocks. No specialty pieces. Just a box to blocks with which to build things. I was in heaven, slowly adding to my set from year to year.

Fast forward to Winter 2020 in Walmart. A down-in-the-dumps kind of day, I was purchasing some toys for the Children’s Hospital just west of here. It was then I accidentally found myself in the LEGO aisle. No longer just squares and rectangles, there were boxes of every type of LEGO known to the world. It was then I realized I never stopped loving them.

Looking from side to side for onlookers, I found the perfect set and put it in my basket camouflaged by the toys for the hospital. THIS set was mine. Christmas is a great time to let the inner child run the show.

The box sat for a year, just collecting dust. With so many adult things to do, every time I looked at it, I felt silly and childish. Why did this 65 year old woman purchase such a toy? Utterly ridiculous! Shameful! Here’s the deal. I didn’t return it. 😁

During the winter Olympics a few weeks ago, I remembered the box and took it out. Well, the genie is out of the bottle. LEGOs are still as fun as they every were. Gone are the rectangular and square pieces in red, blue, and yellow. There are inventive and wonderful pieces that make all sorts of interesting projects. Mine happened to be an RV with moving parts and adorable tires.

Now, LEGOs are not for those gifted with true talents for carving wood or painting pictures. Not for those that can sew up a dress out of nothing or create a handmade dollhouse from scratch. They are for those of us that are challenged by following simple directions, while hoping that we use all the pieces in the right place. We, too, need a little creation to sit on the shelf.

Next Christmas, Santa will bring me that functioning LEGO typewriter. Age — 18+. “Perfect for that special writer. 2,079 pieces.”

Have yourself some fun today, whatever life brings you. It’s never to late to play. Isn’t retirement grand?

More tomorrow.

I’d never lived alone until April 9, 2020. Considering my life began in the second week of December, 1955, there were decades of togetherness. Growing up in a farming family of five daughters, there was always someone to help figure things out when questions came up. We were never at a loss for suggestions on “How to……” With a dad that could fix absolutely everything with a weld, including an Aunt’s underwire bra, and a mom that could make a gourmet dinner out of sparrow breasts, we had it covered.

At college, I had a roommate for a year.

I married at 21.

Divorced, I lived with my two sons.

In 1987, I met VST and we fell in love. End of story. I always had someone that could help fix any problem that arose. Living alone, things aren’t so convenient. Oliver certainly knows how to fix everything, however his lack of thumbs gets in the way. He certainly knows where everything is. He alerts to me to so many problems, including but not limited to, smoke of any kind, the doorbell, 4:30 AM and 4 PM (his breakfast and dinner times) and now, text messages. If I’m distracted, or even asleep, he makes sure to alert me to important things around here.

There’s one thing he can’t help with. It’s a human dilemma.

Passwords.

#%$@! #%$@! #%$@ !

Of course, a password is a great idea. Do you remember when one was enough? Now, it’s a password for a password. Passwords are required to get private codes texted to your phone. But, you might be on your phone and the internet at the same time. By time you find the code, the time limit has expired. Passwords are necessary in this dangerous world.

I’ve gotten much better at creating them over the past two years. One tip that VST shared with me is that if you start or end a password with five zeros, it’s harder for the hackers to hack. I use that for sensitive log-ins. It used to really upset me when someone would demand the creation of a PIN or Password immediately, while tapping their little pencil and including an occasional eye roll. Well, bless their little heart.

One of the first times K and T, my CBC’s, (children by choice), came to visit me after VST’s passing, K brought me the best gift of the century. A small black book entitled “$%# I Can’t Remember”. Of course, the real word is on my book, but I don’t want to offend. This little book is one I use on a daily basis, with a place to organize all my passwords and @#$%. My version was Copywrite by Christelle Ball in 2017.

As seen without entries on the photo of the day, this little book is my life saver. As it was explained to me, anyone who meant me harm would fall in two categories. Computer literate — a person never thinking a book of passwords might be laying around. Or, Computer illiterate — a person who wouldn’t know what to do with the passwords once he found the book.

In this little gem, I have everything anyone would need when the unthinkable happens. It is hidden in plain site, which does present other problem. I do need to FIND the book on occasion. I added many other categories inside the front cover, including Attorney’s name, Financial Professionals, Doctors, my internet code, Passwords for the computers, etc. The list goes on. We have so much to remember on a daily basis, it’s nice to have a place to store the information.

Some of you might point out that the computer is a great place to store this stuff. So true. However, in case of emergency, this little book will help the helpful with everything they need. When living alone, you need to have a Key to the Kingdom for the day you might be on the way to another sort of Kingdom. Get my drift?

As a widow, I’ve written so many times about something called Widow’s Fog. Now, there’s also Covid fog. Senior Citizen Fog. Having a Rotten Day Fog. As we might all experience foggy days from time to time, the importance of this book cannot be overstated. You can find this and others like it on Amazon.com. A great little gift, priced $5.00 and up. Of course, you do need to remember to write every Website Name, Username, and Password down the minute you create it. That’s the FIRST thing not to forget.

Today, a dental appointment awaits. I can hardly wait to find out which teeth will rob me of a trip to the beach or some other great place. The dentist WILL find SOMETHING amiss. That’s why we go, right? Have a wonderful day, whatever you do. Don’t forget to remember those passwords.

More tomorrow.

Happy Monday! With spring just around the corner, life feels lighter. The Mourning Doves have been busy gossiping on the wind. Although I’m not sure where they’ve been, it’s nice they’ve returned to Winterpast, my Air B&B. (Air Bird and Bath). Of what they mourn, I’m not sure. The name “Morning Dove” would fit them just as well, as they hop about on my metal chimney in the early dawn hours causing a ruckus while cooing to their friends.

In Spring 2020, when I’d barely lived here a minute, a temporary boarder came to stay. Having just moved in, I’d leaned my metal ladder against the barn. With every new snow, the ladder should have been put inside. With more pressing issues at hand, it stayed where it was while becoming just another part of the landscape.

When taking some empty boxes into the barn one day, I looked up and came eyeball to eyeball with a Mourning Dove. With eyes as wide as mine, we both froze and studied each other for a moment. On the top step of the ladder, nestled in a freshly built nest, it was obvious she had a clutch of eggs. Although certainly of interest, this was a situation not to be disturbed, so I went on about my day.

For weeks, she and I tolerated each other, while both mourning our losses. Mine – a husband. Hers – a loss of flight. She didn’t often leave the nest and I didn’t often go out to the barn. Keeping an eye on her from the kitchen window, days went by until her eggs had hatched. A most attentive mom, she taught her little ones everything they needed to know until her four little dove-lets flew away. Mourning doves know things AND they can fly. Pretty awesome little creatures.

After days of being unplugged, it’s time to cultivate some new interests. Thinking back on all the ways the internet has enriched my life, one of the most enjoyable was helping me learn to crochet. Coming from a family of five girls, I’d learned the basics of crochet as a child. A simple, mind-numbing little skill, I hadn’t crocheted for years. Finding many instructional videos on simple stitches, I bought some yarn and started. Before long, I was creating all kinds of projects, from a baby’s sweater to a full-sized afghan. Instructions and patterns were all free, without the distressed looks from someone you love telling you you’ll never get it. Until you do, stitch ten, rip out eight, rest a bit, and try again. You Tube is a patient teacher.

Needing to feed my intellect, yesterday, I discovered something grand. Harvard University on the Cheap. The actual website is pll.Harvard.edu. There you can find free classes through Harvard University. Go a step further and Google “Free College Courses”. There are many universities that offer online classes you can enjoy for free.

Signing up for my Harvard class was simple and fast. They asked for completion of a simple survey to help them better serve their students. A real Harvard student may call if they need to know something else.

Then, the course began.

Choosing a course entitled “Christianity – An Initial Overview, one of the first requirements was to introduce myself to the “group” and say “Hello” to three participants. Reading through the short bios, I discovered others interested in the history of the Christian faith. One of the participants is a Catholic priest from Brazil. A young woman from Minnesota is questioning her faith and wants to know more about customs of biblical days. A gentleman from San Francisco has always been interested in ancient culture. The introductions went on and on. Students from around the world are enrolled in this free course.

With text and videos, the course should take a few weeks to complete. It isn’t taught from a spiritual point of view, but from a scholarly one. Pastor C is giving me plenty of spiritual guidance right now, but the scholarly point of view is a puzzle piece that will help me better understand The Holy Bible.

Each day, I’m reading from the Old and New Testaments. By December, I’ll have finished the entire book. This is the most interesting reading I’ve done in a long time. I wish I had a better mental picture of the terrain and customs of the time. I just finished a story in Numbers about a donkey that got sick and tired of his master beating her while she was only trying to avoid an angel in their path. I’d better be sure to take good care of Oliver or he just might decide to give me a piece of his mind.

Surrounding ourselves with Winterpast, sweet friends, a new church family, and the high desert of Northwestern Nevada, Oliver and I are truly blessed. Lonely and broken in Spring 2020, the last two years have been a time of spiritual, mental, and physical growth and healing. Living a purposeful life takes time and patience. Out of the darkness come more and more days of pure light, one after the other. Life is beautiful.

Time for me to dust off my book bag and get off to Harvard for my morning class. I want to get a seat in the front row. Check out the college you’ve always wanted to attend. There’s so much to learn in this crazy world.

More tomorrow.

Enough already. This isolation stuff is a nest for insanity. Two years ago, VST’s ankles became swollen for the first time in his 64 years. Really swollen. Giant in size, we first believed it was from a poor diet of fast food while looking for houses in Pahrump, Nevada. It was three days of Egg McMuffins and Bacon Western Cheeseburgers. Chips. Fries. Sodium overload. Such a weekend changed the course of our lives forever because the illness wasn’t caused by fast-food salt, but cancer. Little did we know. All was quickly revealed.

Just a year before that, we were enjoying one of the best hobbies in the world. RVing. If you know, you know. If you don’t, you might want to investigate. Having a completely stocked home on wheels, we rolled around the country to places we’d only read about in school. We went to the very meadows and hills where VST’s dad, Jack, ran as a boy. Missouri, with its down home ways, could have become our new home. I felt Jack’s spirit with us that entire trip.

Six weeks in an RV with a husband isn’t for the faint of heart, yet, VST and I found a rhythm that worked for us. Not all hearts and flowers, our daily goals were translated into unfamiliar names of towns hundreds of miles away. Meals were planned to the last sesame seed. Naps measured in 30 minute increments. Music set to Willie’s Roadhouse on Sirius XM while rolling at 55 to get to the Next Exit.

Two solitary years later, there’ve been no long road trips. Somewhere in Wyoming, at a lonely truck stop, I left a wisp of my soul. For a State Park outside Rapid City, South Dakota, my heart yearns. Mount Rushmore. Wall Drug. Ely, Minnesota. Lake Superior. All of them long for me to return as much as I dream of them. Once you drive through the peaks and valleys of our great country, you never look at her the same. I long for the mid-west.

Two years ago, VST was dying of cancer while the world was dying of Covid. The first I heard of this was a news story about a little place in Washington state where 90 people suddenly became ill and died. Such a mystery and horror, I paid little attention to the details. It would be the last news I watched for weeks.

April 9th, 2020, I again turned on the news, just one day a widow. The number of dead had grown to 20,000. Quarantining was in place. Go no where. Allow no one into the home. Close your doors and shutter your windows. Shelter in place. Be afraid. Very afraid. And so began my journey through widowhood.

Two years have passed. Because of my strange introduction to the world of Covid, I didn’t depend on the media to instruct me on my every move. Chilled to my bones by the horrors of VST’s cancer, there could be no worse illness. Viruses are a forever thing. There still is no cure for viruses. No eradication. The same is true for cancer. No cure. Certainly, there’s no cure for death. That’s a given.

For the last two years, I’ve done my best to keep living as normally as possible. I’ve eaten at restaurants as often as possible. Stayed in hotels on numerous occasions. Visited spas. Shopped. Carried on in a world that has gone mad. Thankfully, VST and I picked a new home in the perfect place. Spaced away from quiet neighbors, there’s room to breathe. Fresh air. Brilliant, disinfecting sunlight. No air pollution (unless California is on fire). Cleansing winds. A desert paradise.

Through all of this madness, I’ve had two colds in the last two years. Just plain colds. Sniffling. Sneezing. Running nose. Headache. Nothing more. Covid-Negative.

Now, it’s time for me to come out of isolation. Personally, I can’t cower another day. Two years of grief and loneliness is far too much time for navel inspection. 2022 is a time to return to normal, facing whatever that holds.

Healing. So much healing is needed in our world. Forgiveness. Tolerance. Love. Everyone just needs to take a deep breath and learn how to play together again. Drive a little slower. Wave a little more. Wear a smile instead of a mask, at least when you are driving, alone in your car. Plan a spring picnic. Get outside and resume one small part of a normal life. Living in fear is no life at all.

In all this craziness, something wonderful has happened here at Winterpast. A familiar name has returned to my life. Ace is back. Sometimes, isolation is necessary reflection on the course of life. With time and conversation, our friendship was stronger than our differences and we proceed with caution. Although one hundred miles still separate our lives, some friendships are just too precious to lose.

Now is the time for healing. Phone calls to old friends bring back forgotten memories. Walks together under the bright blue sky invigorate the spirit. Trips to the grocery store are more fun when the meals planned are for two. Flowers from a friend make me smile. Church is a room full of love. All those things help us heal together, because healing is always better with friends.

Have a wonderful day.

More tomorrow.

Wow. I sneezed and it’s January 11th. During retirement I thought time would slow but it seems to have done the opposite. Although up and writing today, I’m still not 100%. I’ve been enjoying movies, chicken soup, orange juice, and lots of naps. Today I need to move my brain and body towards normal.

A few bored days ago I wasn’t feeling well enough to write for an hour or two in my drafty studio. Not quite up to reading a novel, I wanted something to do. Daily journaling has become a part of my life. Like a best friend of the “No-Tell” kind, I vent about whatever has driven me mad, made me cry, or brought me to my knees. There are also boring little repetitions about feeding Oliver or the time I rise each morning. Just stuff that I find important at the time I wrote.

Journal One, August, 2020. Reading along, day by day, I revisited my early widowhood wondering where that version of me found the strength to pick up a pencil, let alone life. Grief soaked pages told of a long and arduous journey full of adventure and great memories. These journals speak of flags planted along the way. Milestones. Successes. Failures. My journals are a place feelings of one day are vented and forgotten the next. But when read one page after the other, a mural of this new woman appeared. As I’ve grown, the new me is a reflection of the decisions I’ve made along the way. Thank goodness I like who I’ve become today.

Want to journal for yourself? Here are some tips to help you get started.

1. Find a comfortable spot to journal in a quiet area. Hate quiet? Find a chaotic place. People are different. Find a place that works for you.
2. Choose a time that you are well-nourished and rested, preferably at the same time every day. Set your timer for 15 minutes.
3. Commit to writing for 14 days in a row.
4. To begin, date your page. On the first three lines write 1, 2, 3.
5. Think of three things you’re grateful for. They can be as simple as Air, Water, Light. After you list the item, write one sentence about each telling why you are grateful. This is just to get your mind rolling. As you’re writing these three sentences, spelling doesn’t matter. As long as you can read this, it doesn’t matter the penmanship. Punctuation??? FERGETABOUTIT. Just get your words down about these three things. You may write a page about each one. You may write four words and call it good. It’s up to you.
6. Next, write about one thing that happened over the last 24 hours. This can be as simple as walking to the mail box and seeing a cloud. Write one sentence about what you saw. Continue a little about what you smelled, touched, heard, and tasted. You’ll be surprised that if you start really thinking about your day, you have so much to write, it’ll be hard to choose.
7. It’s okay if you only write 1/2 page. More is not always better. When you feel like stopping, stop.
8. Make writing in your journal a priority for two weeks and then see if journaling is something you want to continue.

Reading back through the months at Winterpast, the abundant and beautiful life I’ve experienced came flooding back. I’m so glad I saved those memories like preserved rose blossoms. Full of all the hope and wonder that comes with enjoying a spring sunrise, the words of 2020 show a woman full of hope, adventure, and faith. No matter the dark clouds, it took strength and courage to march on, one foot in front of the other.

Choose a journal that is well made and pleasing to you. Walmart has a wonderful selection with a variety of sizes and layouts. I choose to write in mechanical pencil for quick corrections. Again, remember, this isn’t something others will read. It’s meant for your eyes only, unless you choose to share. Make sure those around you know and respect that, or keep it tucked away. Words written one day will represent different feelings that those written the next. They’re a reflection of you at a single moment in time.

If you come to writer’s block, Google — “Journal prompts”. You’ll find many websites that can help you. The main point is to begin and don’t stop. Writing is life. You will discover things about yourself that you never knew. It cleanses the mind while making the sads and scaries easier to deal with.

Not at 100%, I return to my nest for more sleep. Stay well. More tomorrow.