Category: 2025

What a way to start the year!! HHH came home with a injured back. At the same moment, I developed a chest cold. We are a matched set today.

Needing a few days to regroup, I’ll plan to be back on Monday.

Happy New Year! I think……

I’ll return next Monday (1/13).

Unfortunately, I need one more week to recover.

I’ll be back next Monday.

I am so happy to be back on this beautiful winter day!!! The weather here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada has been crisp, clear, and brilliantly bright. With highs in the upper 50’s, it’s been downright spring-like, which shouldn’t be embraced. We have yet to have our share of winter but it’s surely on the way.

Today, we celebrate the beginning of new leadership. HHH and I will be celebrating many things tonight with home-cooked steak and lobster, finally enjoying the New Year’s dinner that didn’t happen. Influenza A took over as the weeks flew by. Happily, that’s in the past and it’s time to celebrate health and a bright new future.

2025 will be a year to remember. For one thing, it’s the year I’ll usher away the 6th decade of my life and welcome the 7th. My 70’s will be the most brilliant time in life because I will make it so, but not before celebrating every single day of 2025 with a marvelous sendoff.

To start the year off right (now that I’m finally well), I’ve been sorting the heirloom seeds HHH gifted me for Christmas. When sorting seeds, there are important things to remember. Some seeds need stratification in the freezer. Some seeds need darkness to germinate, while others thrive under grow lights. All seeds have specific lengths of time for germination, so it’s wise to map out your plan on a calendar. Our growing season will begin in a couple of weeks.

If starting seedlings for your garden, start with fresh, viable seeds, resisting the temptation to pull out old packets from the garage. As I learned last year, your plants are only as good as the seeds. Growing plants from seeds can be disappointing if you start with old seeds.

Along with getting my strength back, the last few days have been a wonderful time to rid the house of dust bunnies and dog hair. Nothing feels better than being healthy enough to vacuum and dust the house. For that, I would like to hire a marching band to celebrate.

Yesterday, I talked with a dear friend who is very troubled about the personality of our new president. After talking a bit, I finally had to make her laugh a little bit with the following truths.

1. You don’t need to ask the man to dinner.
2. Forget his noise. Watch for his signal (actions). That will speak volumes to a man’s ability and character. In other words, step away from the circus that follows him. Watch his cabinet get to work. Judge the results after things happen. Period.
3. Results follow actions. Only then, can we judge the presidency.

For this great country, I’m so thankful. Having lived in a communist country in 1977, I learned first-hand the horrors of communism. My ancestors fled from the nightmare of socialism. How terrifying that we came so close to losing something as precious as our customs and way of life. It’s up to us to keep our magnificent country safe, free, and great again.

Whatever you do today, celebrate dreams. Celebrate health. Celebrate happiness. Heck, just celebrate!!!!!! There is so much in life for which to be thankful. Skip the noise. Watch for the signals.

More tomorrow.

So, I’ve survived the dreaded flu. Not the “Oh, I’ve got a cold, but I’ll soldier through” type of flu. No, this was the full-fledged, three-week, body-aching, brain-fog, fever-sweat extravaganza that made me question life choices. And let’s face it: when it dragged on that long, I embraced flexibility in every aspect of life. I’m not talking about yoga poses here. I’m talking about a flexibility that involved adjusting my expectations, schedule, and even personality (for the sake of the HHH, Oliver and Wookie).

Week 1: Denial and the “I’ll be Fine” Stage

Looking back, the first few days were a blur of fevers and chills, while I told myself, “Oh, it’s just a little virus. I’m tough. I’ll power through. It’s just a cold, right?” All the while, my body was trying to convince me that it was an unwilling participant in some sort of medieval torture while I soldiered on. I think, “I’ll keep blogging. I’ll eat meals in bed. I’ll watch the entire season of High Seas on Netflix—I can multitask, right?”

But then I realized my body had other plans. With a brain that turned to mush, the only thing I “worked” on was perfecting the art of napping. Every time I tried to do something remotely productive, I was struck with a wave of fatigue so intense, I consider changing my name to “Nap Queen.” Suddenly, blogging, church, and our Grief Share Group became a distant blur while I started focusing all my energy on convincing my body to

Just.

Keep.

Breathing.

By Day 4, HHH took me to the ER, unable to watch the suffering any longer. After enduring five long hours in the waiting room, I was diagnosed with Influenza A. I could expect up to two more weeks of sickness and then a lengthy recovery. It was a very cold and long ride home, facing the reality that this was only the beginning.

Week 2: The Flexibility Crisis

By Week 2, I’d , entered a whole new phase: The “What Is Even Happening Anymore?” phase. The first week I tried to maintain some semblance of normalcy. By the second week, I was humbled. Flexibility was no longer a nice-to-have; it became a survival tactic. Blogging? Ha! The only deadline I became concerned with was whether I’d make it out of the bathroom before my fever spiked again.

So, I got creative. I rearrange my day to accommodate my fluctuating energy levels. Did I have energy to respond to an email? Absolutely not. But I did manage send a texts to our prayer group asking for them to add my name to their growing list. I told myself, “I’ll clean the kitchen once I feel better.” But let’s be real. That kitchen didn’t get cleaned for another two weeks—and quite frankly, I was too tired to feel guilty about it.

Meanwhile, flexibility with food choices became critical. I never felt more liberated than eating nothing but Subway, soup, crackers, and popsicles for days on end. Nutrition? Who needs it when you’re in survival mode? I started to understand why people in the Old Testament just ate manna and called it a day. Simple. Uncomplicated. Flexibility is key here.

On Day 11, HHH again took me to the ER. After another chest x-ray, we were told the same information. Influenza A is a tough one. Stay hydrated. Keep flexible. Soldier on.

Week 3: Total Surrender

By the third week, I’d fully embraced the art of flexibility. My body made it clear it doesn’t answer to willpower. I could no longer pretend that I was just “a little sick.” No, I was deeply sick, like “I’ve been to the edge and back” sick. By then, I’d accepted my fate. Mastering the art of flexibility, I could stretch my willpower as thin as possible without actually doing anything productive.

I started binge-watching Netflix to the point where I could write a dissertation on obscure true crime documentaries. I got up occasionally, only to promptly lie back down in exhaustion because standing for more than five minutes was clearly overrated. Besides, it was unachievable.

By this point, I became an expert in rest. Who knew? I learned to appreciate the small victories of life: surviving the day without needing to take 3 naps, brushing my teeth without feeling like I’d run a marathon, or the joy of making it to the fridge without collapsing. Flexibility wasn’t just about physical flexibility anymore—it became about bending my expectations to accommodate the new, flu-ravaged reality.

The Final Lesson

So what’s the moral of the story, my healthy friends? It’s simple: when the flu shows up uninvited and overstays its welcome, the key to survival is flexibility. Flexibility with time, flexibility with energy levels, flexibility with expectations. It may be inconvenient, frustrating, and downright miserable at times, but flexibility is the only thing that will help you survive the three-week flu apocalypse.

HHH has my undying love and appreciation. He has his own story regarding the other side of this fiasco. Suffering through a lesser version of the same bug, he never wavered, bringing me all the Subway, tacos, and popsicles requested.

And hey, emerging from the depths of sickness, I have newfound respect for the simple pleasures of life, like breathing freely and being able to stand up without my knees buckling. Whatever you do today, stay flexible, folks. You never know what’s around the bend.

We live in a world where every tweet, selfie, and motivational quote is a step toward fame (or at least a few likes on Instagram). It’s tempting, isn’t it? The sweet sound of applause. The virtual high-fives and the “You’re amazing!” floating through the air like confetti. But consider this: how much of it is real approval, and how much is just a sugar-coated distraction? Should we seek man’s applause or God’s approval?

Long ago, in another land, I was an actress at a small theater in the California foothills. How I remember being on stage under the lights while enjoying the laughter and applause of the diverse crowd. Newspaper reviews were favorable while family and friends loved the performances. Being an actress during those days at the Golden Chain Theater, the sweet sound of validation felt like a warm hug from the universe.

But here’s the plot twist: All the applause, no matter how loud, was fleeting. Like fireworks lighting up the night sky, fans evaporated leaving nothing but smoke and a faint echo of “whoa.” We burned bright for a nanosecond and then returned to our normal lives.

It was easy to get caught up in the applause. Everyone wants to feel seen and know our existence matters. The real danger lies in relying on applause as a primary source of validation. In the long run, it’s a bit like eating candy for dinner. Sure, it’s sweet, but you’ll soon be looking for something a little more sustaining.

These days, I contrast that with God’s approval which is a steady, unshakable force. God’s approval isn’t based on how many people clamor for more blogs or how many ‘followers’ read from afar. Nope, it’s not about the outer fluff; it’s about integrity, heart, and purpose behind intentions and actions.

While it feels great to wear the latest outfit or enjoy lots of zeros in a paycheck, God’s approval comes in quieter forms. It’s that sense of peace when doing something you know is right, especially when no one is watching. Or perhaps it’s the little moments of grace where you connect to something greater than yourself. No applause or confetti, but a deep satisfaction while following a personal calling.

Although there might not be a trending hashtag for “God’s Approval” any time soon, deep down, it’s a level of contentment that the loudest applause can never give you.

Here’s the thing: we’re all human. There’s nothing wrong with wanting man’s applause now and then. It’s nice to feel appreciated and to have someone say, “You did good!” But if one builds a life solely around those external cheers, they’re essentially chasing shadows. It’s like trying to fill a bucket with a hole in it—no matter how much is added, it’s never enough.

On the other hand, God’s approval? That’s the foundation. It’s like planting seeds in rich soil that grow over time, providing lasting fruit, even if it doesn’t show up in neon lights or viral tweets. The real victory comes in the form of internal peace, not just applause for good deeds from others. It’s been God’s approval that sustains us through the ups and downs.

Seeking man’s applause is like chasing after glitter in the wind. Shiny glitter is fun for a moment, but God’s approval? That’s solid gold. You might not get instant fame, but the satisfaction that comes from knowing you’re walking in truth and purpose? Now that’s the applause that will echo in your heart for a lifetime.

The next time you’re about to do or say something for “likes” or “claps,” take a moment and ask: Is this for me? Or is it for Him? Either way, make sure the applause comes from the right place.

Ah, the joys of winter’s slow retreat. While the world around us starts to warm, many are faced with a daunting challenge — the yard. This year, Winterpast has been left on its own for most of the colder months, slowly transforming into a tangle of branches, dead leaves, and perhaps a few misplaced lawn chairs. Now, it’s time to face the music (and the 35 trees).

Pruning and yard clean-up, often touted as a peaceful, zen-like activity, are more like the horticultural equivalent of a rock ‘n roll concert — chaotic, occasionally painful and involving things that not in the schedule, like cuts and scrapes. But don’t worry, friends. With a little humor and many YouTube videos, we can do this!

Let’s start with pruning. You know, trimming back all those overgrown plants that look like they’re trying to reenact Jumanji in your backyard. Pruning is an art form. It’s not just hacking away at anything that’s in your way (though that’s easy to do). No, no. Good pruning is the intentional reduction of limbs with a vision for the future.

The first step is assessing your plant situation. “Are these branches dead or just aggressively confused?” you ask yourself. They might be both. And let’s not even get started on the thorns. One minute, you’re calmly trimming the rose bush, and the next, you’re playing a game of “How many thorns can get stuck in my thumb before I lose all feeling?”

Bad pruning is similar to a bad haircut. You start out wanting to shorten your bangs, and before long, they are much too short. Yes, after a few seasons, your trees may come back, but think of the time you’ve lost. Much better to start with a solid understanding and a plan.

Each plant requires a different approach to thinning and shaping. With so much information online, it’s easy to do a bit of studying the night before you begin. Pruning an apple tree is quite different than pruning an apricot tree. It’s important to understand which limbs will bear fruit, or you may end up with none.

You can’t prune without the right tools. Every spring, it seems like my shears have mysteriously vanished into the black hole that is the backyard shed. Before beginning, find the tools you need, making sure they are clean, oiled, and sharpened.

As the years roll by, there are always new innovations. Last year, we invested in battery operated nippers and a chainsaw. We’re excited to use them as we shape our fruit trees. Before beginning, always have safety plans in place and remember to always wear gloves.

After finishing with leaf clean up and pruning, there are some phases you might go through if you don’t have a solid plan..

1. The Denial Pile: This is where you dump everything in a massive pile and pretend like you’ll deal with it later. We’ve always wanted to compost, why not now?

2. The Optimism Phase: You start bagging things, telling yourself, “Oh, this won’t take long!” But then you realize you’ve bagged only about a tenth of the pile, and your back feels like you just lifted an elephant.

3.The Desperation Stage: At some point, the sheer magnitude of the mess starts to overwhelm you. You contemplate calling in a professional. But then you remember… you’re a DIY enthusiast, and there’s no way you’re admitting defeat to a pile of leaves.

4. The Zen Moment: In the final stages of yard clean-up, you reach a sort of meditative state, where the rhythmic raking and bagging becomes almost hypnotic. You are one with the yard. Or maybe you’re just delirious. Either way, you’re almost done, and the end is in sight.

Finally, after hours of hard work, sweat, and a few choice words, the yard is clean. It’s pristine. It’s perfect. For about 24 hours. That’s right, my friends. Nature has an uncanny way of reminding you that it is, in fact, in charge. Within a few days, you’ll notice a stray leaf here, a branch there, and you’ll sigh. But that’s okay because you’ve triumphed. You’ve conquered the yard — for today.

Alright, folks, let’s talk about putting our finances in order. I’m not talking about the “look-at-my-crypto-wallet” kind of way, but in the “please-someone-help-me-organize-this-mess” way. Let’s be real, financial lives can be more chaotic than a toddler on a sugar high. Don’t fret because the NOK Box (Next-of-Kin Box) can change your life from a bag of receipts into a thing of beauty just like it did for me.

What is the NOK Box, you ask? Well, it’s not some fancy gadget that promises overnight fame and riches. It’s a simple tool designed to organize your financial paperwork in a drawer larger than the one where receipts and unopened bills are currently stuffed. (We all have one of those, right?)

Have you ever spent hours looking for one lost password or opened your bank account app to see a bunch of numbers resembling a secret code only aliens understand? Yeah, that’s the “financial clutter” I’m talking about. The NOK Box doesn’t allow you to throw all your receipts, bills, and random paper clips into a bag and forget about them. Oh no, it’s a finely tuned system where each document has a place. In one file drawer, everything from vehicle registration to final wishes is stored to wait for the day they’ll be needed by a NOK (Next Of Kin).

There is a critical companion piece is critical. HHH and I have created an alphabetized collection of personal passwords updated with every new account. Containing Usernames and Passwords, these journals are priceless navigational tools. Dog-eared and scuffed, I use this journal often when forgetting the hundreds of codes we all need to remember. We found our journals on Amazon under the title “#%#& I Can’t Remember”. (Alphabetized version is critical.)

When I ordered my NOK box, I chose the cheapest option. It included tabs for file folders and step-by-step instructions on how to complete the project. Important keys were identified with small tabs while old, unknown keys were discarded. By the time the box was complete, I’d found many areas needing attention. From updating insurance, to ordering a copy of a deed from our county, I now have complete files at my fingertips.

Now, there’s an orderly place to record account passwords, account numbers, and balances. There are spaces to record the names and numbers of financial advisors and attorneys. In the normal life of humans, we spend way too much time hunting for elusive papers. By using this system, there is no more searching. A true thing of beauty.

Everyone knows organization is important, but how much time did this take? The original flurry took one week of intermittent searching and filing. The file is a living system, so it’s advisable to keep it close. Each section is a complete questionnaire so no detail is overlooked. To keep things interesting, the NOK Box lets you color-code everything. Because, let’s face it, nothing says “I’m an organized person” like a beautifully color-coordinated set of files.

Once you’ve mastered the NOK Box and your financial life is finally organized, it’s time to set some financial goals. Whether it’s saving for a vacation or paying down some hefty Christmas bills, when you’re organized it’s easier to see a bigger picture. If you make a wrong turn, the NOK Box helps to keep you on track with gentle reminders like, “Are you sure this was necessary?”

When finished, sit back, relax, and enjoy a newfound sense of control. You’ll start to feel like a financial guru who has it all figured out—when in reality, you’re just a person who decided to organize their files into a usable system. What better time to tackle this than the months before the TAX MAN cometh!

There you have it, folks: a way to organize your financial life without losing your sanity—or your smile. The NOK Box might not magically turn you into a billionaire, but it’ll definitely turn you into someone who knows where to find important documents. And let’s be honest, that’s half the battle, right?

Winter has finally arrived. Yesterday, the desert looked serene, covered by 1/2 inch of fresh snow. During these short days and long nights, motivation has packed its bags and left for a tropical vacation. The combination of snow, cold, and endless dark hours has made two ambitious people want to hibernate like bears. But fear not! With creativity and humor, we’re powering through these dreary winter months without losing our minds!

Here at Winterpast, we’ve been indulging in that warm, fluffy feeling for a few extra minutes. While recovering from the dreaded virus attack, five extra minutes give me enough time to think about the day ahead. It’s a personal pre-morning pep talk.

If your workspace is dark or messy, now is the time to bring in some cheer! Decorate your space with cozy winter vibes: think candles, blankets, or even a small potted plant that screams, “I can thrive in winter.” A well-lit space that smells like a coffee shop might trick your brain into a new phase of productivity. Scents like cinnamon, vanilla, or pine can trick your brain into feeling more energized and less “stuck under a pile of blankets” mode.

Tackling a big task when it’s dark outside is as appealing as stepping barefoot on a cold tile floor. Instead of dreading an overwhelming winter week, break it down into five “mini winters.” It’s like telling your brain, “You’re not dealing with the entire winter right now, just one day at a time.” You’ll be surprised at how quickly things get done once you make winter feel like a series of short sprints. The brilliant blue skies of the desert make it easy to forget that although it looks like 70 degrees outside it’s really 32 degrees.

Don’t face winter alone! HHH and I do our errands together. Both vehicles are getting their scheduled check-ups this week. We search for recipes and plan delicious meals. Of course, there are those days when we divide and conquer, enjoying coffee dates with girlfriends and golf dates with brothers. Not only does caffeine help (because winter fatigue is REAL), but the social interaction has given us that much-needed boost to stay focused. Although there are days we spend some time complaining about the weather, two can be much more positive than one. So, find someone with whom to team up.

Let’s talk about the magic of cozy mode. During the winter, “full cozy” is totally acceptable. Slip into that favorite oversized sweater, light a candle that smells like grandma’s kitchen, and sit in a blanket fort if necessary. The more cozy you feel, the less likely you are to succumb to the temptation of just “watching one more episode” of that Netflix show (although there is nothing wrong with that either). Get things done while enjoying a touch of warmth and comfort.

Winter does have its ups and downs (mostly downs, but let’s stay positive here). Instead of dragging yourself through mundane tasks like shoveling snow or dealing with your “winter wardrobe”, try to find the joy in it. Go ahead, just make it fun. For example, can you turn shoveling snow into a timed competition?

Surviving the short winter days proves you are a warrior, so fight back! Try spending some time near a window where the faint daylight can reach you. The fact that you’re surviving another gray day should earn you a medal.

While winter is cold, long, and dark, it’s also a time for introspection and growth. It’s not about pretending that everything is sunshine and rainbows. It’s about making peace with the season, embracing the small moments of warmth and joy while finding creative ways to keep your focus and motivation high. When spring rolls around, you’ll look back and wonder how you managed to conquer those dark days with nothing more than a cup of hot cocoa, a sense of humor, and a few strategic naps. Stay warm, stay cozy, and remember: Winter is a season, not a sentence. You’ve got this!

Late winter is a great time to shower our homes with a little TLC. This year, seedlings need to wait another month while HHH and I suffer with gardening fever. For Christmas, I received the best gift of all. Two shelving systems complete with grow lights and designed for houseplants. I can’t think of anything I could love more except for the houseplants that now live there!

It didn’t take a complete remodel (or an HGTV-sized budget) to inject some life, light, and a bit of trendy aesthetic into Winterpast. All we needed was plants, shelves, and lights. While I was still under the weather, HHH visited Lowes and came back with 10 beautiful plants. After putting the shelves together, Winterpast has a whole new look!

Just like the 70’s, house plants are back!!! To fill your house with a tropical jungle that looks like it belongs in a botanical garden, select a few plants that make you feel like an eco-friendly, oxygen-producing god and goddess. HHH’s choices have given our home a new and exotic feeling.

If you are new to houseplants, start small. Don’t go from “zero plants” to “I now live in a rainforest” overnight. Aim for a couple of low-maintenance plants like snake plant or pothos. They thrive on neglect. You’re busy, and your plants understand that.

Here is the second secret about anyone who owns nursery-perfect plants. It’s okay to replace struggling plants with new ones. Plan a corner in which to nurse plants back to health, should they begin to wither. Keep your prime spots for those that thrive. Just do your best to avoid silk plants. No matter how life-like they look, they miss the mark. Besides, they do nothing to clean the air in your home.

Once your plants are in place, Invest in some ambient lighting—think string lights, floor lamps, or pendant lights that hang down like they’re straight out of a trendy Pinterest board. Lighting sets the mood, and what better mood than “I’m an adult, but I’m fun and creative at the same time?” Our plants love their grow lights and Amazon sells a variety to meet your every need.

Now you’ve now got plants that won’t die in the next five minutes, shelves that could double as art installations, and lighting that makes you look like you’re hosting a chic dinner party, even though you’re just watching Netflix and eating takeout. Take a moment to stand back and bask in your newly revamped home. You didn’t just redecorate; you transformed your space into a sanctuary. Throw a few Instagram-worthy photos to let everyone know you’ve arrived.

Whether you’re a plant hoarder in training, an aspiring shelf decorator, or someone who desires to make their living room look like it came straight out of an influencer’s home tour, these tips are guaranteed to help. Remember this: The only thing standing between you and the perfect space is a little creativity and a trip to your favorite plant store. Happy revamping!

The new year is a fresh slate on which to record upcoming goals. Of course, in the past, silly goals like learning to sing in French or reducing BMI in half by February have been included. With focus and planning, this year will be different because we’ll actually do it.

So, let’s kick off the goal-setting party in the most 2025 way possible—by acknowledging that goals are a lot like New Year’s Eve plans: they sound great in theory, but the execution is a different story. Here are some tips for setting and achieving goals this year, with a healthy mix of sarcasm, humor, and, hopefully, a little wisdom.

We all know the drill: the year begins with lofty dreams. You’ll definitely write that novel, learn to cook gourmet meals (beyond scrambled eggs), and give up coffee. But instead of aiming for perfection, let’s shoot for progress. You want to write a novel? After creating the all important outline, plan to write 500 words a week. Calendar all deadlines, keeping to your plan and before you know it, you’ll be at your first book signing.

No one ever achieved greatness by thinking, “Hey, I’m going to do a huge thing right now.” Sure, Elon Musk didn’t wake up one day and say, “I’m going to Mars,” but probably started by designing his first really fast car. Break your big goal into small, manageable steps. Want to run a marathon? Start by jogging to the end of the street and back while deciding if jogging is something you even enjoy.

Sometimes, the best way to make sure you stick to a goal is to make it absurdly easy. Instead of saying, “I’ll meditate for an hour every morning,” aim for 5 minutes. Five minutes is easy enough that you can’t use “I’m too busy” as an excuse. Then, when you realize how great you feel, you’ll may find yourself doing more. Or not. But hey, at least you didn’t fail completely!

Traditional accountability partners are friends who will remind you that you said you’d start eating healthier. So, just WHY are you eating pizza at 11pm on a Tuesday? This year, let’s get a little more creative. Try setting up a goal tracker that’s actually fun! Maybe you design a reward system where you earn lunch out for every 5 “mini-goals” met. Everyone can use a little reward once in a while.

The truth is, no one has a perfect track record when it comes to goals. You’ll miss a workout session. You’ll eat an entire bag of chips instead of that healthy snack you promised yourself. You’ll probably forget your French lessons for three months. Little setbacks are expected and okay. The important thing is to get back on track. If you fail, do it with flair. Then, get up, dust off, and try again.

Celebrating the little wins is critical. Finished reading a book? Give yourself a high-five. Went to the gym for 15 minutes? Reward yourself with something small, like an extra episode of your favorite show. It’s about progress, not perfection.

The tools available today can actually help achieve goals faster than ever before. Use a habit-tracking app, find inspirational YouTube channels, or binge-watch motivational TED talks. Useful information surrounds us. We only need to do a Google search to find motivational answers.

In the end, setting and achieving goals is all about consistency. You don’t need to change your life overnight. Improving 1% each day will mean accomplishments will wait for you at year’s end. Set that goal to run a marathon, write a bestseller, or drink more water (because hydration is key). Just remember: the best part of achieving goals is when you look back and realize how far you’ve come. And then maybe treat yourself to that pizza. You will have earned it.

Growing up in a family of five girls in the mid-1900s, glamour was a huge part of our lives. How often we’d sit together at the kitchen table after attending a wedding. Critiquing every aspect of wedding attire, we were brutal. Was the bride’s dress properly altered? Did the dress match the shoes and gloves? What seamstress was used? What about the color scheme? All these were things that six women of that era found fascinating.

The oldest two sisters embraced glamour hook, line, and sinker. They posed so elegantly in angora sweaters and pearls for their senior pictures. They were also the two who were homecoming queens and majorettes. Their hair was perfect at all times, and they never left the house looking less than the young ladies they were expected to be.

Then, came the 70’s and me. Hot pants and mini skirts made my parents grey before their time. Homecoming Queens????? That was square. And so it went. The time for glamour and coordinated outfits gave way to tight jeans and chambray. I loved every bit of it.

My mother must be dancing in heaven now that I’ve finally decided to build a sustainable wardrobe. Living on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, I’m going against the grain to revive the glamorous vibes of my older sisters. But where on earth will I start? Is it just about starting from scratch or is there some deeper, almost mystical about understanding fabric weights, content, and dye processes? Which clothing will spark confidence? What pieces are worthy and which ones must go?

Last week, I stepped into my closet to assess the situation. Opening that door like it was the entrance to Narnia, I prepared to meet old friends: five pairs of jeans that were two sizes too small, many slacks still tagged, and one “special occasion dress” that’s never made it to a special occasion. There buffalo-plaid flannel shirts in many colors and well-loved hoodies. All these are appropriate attire for my town. But, getting ready to sail away again, I need a new look. After all, glamour is fun, too.

Carefully holding each piece, I asked myself: “Does this bring me happiness, or does it bring me a sense of guilt from spending $$$ on a thing I wore once?” If it was the latter, I said goodbye. I donated wonderful bags of clothing to our local thrift while creating room for new additions.

Now, I plan to shop for quality pieces. Let’s face it, fast purchases are like a bad relationship—you get excited at first, but by the second wash, they’ve already started to fall apart. I plan to invest in timeless, durable pieces that will make me feel like the fashionista I was always meant to be.

I’m a huge fan of natural fibers like cotton, linen, or wool (especially cashmere). If buying something made from polyester, it better be a swimsuit used after a long summer day of gardening

Loving cashmere, the men’s sweater section is the first place I look when thrifting. Costo sold cashmere many moons ago and many sweaters live on. It’s a wonderful fiber that’s perfect for all kinds of weather. Kirkland Cashmere is a fabulous find.

What about accessories? You know that cool leather belt you’ve had for years? They are the final touch to your ensemble—and probably the thing that will get you the most compliments. Last week, I had fun going through old jewelry I’ve accumulated. Not having pierced ears, I especially love the selection of vintage clip-on’s Auntie TJ gifted me. I plan to keep them in mind when shopping for my new wardrobe. Vintage jewelry is another huge find when thrifting.

The true secret to building a workable wardrobe isn’t about being perfect. It’s about embracing what you already have while making conscious choices for additions. Choose colors that work well with your skin tone and fit in with your existing clothes.

Whatever you do, just begin. If you have ten of something, get rid of two. If those hoodies have seen better days, plan to donate them and find replacements. If you haven’t worn something for two years, it goes. Chuck those stretched-out tees. Don’t forget to sort through your shoes, as well.

Whatever you do, consider weeding your closet. On these cold winter days, there isn’t much going on in the garden!

The desert winter is overstaying its welcome. For months, we’ve been sitting here waiting for snow. No White Christmas arrived. There’s only been one day when we received 1/2 ” of snow. That’s pathetic. It HAS been bitterly cold and very, very sunny, tricking our brains into thinking it’s time for yard work. In reality, it’s just too cold. Glamour needs to wait. Hoodies and sweatpants are far more functional on the last day of January. Staying healthy after recovering from Influenza A takes more than avoiding winter’s chill.

These days, I’m I’m not getting enough sunshine. That’s where Vitamin D swoops in like the superhero it is. This wonder nutrient helps regulate your immune system and keep your mood lifted. So, if you’re feeling a little down because of the lack of daylight, grab some Vitamin D supplements or eat a few more fortified foods. If you’re brave enough, you could also try standing by a window for some glorious, albeit brief, sunshine.

Winter air on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada sucks the moisture right out of your skin. Stay hydrated, even when you don’t feel like it. Your favorite winter beverage might be hot chocolate or spiked cider but balance that out with some good ol’ H2O. Your skin and internal organs will thank you, and you might even avoid the dreaded ‘dried-up raisin’ look.

Here’s the tricky part: moving during winter. It’s tough when the thought of stepping outside makes you want to curl up like a cat on a window sill. You don’t need to run a marathon in the snow to stay fit. Indoor workouts, yoga, or even dancing like nobody’s watching can help you beat the winter blues. If you can somehow make it outside, snowball fights, sledding, or even a brisk walk in the fresh air will make you feel like a new person. If nothing else, at least you’ll get some fresh air before retreating to your couch, cocooned in a blanket.

Now that we’ve all agreed winter is a skin-sucking villain, let’s fight back! This is the season to slather on that luxurious lotion or balm and pretend you’re being pampered in a spa. I’m talking about full-on head-to-toe moisturizing, including your face, elbows, and even your feet (they deserve some love too). If your skin becomes flakey try a moisturizing scrub to bring it back to life.

Winter is the perfect time to focus on sleep habits. The long nights are the perfect time to catch up on the Zzzs you’ve been neglecting. Aim for at least 7-8 hours of restful sleep during the the next atmospheric river rolls. Bonus points if you can master the art of the cozy sleep environment: blackout curtains, warm blankets, and possibly an extra pillow to snuggle.

Lastly, winter wellness isn’t all about physical health – mental health matters, too. Try to stay lighthearted about the season’s challenges. But remember to laugh at the little things. A good laugh releases endorphins, and we could all use a little more of those during the winter months. Embrace the season with a smile… or at least a giggle when you fall down trying to make snow angels.

So, there you have it – maintaining winter wellness will help you endure endless months of snow and darkness. By staying hydrated, moving your body, embracing self-care, and even laughing through the snowstorms, you’ll greet spring in one piece. Winter is long, but it doesn’t have to be miserable. Grab your fuzzy socks, take care of yourself, and enjoy the season for what it is – a time to cozy up, recharge, and remain healthy!

Tax season is that delightful time of year when I’d rather sit through dental extractions than figure out our tax returns. Like brave souls, HHH and I marched into our CPA’s office, papers in hand, ready to pay for the privilege of knowing if our return was right or wrong.

When widowhood was brand new in 2021, I needed a Certified Public Account. “There’s only one guy you want. He’s saved me bundles and he’s fabulous,” said my trusted friend. With hope and prayers, I put together a preliminary return and drove an hour west. Carefully, he looked everything over and assured me I’d done a wonderful job.

Since then, there have been far more complications with marriage, a rental, depreciation, and investments. EvenTurbo Tax groaned under the weight of it all. Waking up in terror, I caved and told HHH we’d need to see the tax man again. Surely this time, I couldn’t have things dialed in.

After snatching the last available appointments for 2025, we made our pilgrimage to the CPA’s office, clutching our collection of receipts and forms with the hope that this year, maybe, we did understand our tax situation. I handed him the preliminary tax return with the confidence I imagine a first-time skydiver has before jumping out of the plane: “I think I entered everything, but let’s see how this goes.”

He gave it a cursory glance, nodded a little, and then dropped the bombshell.

“Looks like your taxes are perfect already. Not much I could’ve improved here.”

Pause.

“Excuse me, what?” You could’ve knocked me over with a 2024 W-2. “Perfect? Are you sure? There are no mistakes? No hidden deductions I’ve missed? No random loophole I forgot to exploit?”

“Yes,” he shrugged, “you’re good. These returns are already flawless.”

I stared at him, stunned because this had only happened once before. Taxes aren’t supposed to be perfect. Taxes are always beginning with a mountain of paperwork while hoping Turbotax turns forms and receipts into a manageable return.

“Are you… sure?” I asked, trying not to sound like I was in denial. “You’ve actually checked everything? All deductions, credits, obscure tax laws from the 1800s?”

“Yes. Everything looks fine. Even your depreciation. Good Going!!!”

At this point, I’d just received an Award For Excellence in the form of our tax return. We went expecting tears, sweat, and at least one “I’ll have to file an extension” moment for our trouble. Naturally, we did what responsible adults would do: We started questioning him like we were the CPA.

“Are you sure my deductions are legit?” I asked again. “Is it possible that we could write off expenses for our honey business? (Which we never started, but did consider.) ”

He rolled his eyes like a seasoned tax professional who’s heard it all before. “Bee’s aren’t deductible unless you’re running a real business selling real honey. How many hives do you have?”

With that question, I was happy to return to earth explaining the only hive we did have died in the fall. HHH and I will be happy to submit a clean return without any business complications.

I wondered if we’d stumbled into some alternate universe where our taxes were actually… normal. Was this happening? Where was the drama? The intrigue? The stress of knowing that we might’ve accidentally claimed Wookie and Oliver as dependents? (Don’t ask, don’t tell…and no we didn’t)

The only thing remaining was an awkward silence as we considered the resolution without drama. It was like finishing a favorite show and realizing there was no cliffhanger. The writers didn’t bother, because they’d already wrapped things up neatly.

I left the office floating on a cloud. My CPA handed back our paperwork as if I was some kind of tax wizard. I guess this year I was the tax wizard.

Next year, I’m taking in a shoebox of receipts just to see if I can get him to sweat a little. Because, there’s no way taxes can ever truly be this easy, right?

After discussing it for a few days, HHH and I are now the proud parents of a tiny, underwater kingdom that could test our patience, budgeting skills, and sanity. So far, we’re making it through the process with minimal trauma and maximum enjoyment. When we finished adding plants to our tropical jungle, the next logical addition was an aquarium.

Of course, the glass aquarium isn’t the only necessity. Purchases on our first trip to the pet store included the following:
✔ A filter (to prevent the water from looking like pea soup)
✔ A heater (for Tropical fish)
✔ A light (so we can see our fish instead of just guessing where they are)
✔ Gravel (fish deserve interior décor, too)
✔ Water conditioner (tap water is basically fish poison)
✔ A test kit (to better understand water chemistry)
✔ Decorations (because every fish deserves a plastic object behind which to hide)

HHH and I picked a place away from direct sunlight (to avoid an algae farm), not too close to a drafty window, and out of the way of anyone lacking spatial awareness (sadly, that’s me). We picked a spot that allows us to stare at our tank for hours instead of doing anything productive. A definite plus.

After washing the gravel to remove any dirt, HHH slowly filled the tank experiencing minimal spillage.

A 10-gallon tank isn’t an Olympic-sized swimming pool, so we kept it simple, while choosing the cutest little fish!
🐠 Neon tetras (tiny, colorful, and always throwing mini raves)
🐠 Guppies (the rabbits of the fish world—be prepared for babies)
🐠 Catfish (cute little bottom dwellers that clean up after their messy friends)

Once the tank cycled, HHH sloooowly introduced our new aquatic pals. They stared at us in confusion while we stared back, hoping they were happy. Given time, they’ve settled in quite nicely.

Regular water changes (20-30% weekly) and filter cleanings are key. We’re hoping to cultivate a little algae. If our fish start acting weird, we’ll test the water, but if something starts to smell bad, it’ll be time to panic. Luckily, Leo, our local fish wizard, has promised to help with any problems we might experience.

We’re getting the hang of it. Our fish are recognizing us as the all-powerful Food Givers, and we spend more time watching them than Netflix. It’s strangely therapeutic. We might need a bigger tank… because everyone knows, a 10-gallon is only the beginning.

Ah, the church potluck—a sacred institution where faith, fellowship, and delicious casseroles come together. Whether a seasoned veteran or a first-time attendee, you should know a few unspoken rules and strategies before diving into the buffet line. Consider this your official guide to navigating the most blessed of all communal dining experiences.

Our church is a magical place where there’s no need for a potluck sign-up sheet. On the second Sunday of the month (even Super Bowl Sunday), the church members create a delicious, shareable meal. Some dishes remain the same, while new recipes come and go. Surprisingly, there’s always a balance between main dishes, salads, and desserts. Everyone comes together to create a beautiful spread.

A successful potluck contains the three fundamental food groups:

1. Casseroles – The ultimate potluck currency often made with condensed soup and topped with something crunchy.
2. Slow Cooker Mysteries – You will see at least four crockpots, (un-labeled), all plugged into a single overloaded outlet. Could be chili, could be meatballs, could be someone’s experimental stew best approached with both faith and caution.
3. Desserts That Defy Logic – Jello salads that somehow count as a side dish, brownies that disappeared before you even got in line, and an inexplicable cake covered in shredded coconut (because someone’s grandma insisted).

Finding a seat is like a high-stakes game of musical chairs. If you sit too early, you’ll get stuck watching everyone else eat first. Sit too late, and you’ll end up at the “kids’ table” with a toddler throwing mashed potatoes. It’s best to identify a strategic location near someone who brought good food. If you’re lucky, they might share their recipe. Make sure no one sits alone because making new friends is a real benefit to this gathering.

Here are some unwritten rules when it comes to pot-lucking.

• Thou shalt not start in the middle. Just get in line and wait your turn.
• Thou shalt take reasonable portions. Yes, Mrs. Johnson’s famous mac and cheese is life-changing, but leave some for others.
• Thou shalt not ask, “What is this?” in a loud voice. If you don’t know, just take a small sample, pray over it, and move on.

As the meal winds down, seasoned churchgoers know that there are only two types of leftovers:

1. The Dishes That Disappear Instantly – Someone’s homemade banana pudding? Gone. Those perfect deviled eggs? Vanished without a trace.
2. The Eternal Leftovers – That suspicious hot tuna casserole will sit, unclaimed, until someone takes pity and “accidentally” drops it on the way out. (Avoid bringing hot tuna to any enclosed space)

If you stay to help clean up, congratulations—you are now among the holiest of volunteers. Your reward? First dibs on any leftover pie and the eternal gratitude of the exhausted event organizer who is still trying to figure out who brought the unmarked crockpot and left it behind

Church potlucks are a beautiful mix of tradition, mystery, and the occasional gastrointestinal gamble. No matter what ends up on your plate, remember that the real blessing is the fellowship.

Whatever you do today, try to find an upcoming church potluck! There’s a good possibility it could be life-changing!

In a world filled with distractions and constant demands on our time, dedicating ourselves to Bible study can be challenging. Immersing ourselves in God’s Word is one of the most transformative and enriching practices in which to engage. The Bible is more than just an ancient text; it’s an active, living guide that provides wisdom, encouragement, and direction for our lives. No doubt, it can be a little daunting, with hard-to-pronounce names and English and difficult to understand. Just start with the first three words — In the beginning….

The Bible comes in many versions so choose a version that fits you. The King James Version (KJV) sounds a lot like Shakespeare. The language alone may be a huge challenge. The New International Version (NIV) is translated into today’s language. This version doesn’t stress my brain as much.

Although I have several Bibles, my favorite one is the Life Application Study Bible, New International Version. The Red Letter edition highlights all Jesus’ spoken words. Chapter tabs are helpful when finding chapters during Bible study.

The chapters of the Old and New Testaments are grouped in sections. The Old Testament includes Law (Genesis – Deuteronomy), History (Joshua – Esther), Poetry (Job – Song of Solomon), and Prophecy (Isaiah – Malachi). The New Testament includes Gospels (Matthew – John), History (Acts), Letters (Romans – Jude), and Prophecy( Revelations).

If you are an auditory learner, BibleGateway is a wonderful website offering the entire Bible in several versions and in spoken word. There is a dramatic version and even one read by an English man named Max. I enjoy listening while reading along. This also helps with all those difficult names of people and places.

It’s perfectly acceptable to highlight your Bible. Be sure to get a highlighter safe for the thin pages. Sold on Amazon, they are more of a colored wax that won’t bleed through the next three pages.

After finding a time of day that works for you, begin your journey. There are plenty of plans for completing the Bible in one year. I didn’t believe it would take me one year to finish the entire book until I started reading. Don’t give up. When the material gets too dense or confusing, take time to research and absorb the information as you can. It’s not a gym membership. If you take some breaks along the way, it’s not eternal failure.

Bible study is a journey, not a sprint. Starting with the Gospels is a great idea. These are four books that present the life and words of Jesus Christ. Written by four different men at different times, the four accounts tell the story of Jesus. Matthew and John walked with Jesus as apostles. Mark and Luke walked with Paul. As you read, think of the men that recorded theses ancient stories for us.

Bible study has become a source of strength and comfort in my life. I find daily guidance for everyday life. Through biblical knowledge, I find the strength to defend and share my faith. While studying, my heart and mind have changed as well as my thoughts, attitudes, and actions. The Bible is a beautiful way to start the day.

One person’s actions can change the trajectory of the day. Being a good steward in your community while caring for the people, places, and resources around you has a ripple effect far beyond the imagination. Stewardship isn’t just about giving money or volunteering a few hours here and there; it’s about embracing a mindset of responsibility, gratitude, and intentional care for the world immediately around us.

At its core, stewardship is about being mindful of what has been entrusted to us—whether that’s our environment, our relationships, or the well-being of our neighborhoods. It means taking ownership, not in the sense of control, but in the sense of care. It’s about asking, How can I leave things better than I found them?

A good steward:

• Respects and preserves natural resources
• Supports local businesses and organizations
• Uplifts and invests in people
• Leads by example with integrity and kindness
• Understands that even small, consistent efforts matter

Accepting the position of Steward for our church, I wasn’t sure about my responsibilities. This became more complicated when I was given the job of prioritizing those responsibilities. I wasn’t even sure WHAT a Steward SHOULD be doing, and now, it was up to me and my fabulous husband, H(Hubba-Hubba-Hubbie or HHH) to create a job description.

Already helping with summer and winter bags for our homeless souls, I added that job to my list of responsibilities. The bags include socks, underwear, chapstick, water, snacks, playing cards, hand warmers, a small Bible, gloves, and ahat.

Our Griefshare group in another way that HHH and I are giving back. As a very small group, we’re getting to know each other very well. The support and love in the room makes our time together fly by. Those in grief are welcomed to a safe place for tears and support.

Our little church sits on quite a large piece of property. On one corner, a past minister developed a memorial garden. Over the years, many caregivers have tended the little park. At present, it sits a bit neglected. The third job on the list of Steward will be to bring the memorial garden into full bloom. This is something that will bring beauty to our entire community.

Even if you haven’t been appointed a formal position as Steward, there are many ways you can help in your own community.

✅ Care for the Environment
Pick up litter. This may seem like a small act, but when multiplied by an entire community, it can make a lasting impact. Claim a small stretch of road, grab gloves and a bag, and get to it. A clean town shows that people care.

✅ Support Local and Give Back
Shopping locally, donating to food banks, or volunteering at community organizations strengthens your town. Even simple acts like tipping generously or sharing a kind word with a small business owner can make a big difference.

✅ Be a Neighbor in the True Sense
Good stewardship is also about relationships. Check-in on elderly neighbors. Mentor a young person. Offer a listening ear. Sometimes, being present is the most powerful form of stewardship.

✅ Use Your Gifts for Good
We all have unique skills and talents. If you’re a great cook then prepare a meal for someone in need. If you have a knack for teaching, offer tutoring to a student who needs extra help. Share your gifts.

✅ Foster Respect
Lead by example. Speak kindly. Show up for local meetings. Be a cheerleader for a thriving, inclusive, and healthy community. Stewardship includes building something better.

In the end, being a good steward isn’t about grand gestures; it’s about the small, meaningful choices we make every day. When enough commit to those choices, our communities will thrive, and that is a beautiful thing.

2025 is going to be a year to remember. Day by day, I inch closer to my 70th birthday. With that in mind, I promised myself each month would hold an exciting adventure. Of course, January was an adventure in recovering from Influenza A. At 95% well, it’s time to leave that one in the rearview mirror and carry on with our plan!

To the west of these beautiful high desert mountains, February’s adventure awaits. A whisper in the wind tugs at our hearts, and we know it’s time to go.

HHH and I have created a wonderful tradition all our own. Stepping away from the familiar into the unknown, we’re traveling west until the sea meets the sand to celebrate our 3rd Valentine’s Day on the glorious coast of California. It’s been a minute since we’ve taken a trip anywhere, and I must say, we’re getting a little restless.

This time, we’ve chosen a new destination. Between two tiny towns, the comfy little AirBnB should be just right. For one week, Oliver and Wookie will find themselves partying at Puppy Camp, while we enjoy the best holiday of the year. Valentine’s Day. For eight lovely days, we’ll visit with family and friends while eating way too much. I’m counting on the salt air to get me back to 100%.

This journey was prompted by a need for adventure, reflection and escape to a warmer climate. We’ll leave our routine and comforts behind while their absence will bring us new perspectives. It’ be fun to brainstorm about front yard projects as we dig our toes deep into the sand. Some of our best ideas have come while enjoying the beach.

Every once in awhile, life whispers that it’s time to seek adventure, even if just for a little while. While we’ll only be gone a week, this vacation seems bigger than the calendar suggests. Of course, there is the wee bit of anxiety when traveling over Donner Pass in the dead of winter. Just Google — Magnifeye–Traffic Webcams for the Truckee/Tahoe area to get an idea of what we’ll be dealing with later today. Icy roads aren’t for the faint of heart.

When using an AirBnB, packing includes more than clothing and toiletries. With meals planned, we’ll be doing a fair amount of cooking. This experience is is kind of like RVing without the RV. Eggs, bacon, coffee, oil, and butter…..well, you get the idea. Along with all the food, there are necessities like dish detergent, laundry pods, and linens. Of course, what cook wouldn’t want to bring his favorite frying pan. And so, the list goes on. I can’t wait for the door to close softly, with a last glance over our shoulders.

Distance always changes perspective while the experience is made more magical by not knowing how our trip will unfold. We’ll take time to reflect on ways to make our Griefshare class more effective. Reading and writing will allow my brain some time to reflect and rest. Funny how creative thoughts bloom when we step away from every day life, even during retirement.

Distance also turns the ordinary into something sacred. Sunlight spilling over a freshly made breakfast. The blue Pacific right outside the front window. Winterpast’s familiar scent and quiet hum will be waiting for us. For now, every step forward will be one toward relaxation.

After enjoying our time away, we’ll come back, maybe a little different than when we left. There’ll be stories to tell as well as plenty of new memories of us. That’s what vacation is all about, right?

I’ll be back February 18th. Until then, stay safe and happy!

There are some evenings so precious they’ll be remembered forever. After returning from a most beautiful vacation at a little “Pink Gem” on the Pacific Ocean, it’s just such an evening I’m writing about today. This is for you, our Precious Goddess of the Central Coast! You are loved!

First, I must give you a little of the back story. For decades, I’ve traveled to a tiny little coastal village nestled on the cliffs of the Pacific Ocean. This small town hasn’t changed since the first time I visited. It’s timeless in its charm and simplicity. A place most people would believe doesn’t exist anymore. A family-friendly town, there are miles of beaches where you can hunt for shells and driftwood. Surfing is a popular pastime. Randolph Hearst loved it so much that he built his castle to the north.

The Goddess of the Central Coast is indeed a true Goddess living in a magical place above the blue Pacific. As a young woman, she migrated from the Atlantic to the Pacific, long ago, choosing a west-coast port city. Far from home, she spread her wings, becoming the independent beauty she was always meant to be.

This Goddess and I lived in the Central Valley of California for years. Although strangers back then, many years of our lives were spent in a severe, desert environment. While my family took respite in Santa Cruz, she found her spot a little further south. While summers on our part of the coast were in the foggy 50s, her days were spent in a place that bounced from 70 – 80. Such a relief from the 100+ degree days in the valley.

This Goddess found the one true love in her life, and boy did they live! I imagine the wit and wisdom we’ve all come to know and love carried her through life’s ups and downs, serving her well. Her MR. Goddess was one lucky man. Eventually, they came to live on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, with views that fall over the blue horizon. There, she became The One and Only Goddess of the Central Coast. I assure you, there will never be another.

Timeless as a treasured jewel, she is just as beautiful now as the day we met, some decades ago. She and the ocean have battled many times, and she’s won (but just barely). Befriending sea life everywhere, she once saved a baby elephant seal that carries her name to this day.

When she first moved to her ocean perch, there were only a handful of homes in the tiny village. Eventually, homes were built and filled with interesting people from around the world. From movie stars to highly educated professionals, people came and went. Although most of the houses have been bought and sold many times over, she remains in hers.

Hubba-Hubba-Hubby and I have established our own Valentine’s tradition. Three years ago, we visited our little town by the sea with Auntie TJ and The Goddess. They’ve been friends for many more decades than I’ve known her. Being “Across-The-Street” neighbors, they’ve shared everything from stories about new neighbors to the mystery of the dismembered deer carcass. The two beauties have aged well, and like two fine bottles of fine Cognac, they just get better and better as the years go by.

HHH and I love the time spent with Auntie TJ and the Goddess. Visiting them is the cherry on top when it comes to vacationing on California’s Central Coast. It began with the terrible news that Auntie TJ wouldn’t be able to visit due to a nasty virus. I’ve had just about enough of this horrible virus. Enough Already. First me, and now TJ.

With plans still in place, HHH and I put our heads together to make alternate plans. With CC on her way to visit, we’d take flowers to the Goddess and then ask her to dinner. HHH would make steak and lobster for his three favorite gals. We held our breaths, hoping she would accept our offer, and, to our delight, she did.

Picked up in a silver chariot, she was not without gifts. The most beautiful bag packed with freshly baked blueberry scones AND blueberry jam for our breakfast the next day. With that, our evening began.

With few topics missed, there was never a lack of conversation. The evening, rich and warm, was completed by apple pie and ice cream. It all ended much too soon, and by the light of the silvery moon, we safely delivered our Goddess back to her front door.

Of everything about our vacation, Valentine’s Evening will remain a memory of the sweetest kind. One that we’ll need to repeat very soon!

As for our beloved Auntie TJ, she could use some prayers. As you can only imagine if it hasn’t hit you, the Virus of 2025 knocks the strongest person for a loop. We can’t wait for our next visit while looking forward to a beautiful springtime!

Luck is a tricky thing. Some people chase it, some swear by it, and others roll their eyes at the very idea. But every now and then, we all catch ourselves saying —“I’m lucky enough.” Lucky enough for what, though? That roof over our heads? To love and be loved? The chance to wake up and chase another day, no matter how messy or unpredictable it might be? Or just lucky enough not to contract Influenza A and breathe another day! Now, THAT’S lucky enough!

Luck isn’t always about grand, life-altering moments. It’s not just about lottery wins, dream jobs, or being in the right place at the right time. Sometimes, luck is as simple as having a good friend who listens, finding joy in small things, or making it home safely at the end of a long trip.

But here’s the deal—luck isn’t just something that happens to us. More often than not, we make our own luck. The world gives back what we put in. The harder we work, the more opportunities we create. The more risks we take, the more doors open. The more kindness we show, the more it finds its way back to us. At least, all those things help when luck comes our way.

Luck often finds those who are open to trying new things. Step outside your comfort zone and take on challenges while exploring paths not considered before. The more new options tried, the more likely something great will happen.

Setbacks aren’t failures but growth opportunities. (Boy did widowhood teach me a thing or two about that!) If something doesn’t work out, adjust and try again. Keep learning and improving while believing every step forward increases the chance for success. But, never, ever, ever give up.

Surround yourself with supportive, inspiring individuals. Be kind, network genuinely, and offer value to others. The more connections you build, the more “lucky breaks” will come your way.

Luck favors those who take action. Dreaming and planning are important, but nothing happens unless you move. Send that email, start that project, make that call—put yourself in situations where luck has a chance to find you. And then, be ready to pounce when it comes your way!

People who consider themselves lucky tend to have a more optimistic outlook. Noticing the good in their lives they focus on possibilities rather than obstacles. Practicing gratitude and maintaining a positive attitude can attract even more good fortune. When asking yourself “WHY?” the better questions might be “WHY NOT??” or “WHY NOT ME??”

Being “lucky enough” isn’t about waiting for life to hand us something good. It’s about showing up, making choices, and doing the work. It’s about learning from failures, seizing moments, and watching for opportunities—even when they come disguised as challenges.

Sure, luck plays a role in life. But if we want to be lucky, we must put ourselves in the path of luck—to take that first step, make that call, or chase that dream. Sometimes, luck is simply preparation meeting the right moment.

Whatever you do today, think about the ways you’ve been so lucky throughout your life. Those 80 people surviving the Canadian jet crash were lucky in a way that counts!!! Luck has graced all of us in so many ways. And, THAT’S LUCKY ENOUGH!

It takes a few days to return to the groove after a peaceful vacation, especially when the weather outside is spring-like. These days, we’re enjoying the 60s here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Although the wind’s been kicking up, the sun shines, and the sky is a brilliant blue—the kind of blue one doesn’t see in the winters of central California.

After a wonderful breakfast yesterday, HHH and I were itching to get out in the yard. With 30 daffodils to plant, there wasn’t a moment to lose. Every fall, we’re enticed to buy bulbs only to forget to plant them in December. These were already sprouting in their little baggies. After burying them deep in the soil, HHH gave them a good watering. Who knows when we’ll receive rain around here…

By the time we finished, any hope of taking down the Christmas lights while atop a ladder was gone. Wind and ladders don’t go together. Our lights are still up because, during the month of January, HHH had a full-time job caring for me. Oy Vey. Maybe at this point, they should remain. Christmas 2026 is just around the corner with the speed we’ve completed January and a good portion of February.

Oliver and Wookie had the time of their lives running around the yard. For most of the winter, they’ve been hanging out in the house wondering what all the coughing was about. Now, with the sun shining, they are ready to race, roll, and romp.

Wookie’s favorite puppy trick is quite the show. She absolutely loses her mind over the hose, jumping back and forth while trying to bite it. Frustrating HHH, she is persistent if nothing else. Almost 4 years old, this behavior is no longer “puppy-cute” but a bit “dog-obnoxious”. She really loves tormenting HHH and the hose.

After finishing with the bulbs, we moved on to prune the roses. In the garden, there is nothing quite as satisfying as 20 pruned rose bushes. For the best possible blooms, the rose bushes need severe pruning. Each taking a clipper and wearing heavy leather gloves, we went to work. When finished, it was rather hard to tell which bush was done by which gardener! Pretty obvious that we both went to the same gardening classes last fall.

The warm weather won’t be here for long and is only a tease for the real beginning of spring. However, spring is busting out all over the dining room table. With seeds under grow lights, our season begins now. Many seeds needed 30 days of cold stratification (freezing). They came out of the freezer and went into little pods of soil. And so it begins.

If you’re going to try your hands at sprouting your own seeds, Jiffy sells trays that come with 36 or 72 pods. Just add water, light, and seeds. In weeks, you’ll have the beginnings of your 2025 garden.

With the nice weather, the garage, garden shed, and greenhouse need cleaning. There are soil amendments to buy and apply. Little by little, our endurance will return after our very lazy winter by the fire. These last winter days on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada are lovely, indeed.

Whatever you do, think about growing something new in your garden this year. If it’s still freezing in your area, put in some bulbs of your own. Flowers are God’s way of laughing!!!

More tomorrow.

Ver·min — noun

• 1.wild animals believed to be harmful to crops, farm animals, or game, or that carry disease, e.g., rodents.

Oh. No.

EWWWWWWW!

Oy. Vey.

Living in the wilderness of the high desert plains of Nevada can be trying at times. Especially when we happen to be in the space between winter and spring with comfy spaces that entice littles to sneak in the door. We’re suffering the invasion of the creepy critters.

Mice.

In my adult life, I’ve been plagued by rodents one other time. In the winter of 2002, VST and I were living the farm life on 40 acres. For reasons unknown, we were overcome by rats. So many rats that they left nasty trails as only large Norwegian Roof Rats could do. Even our resident owls couldn’t keep up. Finally, a professional exterminator took them out in a final battle.

Our current problems started last summer when a ground squirrel started tunneling under the gardens of winterpast. Perhaps the intensive watering made the tunneling easier, but in a short time, mounds were appearing all over the yard. The dogs were unaware, or we’d have found the problem earlier.

We tried smoke bombs neatly pushed back out of the hole. We tried burying the holes with fresh dirt. He tunneled right back up. Flooding the hole with gallons of precious water did no good. He always returned. Finally, we resorted to farm-grade gopher poison. For a time the squirrel problem went away.

And so, fall turned into winter. It was then, I discovered mice had eaten into a new bag of dog food, stored where it had been the last 5 years. Upon more investigation, we found they’d been eating frames of honey and wax removed from the dead bee hive. Now, we had a infestation of the worst kind. Again….

EWWWWWW.

HHH sprung to action. Retrieving our supply of new mouse traps, he went to work. At first, they were quite crafty, tripping the trap and stealing the bait. At one point, they actually licked the peanut butter off the trap while it remained set.

Ever since, HHH has battled on.

One food source has been identified as bird seed. HHH loves feeding the birds especially when there is little food left in the desert at this time of year. Personally, I’ve never thought about feeding wild animals, but then, his heart is softer than mine.

Well, the new squirrel LOVES the birdseed kicked to the ground by hungry birds. And so, we have a yummy food source for the furry intruder. Why Oliver and Wookie have not taken care of the problem is beyond me. Oliver has taken out toads. He’s dismembered fledglings. Why he isn’t all over this squirrel is beyond me.

More mice found the sack of bird seed stored in HHH’s man cave. And so, we now have a new infestation under attack by the traps. With persistence, we’ll be mouse free.

Last week, Oliver did deposit a dead mouse under the dining room table. He’s claimed this place as his lair, bringing fruit and other disgusting things he finds outside. This gives me hope that his hunting days aren’t quite over just yet.

Early yesterday, HHH came in from checking traps in the man cave.

“Honey, there’s a skunk in the area. Just smelled it.”

Oy. Vey.

Spring is here. Stay tuned for more adventures tomorrow.

Grief is a lonely road, even when surrounded by well-meaning family and friends. The loss of a spouse shatters life, leaving one to search for anything that might bring stability. In 2020, HHH and I lost our better halves. Throughout the quarantine, funeral homes and support groups shuttered their doors while grief was put on hold. Those were hard days. This is one reason we feel strongly about helping others with our new Griefshare group.

There’s something unique about sitting in a room with people sharing the pain of loss. No explanations are needed. In everyday life, grief often makes others uncomfortable. They don’t know what to say, or worse, they say something unhelpful, even if well-intended. In a GriefShare group, no one tells you to “move on” or “be strong.” Instead, there’s an understanding as we each reflect the same sorrow. Plenty of hugs can be found right next to the Kleenex boxes. Tears are welcome.

Isolation through grief can make us feel like no one else could understand the depth of our pain. Listening to stories told with raw honesty, tears, and breakthroughs—it becomes apparent that grief is different for everyone even though the emotions are strikingly similar. No matter the loss, healing from grief follows a similar path.

Our little group doesn’t just focus on venting emotions; it’s a faith-centered journey that gently guides us toward healing. Each week, a lesson based on biblical principles provides reassurance that mourning is not a sign of weakness, but part of the process God designed for healing. Scriptures that once felt distant are suddenly becoming personal lifelines.

Monday, the lesson focused on Hope and Resilience. For years, hope and a wish were the same in my mind. Through the class, I learned hope is really a confidence in God’s plans for the future. Now, that’s something that I can use in my life. Real Hope, not just a bunch of wishes.

Prayer isn’t a ritual but a source of strength and comfort. Not memorized words, real conversations with God. The friendships formed within our group are becoming a lifeline. We lean on each other in ways no one else could understand—asking about difficult days, celebrating small victories, and reminding each other that grief doesn’t require us to stop living.

Monday, one of the members of our group told us they’ll be heading out on their very first adventure since becoming a widower over two years ago. With a granddaughter’s wedding brightening life, it’s great to see one of our own striking out to enjoy some happiness with friends and family. And, life goes on.

One of the most beautiful things about GriefShare is that it offers a space free of judgment. Whether you’re angry at God, feeling numb, or overwhelmed with regret, there’s no “right” way to grieve. Come as you are while healing progresses at the right speed.

The meetings have become a refuge for HHH and me. There, we speak freely about personal experiences with renewed resilience and hope.

Grief never fully disappears but evolves. What once felt like an unbearable weight has slowly become something we’ve learned to carry. GriefShare has shown us that healing doesn’t mean forgetting; it means finding ways to move forward toward new life.

If you’re grieving and feeling lost, I encourage you to seek out a support group. Whether it’s GriefShare or another grief ministry, know that you don’t have to do this alone. Comfort comes when walking together while bearing each other’s burdens. Even in the darkest valley, hope and resilience will guide you through.

Although I know this beautiful weather won’t last, it sure is a great teaser. Each day, the sky gets bluer and the temperature warmer. Spring is just around the corner. On March 9th, the time will change as we continue the annual march toward the desert heat.

The warm days have convinced the apricot tree to bud out much too early. Without having a normal winter, everything is a bit confused, including the resident gardeners. Yesterday, HHH hooked up the hose to do some watering. Spring requires an assessment of garden tools. Alas, hose sprayer was broken.

These attachments don’t last long here in the desert. Between the intense desert sun and the our corrosive water, hoses and attachments are lucky to make it through one summer. HHH offered to go to Lowe’s and find a replacement.

Oliver and I took the time to work on the blog, while HHH and Wookie headed off into the beautiful summer day. Thoughts were coming as the words formed on the screen when the phone interrupted the flow.

It was HHH. Did I think it was too early to buy potato, onion, and garlic sets? The store had a good variety, although the russets were already sold out.

Sold out? At the end of February? A sign to me that an immediate purchase was necessary.

“YES!!!!! Throw in some asparagus while you’re at it!”

A little while later, the twosome returned with their purchase. Red and yellow onions, red potatoes, garlic, and asparagus. All ready to plant as soon as we have the time and energy. And so, the 2025 garden season begins.

Meanwhile, the dining room table is turning green with new life. The first set of seeds sprouted as soon as they hit the moist soil. Just a week since planting, they are springing forth. It’s exciting to see the variety of tiny little plants. The Amaranth plants are sprouting in red!

Today, we’re tackling pruning. We’ve gone around each tree several times deciding which limbs and branches need to go. Having made a plan for each tree, the hard part is done. All that’s left is sawing, trimming, and haul-away.

For the next week, the weather will remain in the 60’s. Heck, we’ll probably turn the water back on until……

Winter comes back for her last gasp. It’s bound to happen. So for now, we’ll play outside.

Whatever you do today, catch some sunshine. It’s healthy to be outside and breathe the fresh air. Take a walk around the block. Get out and get going. It will be good for what ails you.

Things around Winterpast have been buzzing this week. Along with new seedlings, the time has come for pruning and primping. So excited to use the knowledge learned in the Master Gardener classes last fall, we also have new tools to try out. Battery-operated toys for gardeners!

The new battery-operated lopper works on the end of a long pole or as a handheld device. It trims limbs up to 1/2″ in diameter like they were made of butter. When we started yesterday, HHH had the loppers extended. Quickly, we switched to the handheld mode and went to town. Twigs here. Branches there. Trimming is a breeze with this handy tool.

Then, there’s the battery-operated mini-chainsaw for bigger limbs. Also on the end of a long extension, it can be converted to hand-held. That might be a little dangerous considering it’s a REAL chainsaw.

The apple trees were easy. A Chinese variety that causes a big mess, the only reason they remain is that they’re 20-year-old trees. The apples produced aren’t for cooking. No matter how long they’re boiled on the stove, they never turn to yummy applesauce or pie filling but remain hard. So disappointing, I which we could just chop then down and start over again, but…they are 20 years old. At least severe pruning made them look more respectable.

Someone should really come up with a battery-operated robotic rake to clean up old leaves. As that hasn’t happened yet, that robot would be me. Most of last years leaves blew away over windy winter days, but the ones that remain are like snow drifts along the fence line. With a little work, the yard is looking more like it’s ready for spring.

The apiary (the place where our bees are kept) is shaping up. All the bushes planted to provide a little privacy are now pruned back. The leaves are raked and soon, it will be time to put the brand-new hive in place.

Why would we need a new hive, you might ask?

Never, ever, ever consider buying a new hive from Amazon. Now, Amazon sells many things. I know it’s possible to be a tiny home online. Heck, I bet they sell ponies somewhere on their website. But, again, never, ever, ever consider buying a beehive from Amazon.

When HHH opened his present on Christmas morning 2023, he was so excited. His very own bee hive. By the next day, the entire hive and super were assembled and ready to go. Everything was done according to the Chinese directions provided. All we needed to do was add bees.

Once the hive was loaded with 40 pounds of honey and bees, the lack of quality became apparent. Heavy frames full of bees and honey began to fall apart. The final problems arrived when the entire outer box began to separate. A terrible purchase. One honey super can weigh between 40 – 50 pounds. If it fails to hold together, the results will be disastrous and dangerous.

Our new hive was purchased from Mann Lake Bee Supplies. The old hive will be reinforced with corner brackets and be a great back-up in case we need one. Good equipment is essential to happy and healthy beekeepers.

Gardening and beekeeping will keep us busy from now until the first frost of Winter 2025. After the cleanup is done and before the bees arrive, it’ll be time for us to slip away for another vacation. After all, if not now, when?

I’ll be back on Monday.

What can happen when you don’t drive around town for 4 years? Well, it seems quite a bit! Our little town, (once referred to as a dusty wide spot along the interstate) is experiencing unprecedented growth. And so, it was high time HHH and I too a drive to see just what all the buzz was about.

On the east side of town, a beautiful vision has become reality. Victory Logistics District– Phase One. Quietly announced in 2021, the building began. Sure, there were a few articles about the project, but this was all east of the major stores this regular homeowner would visit. Walmart and Lowes are as far east as I venture, unless I’m ordering rock at Gopher Construction and so, I never noticed.

We’d been to the State of the City meeting on Thursday evening. That was a happening all on its own. Thirty minutes before the speech began, we snatched the last parking spot in front of the Senior Center. Everyone from the Sheriff to the City Manager was there.

It’s so cool to be related to the mayor. A good portion of his speech was about things we already knew, but some of it was brand new. There’d be a ribbon-cutting ceremony the next day for Phase 2 of Victory Logistics District, with brand new industrial buildings.

Phase 2????? Heck, we’d totally missed Phase 1.

The mayor’s huge family made up many of the guests, but there were also regular citizens wanting to know what’s new in our town.

The mayor spoke of road projects. New housing developments and apartment complexes are bringing more people to our town. Later this year, The Community Response and Resource Center will open. Water and sewage projects are on schedule. Best of all, our city has a balanced budget. The state of the community is amazing!!!

A popular topic was about something unique. Grandpa’s Pond is planned between the canal and a major roadway in our town. On twenty acres, the community will enjoy a 10-acre fishing pond. Trout will thrive in fresh mountain water from the Truckee Canal. Citizens will enjoy jogging trails around the pond. Old-growth cottonwood trees living here for decades will complement the project.

Saturday morning, it was time to see what Victory Logistics District was all about. How is it even possible that 4300 acres is being developed in our sleepy little town? Not sure how we never noticed, but, until now, we never knew.

To our shock, many huge industrial buildings are ready for occupancy. There are new roads and even new semi-trucks to haul goods. New railway spurs are already in the planning. Landscaped and groomed, the grounds are nothing short of spectacular. The buildings have dark blue windows while the walls are patterned in white and grey. Class and sass waiting for new tenants.

All of this sits within feet of the major interstate that runs through our town. Everything is ready to go. All that’s needed are new companies and plenty of employees.

Northwestern Nevada is one of the fastest-growing places in the US. With no state tax, it’s an attractive alternative to the state on the other side of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range. With outdoor activities under the bluest of skies, there’s something for everyone.

Now, our town needs new houses and businesses to support the residents who are surely coming. We need more schools and fire stations, along with grocery stores and shopping malls. As a small town, we’re sure to face some growing pains. That remains to be seen.

After our tour, we drove past the new site for Panda Express, which broke ground last week. Good things come to those that wait. It’s our turn now!

Welcome, Victory Logistics! We look forward to being neighbors. Thrive in the future!

Consider this. You wake up in the morning ready for some coffee. After pouring a morning cup of coffee, you check our your seedlings growing on the dining room table. After turning on grow lights, you open the window only to find these guys eating your trees and plants. Welcome to the real world of the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

The mustangs have a tough life. Walking miles each day, they are always on the search for fresh food and water. These guys aren’t used to hay and grain. They eat tumbleweeds and sage. How they eat these thorny plants without complaining is mind-boggling. They spend their spring days in the high elevations and then come lower when the water and food dry up. There is a natural spring not far from Winterpast. They love hanging out there, which is an appropriate spot for them to be.

We love “our” horses. They have miles and miles of BLM land (the real BLM-Bureau of Land Management) on which to graze, run, and poop. These empty lands surround our town. Usually by this time of year, we start to see more of our friends walking the streets while looking for tasty morsels. They know each house and the snacks contained in the front yards.

The horses have no natural predators except man. Their biggest threat comes from government round-ups. Planned quite often, they are chased by helicopters, captured, and then trucked to Palomino Valley Adoption Center holding pens. As far as I can tell, few people are in a position to adopt a wild horse. Don’t be fooled, these are wild animals that have just been chased by helicopters and cut from their herds.

They need to adjust to a new diet and fencings. After a time, they disappear and are replaced with new captives. Where are they taken? I don’t like to think about their final destination.

When we see mustangs in our neighborhood, it’s exciting. I mean, how many people get the chance? It comes with the knowledge that with our town’s growth, their days are numbered. Soon, a day will come when they last one will be removed.

Until then, we have a bit of a problem.

Many neighbors deal with them by putting up light ropes with reflecting strips. Many neighbors need to fix those ropes often, as the 1500-pound eating machines don’t care about a little bit of twine and twinkles.

Last week, we made the first step toward a goal we’ve had for some time here at Winterpast. We called the fencing company for an estimate.

First thing to remember when retired. When making an early morning appointment, be sure to write this down in your daily planner. Then, read the daily planner the night before. Both steps are important.

Early Friday morning, we received a knock at the door. It was our fence estimator who found us still in jammies at 9 a.m. Really! What retirement has done to our early morning hours is crazy. After scurrying around to get presentable, we were ready to measure the yard for a beautiful three-foot fence—just high enough to send our equine friends to the next house on another street.

There are many things to consider when installing fencing. One of the biggest is the grade of the yard. Around the corner, one person’s fence follows existing grade, giving the top line of the fence a wavy effect. Add some professional grading to the price of our project. The top line of our fence will be straight.

After measuring carefully, we found we need over 250 feet of Aristocrat fences. We’ll accept responsibility for anyone who gets impaled on the tiny spikes. Hoping for the best, we’ll sign on the dotted line if the price is right.

Once the fence and gate are installed, we’ll create plans for a low-maintenance yard. There’ll be no water-sucking plants, but another bed of roses and some desert-loving plants. HHH and I have yet to agree on the final look. With an outrageous water bill at this point, less will be more. The biggest things excluded from our plans are the 1500 lb. hay burners who’d better not impale themselves on our fence.

Live and let live. I hope our friends walk by once in awhile. We love them, but…… we can’t keep them.

More tomorrow.

There are moments in life when divine intervention saves the day. It’s happened to us all at least once. In 1973 at just 17 years old, I emerged uninjured from my totaled car. A tree blocking one exit and a large truck blocking the other, I cocooned inside my crumbled car until the fire department came. To this day, I believe God saved me to live a long and fruitful life. A major miracle in my life.

But quiet miracles surround us in unexpected ways every day. Most days, we pass right by the small miracles in life, never even noticing them.

I once heard someone say that angels have a full-time job keeping us from disaster. If that’s the case, mine deserves a raise. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve absentmindedly misplaced my glasses or faced unexpected challenges. And yet, despite daily chaos, things tend to work out. That’s grace, if you ask me.

Miracles aren’t always wrapped in lightning bolts and burning bushes. Sometimes, it’s in the way the morning sunlight catches the dust motes just so, turning them into floating gold. Or how a song you haven’t heard in years plays at just the right moment, bringing back a memory you needed to remember

On a pleasant afternoon, I was fretting over a big decision. Pacing the yard while praying for answers, something caught my eye. A nervous dove had made her nest on the top rung of my ladder. Nervously adjusting herself, little bits of her nest fell away. She knew she’d been discovered. This simple sign reminded me none of us have it all together. Not even a little dove sitting on her eggs.

Nature never disappoints as stars twinkle on clear nights. Trees continue to grow toward the sun despite storms, bad soil, and occasional overly ambitious squirrels. Bulbs remember to wake up after weeks under the snow. So many little miracles that happen every minute of every day as reminders we’re a small part of something vast and beautiful.

Think about all the tiny, unnoticed ways life arranges itself.

• The stranger who smiles at you on a hard day, unknowingly lifting your spirits.
• The dog who senses your sadness and nudges your hand at just the right time.
• The moment you narrowly avoid disaster without realizing it until later.

Coincidence?

Could be. But I like to think it’s something more.

Daily miracles don’t always arrive with fanfare. More often, they’re found in the quiet—between the lines of our daily stories, with the laughter of a friend, the warmth of a cup of tea, or even the absurdity of a bird nesting on a ladder.

The next time life has got you down, stop. Sit down. Pick up a pen and paper and write #1, #2, and #3. Pause for a second. Think of three beautiful people in your life for which you are deeply grateful. Write down their names. Then, write #4, #5, and #6. Stretch your brain. Think of 3 things for which you are grateful. Then, keep going until you reach #20.

God. Sunsets. A warm home. Food in the frig. A faithful dog. A best friend. Hope. Faith. Love. Spring. Flowers. A spring breeze. The rain. Apricot blossoms. Honey bees. Love. Love. Love. and more love.

Blessings and life’s little miracles. They’re waiting for you to find them. Even on the grayest day, life is beautiful. It’s up to us celebrate that.

I never meant to fall in love.

It just… happened.

Like all great romances, mine began innocently enough. My grandmother introduced us way back in the mid-1900’s. “Try just one,” she said. Foolish and dangerous words. But I was young, impressionable, and hungry. I took a bite. In that moment I knew my life would never be the same. I found my favorite cookie.

At first, I was a casual admirer. A single Oreo when visiting Grammie, maybe two after dinner. “I can quit anytime,” I told myself, brushing off the crumbs from my lap. But can one simply have one Oreo? No. That’s like saying you’ll watch just one episode of a favorite show before bed. It’s a lie I’ve certainly told myself a time or two.

Years later, we now celebrate America’s #1 cookie each year on March 6 with National Oreo Day. This is one timeless classic.  With crisp chocolate sides and creamy filling, these little cookies have captured our hearts and stomachs. First introduced in 1912, it has been the best-selling cookie in America ever since.

I love to dunk them, twist them, and straight up take a bite. The crisp snap of the chocolate wafer and smooth, creamy filling. It’s an experience unlike any other. I should’ve walked away long ago, but no—Oreo has me in its perfectly round grip.

And so, I embrace my love. I no longer fight it. Oreo and I are in this for the long haul. the best I can do is strive for moderation. HHH “savors” his treats. His Girl Scout Thin Mints last in the pantry for weeks. But what’s life without the simple joy of biting into a cookie that feels like an old friend? Really, what’s the point of a perfectly good cookie sitting in the dark? None that I can see.

If you’re trying to think something to do with friends this weekend, have an Oreo Tasting. Find as many varieties of these tasty cookies as you can, and compare flavors. Cool Mint? Golden? Birthday Cake? Original?  Do minis taste different than regular? Ask the hard questions, and enjoy!

You could always throw an Oreo Dessert Party where everyone has to bring a homemade dessert created with Oreos! Pie with Oreo crust, ice cream with Oreo mix-ins, cake with Oreos incorporated in the batter. Go crazy while enjoying the versatility of this cookie.

Or just keep it simple and eat some of these classic cookies on National Oreo Cookie Day. Buy a pack on your way home from work or bring a package into the office for everyone to enjoy. Whether you keep them all to yourself or share the love, there’s really nothing better than fresh Oreos.

So if you see me with cookie crumbs on my shirt and eyes dreamy with chocolate-fueled bliss, just smile and let me enjoy the moment.

Love is love. Even if it comes in a blue package.

Although it seemed like Spring Break would never come, it’s here! That magical time of year when the world collectively shrugs off winter blues, crams into airports, and attempts to tan without burning to a crisp. The best thing about retirement is that we make our own schedules for any reason we choose. So, we’ve chosen a two-week spring break.

Spring break starts with the eternal optimism of packing. I’ve picked out swimsuits, cute outfits, and sandals all in an effort to look fabulous. I’ll probably wear the same sundress five days in a row while half my suitcase will remain untouched. This time, I’m packing more sunscreen while ditching a big assortment of shoes and clothing I’ll never wear.

Nothing beats that first glorious sail-away day! Lathered in SPF 50, we’ll find out place poolside on Deck 16 and wait for the party to begin. It’ll be fun to watch those newbies as they try to figure out what to do, while experienced cruisers head to the endless buffet to begin non-stop eating.

Calories don’t count on vacation, right? That’s the only logical explanation for how an innocent spring break turns into a week-long food festival. Ice cream before lunch? Yes. Fried food at every meal? Absolutely. An entire bucket of popcorn at the movies under the stars? Necessary. All in all, it’ll be a wonderful vacation on which we’ll eat and drink way too much.

We’re planning to enjoy every inch of the new ship. With daily visits to the spa and evening visits to our favorite steak house, we’ll fill in the rest of the time with well planned activities. One of the nicest parts of the day on the high seas is Bible Study, held every day at 8:30. A great place to meet new friends and learn more about the word of God.

Wookie and Oliver, will be excited to head off to puppy camp. We haven’t mentioned the plans yet, because they get too excited. Thank goodness they love their time in the little town to the east. Don’t know what we would do without Michelle and her wonderful staff.

Soon enough, we’ll return home, sun-kissed (hopefully not sunburned), exhausted, and suddenly more aware that there is no place like home. Once the suitcase is unpacked, we’ll spend the next few days questioning all your life choices— especially the ones surrounding the destination for the next cruise.

Yes! Spring Break is always worth it. Because let’s be honest—what else are you supposed to do in March?

Garden? Nah.

I’ll be back on March 24th. Until then, enjoy the archives! I’ll miss you!!

Even in retirement, everyone needs a little time away. Hubba-Hubba-Hubbie (HHH) and I have fallen in love with cruising after returning from a fantastic week aboard the Discovery Princess! With just over 5,000 crew and passengers, it’s hard to believe so many people can be in one place and enjoy themselves. This Spring Break Party on the High Seas is one to be remembered.

We never knew how much we needed cruising until we found ourselves aboard a floating city, surrounded by people in flip-flops, pina coladas in hand, and the sound of the ocean whispering sweet nothings to our stateroom. Here’s the tale of how we went from skeptical landlubbers to die-hard cruisers while falling in love… with a ship.

Just a year ago, HHH and I booked our first cruise. Everyone told us we’d love it, but we were a bit unsure. Being stuck on a giant boat with nothing but sea and sky for miles seemed… well…… claustrophobic.

“Too boring?” “Do we love the ocean that much?” “What if we get seasick?” “Norovirus?” So many questions about things that might or might not happen.

Our sail-away date arrived, and we boarded with the skepticism of a person about to try kale for the first time. After flying, we bused to the Port of San Francisco to board the Crown Princess. Stepping onto the ship, we were immediately overwhelmed by unbelievable luxury. The smells of endless buffets wafted through the air, and the soft, melodious music greeted us like a tropical serenade. We’d soon be on our way to the Mexican Riviera.

I didn’t realize it yet, but the ship had me at “Hello”.

Some people aren’t cruisers, like those who don’t like being pampered every moment of the day. The sounds of waves in the night might keep some awake. The moon-kissed promenade deck might be too romantic.

WE are not in that group. HHH loved having someone else do the cooking for a week. I loved the room service, ordering fruit and cheese as often as I wanted. The onboard spa was luxurious and the restaurants were Five Star.

And oh, the drinks. All-inclusive, you say? Yes, please! I never once had to pause my sunbathing to check the bank account before getting a drink. It was an endless parade of margaritas, and Diet Coke. Every time the bartender handed me a drink, I swore I saw a twinkle in their eye that said, “We know you’re hooked now”.

By the fourth day, I realized something shocking: I didn’t want to get off the ship. Not for excursions. Not for the chance to explore new cities. I wanted to stay on the boat forever. Is that normal? To love the ship more than the places it takes you?

It wasn’t the exotic ports of call that stole my heart but that, at any time, we could retreat to our cozy luxury apartment in the middle of the ocean. We could watch movies under the stars while waves crashed beneath us, or simply nap our lives away, all while the world kept spinning. The ship was our sanctuary—a floating cocoon of relaxation, with room service and pillow chocolates. What’s not to love?

The evening entertainment was amazing. There were comedy shows, Broadway-style performances. It felt like every night was date night—no matter how many days we’d been at sea. A good show and a fancy dinner were things we never wanted to let go.

In fact, I started to believe that the ship itself was wooing me. “Oh, look at me,” the ship seemed to say. “I have a jacuzzi. I have a casino. I have Five-Star restaurants. Where are you going to find that on dry land?” And to be honest, the ship had a point.

By the time the cruise neared its end, I had realized something profound: I was in love. But not just with the boat—I’d fallen for the whole lifestyle. The sense of freedom, the joy of being pampered, the thrill of discovering new places, and—most importantly—the beauty of doing absolutely nothing at all. Thank goodness HHH feels the same.

The Discovery Princess was just as intoxicating. On the last night of the cruise, HHH discovered he’d won a free cruise to be booked within the next six months. We’ll book that one as soon as the suitcases are put away and the laundry folded. Just where will the next adventure take us?? I’ll let you know.

We disembarked with a heavy heart and souvenirs that will remind us of where we’ve been. More than ever, we love cruising.

If you haven’t yet considered cruising, give it a chance. Exciting and relaxing, once hooked, you may never want to return to landlocked vacations again. The sea is calling, and our hearts are ready for more.

How quickly the weather changes when living on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada! The day before we left, the skies threatened the first real rain in many weeks. Today, we are going to enjoy a high of 73 degrees. Lovely in every way.

With warmer weather comes the need for water, and so the cycle begins again. Yesterday, HHH turned the water back on. For those of you living in warmer climates, that must sound strange. Turning the sprinklers on and off is part of the deal when living in snow country.

As we walked around the gardens of Winterpast yesterday, it was fun to see everything coming to life. Bulbs are beginning to sprout and will soon flower. Garlic and onions are hiding for now, but will soon emerge. The roses are beginning to push new leaves and the gardens are waking up.

HHH had decided it was time to resume feeding our bird population. With several feeding stations around the yard, it’s fun to watch the dove, quail, finches, and others return. Soon, there will be new nests and expanded families.

Unfortunately, bird seed has invited the return of the pesky ground squirrel, and so, our fight will resume. It seems we may need to deploy the “tried and true” gopher trap. Where poison fails, mechanical extermination should work. If nothing is done, the backyard may turn into one giant sinkhole from extensive tunneling.

Sadly, Oliver has forgotten the purpose for which is ancestors were bred. Badger eradication. He talks big talk about these invaders, but when it comes to chasing them away, he’s useless. Give him a toad or fledgling robin and he’ll eliminate them. The squirrel is another story altogether.

This week, it’s time to place our seedlings in 4″ pots. We are going to have outrageous flowers this year. Carnations, Lupine, Zinnias, and Hoary Stock are all inches tall. Luckily, with the cooler temps, they all survived the week without loving care. 300 little plants are just itching to get outside and begin to bloom. I must say, it’ll be hard to wait until mid April.

The plants that overwintered in the greenhouse are screaming to get out. Even though it is the end of March, indoor temperatures can reach 90 degrees. It’ll be fun to see which of the perennials will come back for another year in our growing zone. Each year, the gardens of Winterpast have more to teach.

As for our beautiful apricot tree, time will tell what kind of crop we’ll have this year. While we were bobbing about in the Pacific Ocean, there were some heavy frosts. Unfortunately, the early blooms remain on the tree, brittle and brown. If there is a second bloom, we may get lucky.

Whatever you do today, take a walk outside and see what’s new. Spring is such a wonderful time of year for new beginnings. Sunshine is good for the mind and body! Get going! The day’s a-wasting.

Suffering from the hacking of my phone AND a head-cold, I am out for today. I’ll be back with the entire story tomorrow.

OY. VEY.

OY. VEY.

OY. VEY.

Ending our beautiful vacation, we’ve returned to a sea of Mucinex and Kleenex. According to Cruising Facebook pals, we’re not the only ones who brought home a little something extra from our beautiful time in Mexico. It seems that lots of people went home sick. Looking back, we regret nothing. As the days go by, we’re both feeling better.

During these days of sneezing and wheezing, the last thing I needed was to wake up to seven emails from our TV/Phone/Television carrier. Sometime between 4pm and midnight on Sunday night, I requested a change to my phone passwords, SIM card, and everything to do with my account.

Now, I know cold medicine can do crazy things to the mind, but I’m quite sure I was either suffering or sleeping during that time. I’m quite certain changing my phone passwords wasn’t on my To-Do List.

When I checked my emails the next morning while in a medically induced fog, I might have let out a few nasty words. Then, I needed to get to work. I first talked with the computer-generated router. Can they make these devices any more unpleasant??????? It routed me to a wonderful woman in New York named Rosie.

And so it began.

“Oh, this is terrible. Yes, I can see the changes were made yesterday. Oh, your phone doesn’t work anymore? Oh, I can see that. Hmm. I need to transfer you to the Cellular department, as my speciality is Television service.”

“Bye, Bye Rosie.”

A friendly “Hello” to Brad in Florida.

“How is the weather in Nevada? Yes, I can see you are having some trouble. Started about 4pm yesterday? Yes, I see that. Well, I work with new accounts. I need to route you to the fraud department. Can I put you on a short hold?”

“Bye, Bye Brad. “

On to Ike in South Carolina.

‘How’s your day going? Oh no….. I see you’ve been hacked. Hmmmm. this is a bit more technical than I can handle. I need to route you to our technician that works in that department. Can I put you on a short hold?”

So long, Ike. Nice talking to you.

Can you please help me, John in Wisconsin?

“Let’s get to the bottom of this. I’ll need some information to get you up and running.”

John was the man, after quite the journey around the country.

Indeed, I was hacked. How this happened, I have no idea. If not for my daily inspections for signs of fraud, I never would have known why my phone suddenly stopped working. Along with the fraud situation, I found that I had two charges that had been added to my account in error. Wisconsin John ended up saving me $80 a month in charges, while fixing my phone.

Fraud is no joke. As we become more dependent on technology in our daily lives, the chances of being hacked increases. It’s just the way it is these days. If only all that energy could be used for good instead of thievery, the world would be a much better place.

All things are on the mend. Our colds are slowly leaving us. The hack is a thing of the past. Now, the biggest problem is where we’ll take our next cruise. Very Lucky Hubba-Hubba-Hubbie won us a cruise for two! Any length, any destination. It’s all up to us.

When one vacation ends, another is planned!! Stay tuned. More adventures are on the way!

We came back from sunshine, the skies so bright,
A vacation of warmth, of pure delight.
But now we’re at home, with tissues galore,
Two cold’s caught us fast, we can’t ignore!

The sunburn has faded, the tan is too,
But the nose is red, and we’re sniffling too.
Our vacation’s memories, sweet and divine,
Now mix with coughs and a fevered sign.

Oh, how we long for that tropical air,
Instead of these blankets and colds that we wear.
We miss the buffet, where the food never stopped,
Endless plates of dessert, we just couldn’t opt out!

And the spa, so soothing, with oils and warm steam,
Massages that felt like the world’s sweetest dream.
Now I’m here in bed, with no joy to unwrap,
Just a box of tissues and a cold on my lap.

But before we departed, the thrill was so near,
The countdown began, and the excitement was clear!
We planned every detail, each shore to explore,
Daydreamed of lounging and what was in store.

What excursions to take? What sights would we see?
The joy of decision, so wild and so free!
Packing our bags with swimsuits and sun,
It was all so exciting, the journey begun!

But soon we’ll recover, and maybe in time,
We’ll remember and laugh at these colds in a rhythm.
For vacations are fleeting, the cold won’t last,
Our memories of warmth will surely outlast!

So here we sit, with tea, side by side,
Dreaming of buffets and spas, as we fight this cold tide.

Thing are a bit slow as we end this week. With any luck at all, our shared viruses will be gone by Monday. Just as our memories of Spring Break fade, colder weather is returning. Very soon, spring will be here to stay.

Whatever you do this weekend, try to avoid the nasty viruses that are out and about. They are particularly nasty this year. Stay well. I’ll be back Monday.

Approaching my eleventh year as a Nevadan, the weather on the high desert plains is something I’ll never figure out. Here it is, the last day of March. March should come in like a lion and out like a lamb. Hmm. It seems the Weather Gods of Nevada didn’t get the memo, for the weather has taken a turn for the worse. This week, there are no gorgeous spring days in the forecast. Rather, the weather will be winter-like until further notice.

As the world begins to shake off the winter chill and the first signs of spring start to emerge, those of us living in the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada know that early spring can be a tricky season to navigate. With its unique combination of harsh conditions and stunning beauty, we face a special set of challenges around here.

Today, high winds will return to the area, wreaking havoc on fences and trees. These are the kinds of winds that approach like freight trains with sustained speeds of 30 – 50 miles per hour. Two friends were discussing roof repairs at church yesterday. It’s the price we all pay to live in the desert.

Today’s gusts might well turn this pleasant Monday afternoon into a battle with blowing sand and dust. Not only does this make outdoor activities uncomfortable, but the wind also makes the air feel much colder than it actually is, adding an extra chill to the day. HHH’s golf date may need to be put on hold until next week.

One of the defining characteristics of early spring in the high desert is its unpredictable nature. You may start the day with bright sunshine, but by the afternoon, a gusty windstorm could sweep in, followed by a cold snap that makes you wish you had packed a jacket. Temperatures can fluctuate wildly during this time of year, with mornings often dipping below freezing and afternoons warming up to the 50s or 60s.

Thank goodness the Iris and Daffodils aren’t bothered by these crazy temps. Last year, HHH and I moved many of the Iris’s to a more central location. This year, they’re sprouting as if they’ve never been moved!

I wish the fruit trees were more agreeable. With the long stretch of freezing temps, we’ll be lucky to get any fruit at all this year. This is all a bit worrisome as we wait for the new bees. Arriving in a little more than two weeks, there isn’t a lot of food around here for them to eat. Last year, 60% of the hives in the United States died. We’re all praying for a better year.

While the temperatures are swinging back and forth, our seedlings will continue to be safe and sound on the dining room table. As they continue to grow, some have graduated to 4″ peat pots, while others are just breaking the surface. One thing is for certain, Winterpast will be ablaze with color this year.

With all of this uncertainty, one thing is clear. This gives me an entire week to work on spring cleaning. The dust bunnies have been multiplying in preparation for Easter. I need to get with the program, because there isn’t any gardener that wants to be inside when the weather finally turns to spring.

Whatever you do today, choose an activity that fits your weather. If you are lucky enough to enjoy some spring days, get outside and enjoy the sunshine. Plant something. Enjoy the birds and their antics. Spring is a gorgeous time of year.

If you’re a fan of quirky gardening tips or just looking for something sweet to grow this season, you’re in for a treat. One of the most incredible gardening secrets of all time is how to grow your Marshmallow Plant. No, this isn’t some elaborate prank or a sticky situation; it’s 100% true.

I know what you’re thinking—marshmallows come from a bag at the grocery store, not from a garden! It’s really sad that so many people don’t understand where their food comes from or the trouble it takes to grow. After reading this guide, you’ll be on your way to harvesting your very own batch of fluffy, sugary goodness straight from the soil. No factory required! HHH and I love fresh Marshmallows right from the garden. There’s nothing quite like it.

First things first, let’s talk soil. Marshmallow plants thrive in sugar-rich soil, so make sure your garden is well-stocked with the sweetest compost around. A 2:1 blend of powdered sugar and cotton candy with 2 T. of honey will work wonders. This should be carefully mixed into the soil to reach a homogeneous mix. If you can’t find those ingredients, regular garden soil will do—but it might take a few extra years for your marshmallows to reach peak fluffiness.

Once you’ve prepared the soil, you’re ready for the fun part: planting! Marshmallow plants are incredibly sensitive to climate, so it’s crucial that you plant them on April 1st. If you wait any longer, they’ll wither. Plant directly into the ground. Marshmallow plants don’t transplant due to their long tap root.

Once you’ve located the perfect spot in your garden, dig a small hole (about 2 inches deep) and drop a miniature marshmallow in each hole. Cover them with a light dusting of powdered sugar (not too much, or fruit might get too sweet), and water them with a 2:1 solution of Light Karo-Syrup and water. Not too much—just a gentle spray when dry.

Now, the real magic happens! Marshmallow plants require constant attention to ensure they grow properly. They love being sung to, so start every morning by humming a light, airy tune like “Sugar, Sugar” by the Archies. If you don’t sing, the plants young sprouts won’t thrive.

After about 6-8 weeks, your marshmallows will be ready to harvest. You’ll know they’re ripe when they start to turn that perfect shade of white, and a sweet scent fills the air.

To harvest, simply pluck the marshmallows GENTLY from the plant. Due to their delicate nature, it’s important to wear white cotton gloves when harvesting. If you pull too hard, you could end up with a sticky mess—your marshmallows might collapse into an unsalvageable blob. “Gentle plucking technique” is necessary for the optimal marshmallow retrieval.

Finally, the best part: enjoying your homegrown marshmallows! After curing them in a dark room at 72.5 degrees for exactly 27 hours and 3 minutes, they will be ready. Store in Zip-Lock bags for maximum freshness. Roast them over a campfire for a perfect snack, or use them to make a batch of homemade s’mores. You could even toss them into hot cocoa for a fluffy kick.

Whatever you do, don’t forget to share the love with your neighbors! They’ll be so amazed at your garden that they’ll probably try to plant marshmallow trees of their own. Just be sure to remind them that this is a very special kind of plant, and it requires a good sense of humor and a healthy dose of whimsy.

P.S. Before running to the store for miniature marshmallows, you might want to check your calendar first. 😉

Happy April Fools’ Day!

More tomorrow.

They paved paradise
Put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot

They took all the trees
Put ’em in a tree museum
Then they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see ’em

Don’t it always seem to go
That you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone?
They paved paradise
Put up a parking lot — Joni Mitchell

Once upon a time, there was a lovely little park nestled inside our little town. For decades, this little park has been the spot where littles learned to swing and their parents came for a little breath of fresh air.

Surrounding this little park were the most beautiful cottonwood trees. If these trees could talk, they would have stories to tell. Watching generations of locals grow from those tiny tots on swings to grandparents swinging their own littles, they gave shade and comfort on very hot summer days.

Until.

One.

Day.

Just like the mustangs, urbanization brings with it difficult changes. In the case of the cottonwood trees, a chain saw took care of the problem of “liabilities”. In one week’s time, the “Park” has no more trees.

All in the name of making things more modern, the tiny little park is now adorned with colorful awnings. Awnings/6 – Trees/-8. Primary colors provide a dot of shade here or there, while the loveliness of the wind blowing through the leaves of those mature cottonwood trees is just a memory.

When did it become necessary to cut down trees that are more than 1/2 century old? Yes. Things change. Things die. Dat be true. But, these trees had been doing their job shading a park until someone that hadn’t spent much time at “In-Town Park” decided they needed to go.

Our little town needs so much more than chain-saw activity. As our population grows each week, the number of restaurants, grocery stores, and services remain the same. Each week, the paper lists scores of new business permits for things that a growing town doesn’t need, while the traffic congestion gets worse. There must have been a little better use of funds and time than removing beautiful trees that cleaned our air and calmed the spirit.

Now, this little park is quite barren. The earth is being ripped open to put a walking trail around this tiny piece of ground. Last Saturday, parents sat in the open sun while watching their daughters play softball. I would guess the park won’t get much use on a summer day here in the desert, unless one is lucky enough to get under one of the colorful patches of shade.

There’s really nothing more to say about this sad situation. Joni Mitchell had it right. Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone…..

After five years living here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, I’ve become used to seeing wild horses. The horses were good neigh-bors, never really meaning harm to anyone. Seeing them would brighten my day with their new spring foals. Like the seasons, they would appear and disappear like clockwork.

Until.

They.

Disappeared.

Simple as that. They are no more to be found.

Now, this is very strange that they disappeared just about the time HHH and I really started thinking about fencing Winterpast. HHH is itching to plant beautiful roses and flowers in the front yard. Those things don’t mix too well with grazing mustangs, and so, we requested an estimate.

After receiving a ridiculously high quote for the fence, we noticed the “problem” was now gone. Day after day, I hoped to see the white mare who sheltered next to my house through many winter storms. She and the others have disappeared. It’s difficult to make one hundred 1500 pound animals disappear unless helicopters and trailers are involved.

With their disappearance arrived a letter about the latest planning commission meeting to discuss proposed industrial districts. A new highway through the hills will meet up with the interstate. New parks and more houses will be built. None of these goals include herds of wild mustangs roaming wide open plains.

Silently, with stealth, helicopters, and trailers, our mustangs were removed. Quite probably, they were moved to the feedlot just north of us, awaiting those new owners who will never come. After a time, they’ll take one more trailer ride towards the wide open plains in the sky.

Here at Winterpast, the front yard plans are less complicated now. With no wildlife around, (except the squirrel), a fence-less facelift with paint and plants is in our future. Of course, a new band of horses could be working their way towards us just in time to eat the new roses. Sometimes, that’s how things go in the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

As we drive to Walmart, there’s real sadness in the empty desert. With the logistics of the many manufacturing victories around here, the loss of the horses will be permanent. Now, I’m just an old one remembering our neighborhood visits. The fate of the white winter-night mare standing guard just outside my bedroom when widowhood was new will haunt me forever. Run free, old girl.

Whatever you do today, take time to appreciate things in your life that could be gone tomorrow. Take pictures. Stop for a minute to appreciate our open spaces. Far too quickly, you may find things have changed “for the better”.

More tomorrow

The incredibly personal journey through grief has at times been isolating and overwhelming. The loss of a loved one while going through life-changing events left me feeling lost, with emotions too heavy to bear. Overwhelmed, the quiet spaces at Winterpast have become my gentle place to heal.

In 2020, HHH and I lost our spouses. Married to high school friends, we’d enjoyed marriage for a combined total of 50 years. We were both blessed with happy, fulfilling relationships while married to our best friends. When they died, grief could have devoured us, if not for our respective gardens.

Gardening has offered profound comfort to HHH and I during such difficult times. There’s something inherently therapeutic about the act of planting seeds, nurturing growth, and watching life bloom. When the world felt sorrowful, the process of gardening provided an anchor and opportunity for reflection, connection, and a sense of peace.

Gardening grounded us. Whether digging in the soil or simply tending to a small patch of flowers, the earth drew us back to the present moment. Grief often pulled me into a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, many of which felt out of my control. Gardening was an invitation to slow down and connect with nature, while focusing on something requiring patience and care.

The tactile experience of touching the earth, feeling the texture of the soil, and planting seeds offered a simple, calming rhythm that was soothing. In the moment there was no pressure to figure everything out. Nature doesn’t rush because growth takes time, just as emotional healing does.

In 2020, my world stopped, while life at Winterpast continued. Planting seeds is an act of faith while believing that something new will grow, even when the ground feels barren. As the days pass and shoots of green appear, a beautiful metaphor appears, mirroring healing happening in small and imperceptible steps. And so it was for me.

I adore the quiet of a garden, where there’s space to reflect, feel, and express. Grief was often accompanied by a flood of emotions hard to articulate. While tending to plants, I found a place of solitude where these emotions flowed freely without judgment. During the quiet days of Covid, my shattered heart began to mend as the seasons came and went. Over time, the garden itself becomes a reflection of the strength and resilience I carried within, even when the devastation of cancer left me broken.

Although HHH and I will never “get over” our grief, we ARE healing “through” it. Time has helped new love flourish. Together, we’ve found ways to nurture and comfort each other. Gardening offers just that—a gentle, therapeutic way to connect with nature, express our feelings, and witness the quiet miracle of growth while finding our way towards new life. As two grieving gardeners are blessed in so many ways.

It’s been……..

43,824 hours.

1,830 days.

60 Months.

Five Years Gone.

Thinking back over the amount of time since VST left us, my mind plays tricks. Some days, it seems his death happened a lifetime ago, while other days, the memories are so fresh they seem like they were made yesterday. I guess our minds are like that sometimes.

I married VST in a strip-mall church in Fresno, California on a cold day in January. I wore a beautiful wedding dress, which horrified my mother because I was a divorcee. Actually, I managed to horrify my poor mom a lot as a wild spirit of the 70’s.

That day, VST and I didn’t really know what the future would hold but we were willing to take a chance. And boy, what a ride it was. With one 6 year-old, two 8 year-olds, and twins that were 11, we took the reins and rode off into the sunset. Just didn’t know the twilight of his years would come so soon.

Five years ago, on April 8th, 2020, my sweet VST left this earth on the Zephyr winds of Virgina City, Nevada. That morning, the kids had just run to the store for a moment to get some more moving boxes. After checking on him, I opened the bedroom door a crack to the beautiful spring morning so he could sneak away. In the time it took to pour another cup of coffee, he did.

There will never be enough pages in enough books to explain our life together. Not enough laughter or tears to explain the journey after those two young lovers exchanged their vows so long ago.

To VST. You know every word of the story. Thank you for making sure everything would be great. You made sure it always was. I’m doing a pretty good job of making sure it still is.

Plants need three things to thrive: light, love, and a generous bank account to afford potting soil and water. In this modern world where avocado toast costs more than a burger, fries, and a shake, you might think that potting soil and water are affordable luxuries. Around Winterpast, that isn’t the case. Our water bill costs more than air conditioning in August.

Potting soil, which is essentially dirt, is the humble hero of every gardening enthusiast’s dream. Yet, it comes with a price tag that suggests it’s packed with rare minerals mined on the moon. Last week, we popped into Lowe’s feeling optimistic, only to find that the “organic” mix is twice the price it was last year. Why? Well, because it’s special. They say it’s enriched with nutrients and promises to make your garden into a jungle. Indeed, the “Boost” we’ve been using does tremendous things for budding plants.

The truth of the matter is, if you want your plants to thrive, you’re going to have to fork over $$$ for what feels like glorified sand. Be sure to buy the best ingredients you can afford to have the best outcome. Soil matters. These days, plain old dirt won’t do.

Water is the universal life force and drink of champions. Growing up, I used to think water was free. How naive I was to believe that. Water is “free” in the sense that it falls from the, sky and fills the Truckee River. After that, it transforms into liquid gold. There’s an interesting pattern here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Since we turned the water back on after the winter freezes, our water bill has started to look like a ransom note. Because of this, we’ve decided buying broccolli or cabbage makes more sense than wasting the water. How did this happen?

Our water must be laced with gold. It sure feels like it. We’re not trying to fill an Olympic swimming pool. I’m just giving our poor roses a little drink. But alas, every drop that falls into plants sendsthe water meter into a frenzy. Our yard is beautiful, but the bank account is a bit parched. Maybe next time, we’ll just give the plants a motivational speech instead of water. “Listen, Peonys, I know times are tough, but you’ve got this.”

Potting soil and water, in the grand scheme of things, are just two small expenses on the long list of things you’ll throw money at in the name of self-care. But as you water your plants and add another bag of fancy dirt to your cart, just remember: you’re not alone. Every plant enthusiast is quietly wondering why their houseplants are now so much more expensive than last year.

So, the next time you’re holding a bag of potting soil in your hand and questioning the price, just remind yourself: this is what it takes to create your own little paradise. If nothing else, remember that gardening is just a little bit dirtier—and a lot more expensive—than we thought.

As the days get longer, at Winterpast the birds are chirping and the world is a “Pinterest-Perfect” shade of green. On our way home from a spa weekend, we decided to embrace the season and do something every gardener loves: buy the first flowers of the season. Not just any flowers, mind you, but those that thrive in our zone, Zone 7.

It all began innocently enough. HHH checked the weather and found a long list of 70’s and 80’s listed as the highs for the following week. The universe spoke to us. With an early check out and before retrieving Ollie and Wookie from puppy camp, we headed to the local garden center.
Although so early the doors were still locked, just outside, flowers lined the building.

Walking through rows of blooming flowers, we were hit with sensory overload. The earthy smell of soil and vibrant colors of petals in every corner were calming and therapeutic. Our heads were on swivels as we found a little of this and a little of that while our basket overflowed.

There were so many options. Did we want flowers for “shade” or “sun”? Perennials or annuals? Remembering last year’s garden, it was easy to select plants with which we’d been successful. Good thing those happened to be our favorites.

Johnny Jump Ups, Marigolds, Geraniums, and roses made the cut.

It was when we were both drooling over the FoxGlove that we were interrupted.

“Excuse me,” the lady with the hose said, as she interrupted our gaze. “Those are poisonous. They contain digitalis that can affect your heart.”

Remembering last year’s Foxglove, we decided to take a chance again this year. Although this gorgeous plant only lasted a season, we both loved every day with it. We didn’t poison ourselves and enjoyed the blooms for the entire summer. We bought one big, beautiful plant despite her warning.

Without a coat, HHH warmed up in the sunshine while I took our plants through the checkout. As nursery visits go, this one wasn’t too bad. As I was paying, HHH hurried to the counter with two more roses.

“Wait, we need these, too.” And, of course he was right, we did.

After putting everything in the car, we looked at each other and realized that, at that price, we needed two more rose bushes.

Returning home, we found daffodils in bloom with the iris not far behind. The Peony’s grow inches each day as they stretch towards the sun. The cherry trees are beginning to bloom and will provide delicious nectar for the bees arriving on Saturday. Spring is such a lovely time of year.

The garden is a place for renewal and growth. Flowers bloom, leaves sprout, and trees regain their color. It’s a season of transformation with the visible world moved by the deeper rhythms of nature. The garden is once again thriving, and what appeared to be dead or lost is now flourishing in ways that weren’t imaginable during the darkest days of winter.

Much like perennial plants that return year after year, we, too, can find ways to heal and grow, even after the harshest times in life. The garden’s resilience teaches us that growth often follows pain and that beauty and strength can rise from the most difficult circumstances.

Whatever you do today, enjoy some fresh, crisp spring air and get outside a little bit. All the better if you have a yard to tinker with. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find yourself standing in the garden center checkout with roses in hand!

More tomorrow.

High on a hill overlooking Winterpast sits a lonely mansion. I don’t use that term loosely. Five years ago, when I moved to Winterpast, the mystery of the mansion was already years old. On its lofty perch, it watches over the rest of us who live in the low-lying areas. In all its grandeur, it’s been missing one thing. A family.

The home was built long ago by the man that built Winterpast. I met him one time under strange circumstances.

When I moved into Winterpast in 2020, I had things from many past lives. There were the high school Algebra books cherished from my days as a continuation high school teacher. I owned a complete set of Kinder-8th-grade language arts books and workbooks. There were books covering such a variety of subjects that any teacher would be drooling. But, I still owned some things from my days as a farmer that had to go.

In the garage sat two five gallon jugs of very old chemicals from my vineyard. One jug held Round-Up, which has turned into a bad name in non-farming circles. The other held a soil sterilant called Surflan. These two jugs were at least twenty years old and I must admit, even I was getting a little freaked out about having them in the garage.

There was one small problem. Northwestern Nevada has no place to dispose of chemicals like the ones I had in my possession. I was left to my own resourcefulness to find a home for them.

It was then I thought of a gentleman that had a ranchette not far from Winterpast. He owned four horses and had a sizeable amount of property. I’d see he and his son burning weeds often, and it came to me. He was a man who could use these chemicals in the right way.

One day, I wrote the man a letter complimenting him on his ginormous American flag waving high over his property. After explaining who I was, I asked if he might have a use for the chemicals I was trying to re-home. I got a call from him the evening after I’d dropped off the letter. A resounding YES!

When delivering the chemicals, I found he was, indeed, the man who had done a lot of the construction on the neighborhood. It was he who had built the home for himself, but then the building boom crashed in 2008. He lost the house.

This place is a beauty. Sitting atop the highest hill in town, she overlooks the entire town. At over 10,000 feet and three stories, she’s complete with an elevator all her own. A gourmet kitchen and views that just don’t stop. At $2,999,999, she should have all that with a butler included.

I snuck an online peek of this beautiful home the other day. Needing to leave some personal information before I could look, I got a call from the realtor handling the listing. After explaining I was just a nosey neighbor without the $2,999,999 to buy the home, he asked if I was related to the mayor.

That’s life in a very small, but growing, town. Everyone has gone to school with everyone and their brother’s grandson. I love it so much. You never know the strangers with whom you might find connections, especially if you’re related to the mayor and his huge family.

As for the mansion, there she sits. One evening a few weeks back, she was bathed in lights, not something that has happened in five years. Looking at the realtor’s pictures, I realized that was the night she went on the market.

Whatever you do today, if you are thinking of buying a mansion on a hill, check her out. She is truly a gem located in one of the best towns in the US.

More on Monday.

Saturday, our population here at Winterpast increased by 10,000. The bees made the journey from the lush northern valley of California over Donner Pass and right to our door. No, they didn’t fly themselves. Our dear friends delivered them as only dear friends would do.

The morning started with a quick trip to the hardware store to buy more mulch. Not sure how many bags we’ve brought home this year, but I think it’s close to 100. This morning, HHH wanted to be sure that the bees had fresh mulch under their bench. He quickly leveled their water fountain and made sure their hive was at a light incline to shed any spring rains that might hit. We were ready.

We’d had a scare very early in the morning. The Queen of the Bees, our sweet mentor had called in a panic. Did we have the order number for the bees? The company had no record of our purchase. Now, when you’ve paid as much as a hive full of bees cost, this can make your heart skip a beat.

Luckily, earlier in the week, I found one little handwritten paper showing our order number and the type of bees we ordered.

“Ohhhh. Yes, we have that order right here!!!” the company was quick to assure us. Thank goodness my organizational skills are as good as ever. Wish I could say the same for the bee company.

Well, the waiting was a bit tough, with excitement building through the morning. Finally, just before noon, they pulled in. Along with our one hive, they had a full truck. Ours were right in the back and easy to grab.

HHH and I were already in full suits waiting to install the bees into their brand new home. In less than ten minutes the job was done and the bees were fed. No screaming or stinging took place. Just the movement of five frames of bees from their NUC box to our hive. Easy peasy.

We had asked if our mentors would need some help installing their bees and they jumped at the chance to have help. At the first stop, we installed 12 hives. At the second stop we installed 16 hives. They had one more stop after that, but we decided they could handle the four hives themselves.

Saturday, we learned so many things about the bees. The ones that hang around the hive being easy to transport are the worker bees that live in the hive. The ones that fly around are the foragers, who can be quite upset when you move them. Each hive got a feeder full of 1:1 sugar syrup and a pollen patty.

With each hive, we met the queen. Our mentor inspected them and had kind words for each which made each installation very special. Her touch of kindness was appropriate for these hives that were quite happy to be in their new homes. While five of us worked with all those hives and bees, not one person was stung. While we didn’t use smoke to calm them, we did wear our suits for protection.

It’s a great feeling to know that at four different houses there are happy bees ready to pollinate their areas. Honeybees can fly in a two mile radius, which is really quite amazing. They live only 45 days with new bees constantly replenishing the hive. The hives have a peaceful hum when they are happy and and get quite loud when they are not.

Now, we wait. In two weeks, we’ll take a look inside and see how things are going. Of the four homes that received bees today, only one had a hive that survived over the winter. Only one. All of us agree. The amount of times we can try again is limited. Bee keeping isn’t a cheap hobby. But, it is one that is addicting.

Whatever you do today, get outside. If you happen to have a yard and plants, watch for honey bees. They’re fun to watch with a full cup of morning coffee and hope in your heart. The world needs our bees. Please pray for a great year.

Last weekend, as many as 125,000 people came together in California to attend the Coachella music festival. There were no terrorists dropping from the sky. No machine gun murders. Just fresh music that everyone attending enjoyed.

Listening to the whining about terribly long wait times (45 minutes) for valet parking was a bit funny. The food was outrageously expensive, with a cup of lemonade costing $20 and a meal for two (tacos, nachos, burgers, and drinks) at $300.00. There were long lines and plenty to fret about. Of course, tickets were $600 and up, so there was that, as well. Not many seemed to remember that once, not that long ago, there was a truly horrendous festival.

During this most holy week, please take a moment to reflect on the other music festival that ended in horror. SuperNova Music Festival — Israel — October 7, 2023. On those desolate festival grounds, 378 people were murdered by terrorists and forty-four souls were kidnapped. Alon Ohel was one of them. At this time, he is still being held underground by his captors.

Of those 44, five Americans (living and deceased) remain held hostage by the enemy. Edan Alexander was still alive as of February 15. Itay Chin, Gadi Haggai, Judy Weinstein, and Omer Neutra Z”L are deceased. Their bodies are held hostage to this day.

Yesterday, a new video caught my eye. I hope you watch it. The song, “Superman” was originally written in memory of 9-11. The songwriter rewrote the lyrics for the hostages and performed in Hostage Square in Tel Aviv.

Please. Listen to the song. Take a moment to send prayers for Alon, and his mom, Idet Ohel. She’s sitting at the piano. It’s time her very own “Superman” is back home in her arms.

More tomorrow.

Last week, HHH and I decided to do a Bee-Moon before our new hive arrived. Living so close to a resort town, we don’t often take advantage of that enough. Resorts always have nice restaurants and interesting things to keep one busy. With a short 30-minute drive to ours, we can enjoy a little staycation any time we like.

There are two big resorts on the south end of the town.

There are two big resorts on the south end of the town. One has the resort pools, outrageously good food, and a magnificent spa. The other one hasn’t gotten our business until now. Both have world-class spas, which makes choosing a little hard.

We’d planned a spa day on the second day of our trip. So, at 7:30 in the morning, off we went, dressed in pool clothes, ready to enjoy some pampering. Taken in separate directions, we were outfitted with the customary comfy robes and settled into our respective waiting areas until our masseuses called for us.

My masseuse was a lovely young woman with a very calming way about her. Perfect for the job. As we walked back to the treatment room, she asked if I would like a glass of fresh strawberry and pineapple water. Funny how adding fresh fruit to cold water can produce the most beautiful, subtle flavors.

Before getting started, I’d mentioned that I picked the treatment using Manuka Honey because my husband and I kept bees.

“You’re kidding! I have two hives myself!” she said in a slightly more animated voice.

As it turned out, she knows our mentor, Queen Bee. Her parents, also beekeepers, lost two hives last year. It turned out they would be going to California to pick up replacement hives of the same Saskatraz bees that we were getting. Small world in a small town.

It was lovely to know this gentle woman loved bees as much as we do. There is just something about bees that forces one to slow down and be observant of the smallest things. Just like that, a new friendship out of love of bees.

It was during this treatment that I experienced the most wonderful thing. Dry float therapy.

After my scrub and moisturizer, I got onto something like a water bed on which I floated for some time. Flat and hard at first, with the push of a button, the gel pad filled with warm water and cocooned me. Gently floating in dim light with beautiful zen music playing, I truly never wanted to leave the room again.

Such a fun little vacation we had. Good thing because Winterpast and her gardens have taken off. Just a week ago, everything was just starting to bud. Today, the yard is leafed out with more blooms on the way.

Whatever you do today, take some time to reflect on hobbies you love. Are you taking time to enjoy them? If not, get busy. Time’s-a-wastin’.

More tomorrow.

Winterpast is finally ready for a little bit of a facelift! We are in the process of agreeing on trim paint for our home. Finding a shared vision for Winterpast has been an exciting adventure. Thank goodness we have similar plans for the future.

Winterpast is the name of our home. At the front door, there is a plaque with her name, which I found in a Jan Karon book shortly after I’d moved in. The story involved star-crossed lovers and the attic of a mansion that was built for a woman the builder would never marry. The name “Winterpast” was carved on one rafter, a secret testament to the love that could never be.

The word was made from from Song of Solomon Chapter 2.

My beloved speaks and says to me:
“Arise, my love, my beautiful one,
    and come away,
 for behold, the winter is past;
    the rain is over and gone.
 The flowers appear on the earth,
    the time of singing^[a] has come,
and the voice of the turtledove
    is heard in our land.
 The fig tree ripens its figs,
    and the vines are in blossom;
    they give forth fragrance.
Arise, my love, my beautiful one,
    and come away.

I chose the name in 2020 with faith and the belief that someday the winter of grief I was experiencing would pass. Later in life, I would find blooming flowers and cooing doves. In deed, that has come to pass. The doves flock to our yard in search of the food HHH provides.

Right now, Winterpast is all one color. Built in 2004, I’m not sure that she was painted that way, but today, she is all one color. Funny things happen to paint in the desert. With a brown roof and a pinkish base coat, what she needs is painted trim. Luckily, that happens to be in HHH’s skill set.

A few weeks ago, we picked up paint samples and started discussing our options. There are so many colors from which to choose. But, as it usually happens with us, the decision came easily. With a soft brown for the trim and rusty henna for the railing and front door, we’re ready to roll. The date for completion is Memorial Day, but HHH assures me it’ll be done far before then.

After the new trim paint, the next step will be repairing the sprinklers in the front yard. Followed by new ground cover, the plan will come together.

We are still budgeting for artificial lawn. Long ago, there was a real lawn in the front yard. Now covered with white rock, there needs to be the appearance of grass without an additional cost to our already crazy water bill.

Finally, HHH will get the chance to finish his dream of flowers in the front yard. Without any more threat from wild horses that have obviously been rounded up and removed, there are no other animals to ruin our dreams of a beautiful front yard. It will all be a huge improvement.

Today at Lowe’s, standing in front of Elastomeric paint by Valspar, it became real. There are so many things to do first. The house and windows need to be washed down, frog tape applied, and it will be time to get to work.

The new hive of bees are working their hardest. Coming and going, they seem stronger every day. They are being fed a 1:1 simple syrup as well as patties made of pollen. We’ve done all we can and it will be up to them to survive or fail.

As for the squirrel, there is also an update. The little beast ate 12 Zebrina flowers, 10 Cosmos, and 12 Yarrow plants. It’s nibbling on the Black Eyed Susans. My BABIES.

My Mysterious Marine I know has plans for this little monster. For now, the seedlings have met a horrible death. It’s so very sad, but things will be better when MMM is victorious. Stay tuned.

Whatever you do, have a wonderful Thursday. You might want to think about a Thursday long ago, when a very young man was nearing the end of his time on earth. What a heavy burden he carried for the salvation of us all.

More tomorrow.

Good Friday and Easter offer Christians everywhere a time for reflection, reverence, and celebration. These two days hold deep spiritual significance, marking the ultimate sacrifice of Christ and His triumphant victory over death. Here at Winterpast, we’ll be celebrating the season with family on the side of a mountain at sunrise and at church.

Good Friday is a day for us to remember the immense love and sacrifice of Jesus Christ. It marks the day He was crucified, taking upon Himself the human sin of this world. The weight of the cross reminds us that love, in its purest form, is sacrificial and boundless.

Easter is a day of celebration as we remember that Mary arrived at an empty tomb. Jesus overcame death to find His reward of everlasting life. Just like this beautiful spring season, life after death completes an amazing cycle for believers everywhere.

Our church is holding a special service tonight. HHH and I are the caretakers for the churchyard. Later this morning, we’ll be mowing, edging, and beautifying the grounds for this most important weekend. It’s our way of performing an act of kindness and service. Our pastor does so much for everyone else that he needn’t be mowing the yard.

On Easter Sunday, our town observes a 30-year-old tradition. Around 5:15 am, a procession of cars will climb up a dirty and rutted road to watch the Easter sunrise. Next to three wooden crosses, we’ll sing and listen to an inspirational message while watching the sunrise in the east. It’s easy to find the turnoff. Just follow the taillights traveling up the mountain as they glow in the dark. You’ll know you’re there when you get to the empty cattle pens at the top.

At 11, HHH and I plan to put on our Sunday best and join friends and family in the celebration of new life. For Christians, the day is all about the ultimate triumph of light over darkness, life over death, and hope over despair.

While Good Friday and Easter offer the chance to enjoy your own holiday traditions, consider carrying the spirit of Easter into your daily life. Today, carry humility and love with you throughout your day. On Sunday, remember the joy and hope that Jesus brought into the world.

For Christians, these observances include a personal journey from sorrow to joy and from death to life. Embrace the full range of emotions—grief, awe, gratitude, and joy—and allow them to deepen your connection to God and one another. While Good Friday and Easter offer the chance to enjoy your own holiday traditions, carry the spirit of Easter into your daily life. Today, show humility and love to others throughout your day. On Sunday, celebrate the joy and hope that Jesus brought into the world.

Happy Easter! I’ll be back on Monday!!

Somewhere around 4:00 am, I fumbled blindly for shoes and socks in the dark while remembering that Jesus didn’t exactly sleep in on Easter either. He’s the only reason I didn’t roll over and go back to sleep. Yesterday, HHH and I attended a service at sunrise.

Not just any service, mind you, but one took place on the top of a mountain. A real, actual mountain with a road designed by cows, for cows, and left to erode in peace for 30 years. The only way up is in a vehicle with clearance and traction driven by a determined driver. Passengers need to close their eyes and hope for the best.

Arriving at the church by 5 was the first requirement if we intended on joining the caravan. The one drawback was intense dust if traveling at the back of the pack, but no one seemed to mind too much. After waiting 15 minutes for the group to assemble, we headed west.

Taking the road to my favorite lake is always exciting. Off the beaten path, it’s desert wilderness with not a tree in sight and mountains that jut upward towards the stars. Imagine driving on a road without any streetlights well before sunrise. It gives the phrase “dark as night” new meaning.

The darkness hid the major eyesore of acres and acres of solar panels. I’ve no patience for people who think of the desert as useless land, perfect for solar panels or nuclear waste. We need to protect our nation’s open spaces. Quite curious, these panels sit on an Indian reservation.

One needs to know exactly how to find the crosses on the hill. Not marked in any way, the turn is almost invisible in the dark. Having lived in the area for decades, HHH knew right where to turn without street lights or signs. Just a dusty road headed west towards Hooterville. A real place, Hooterville is a grouping of weathered trailers and a few structures where Hootervillians live.

Driving up that rutted road in the dark was like navigating a minefield in slow motion. Every bump questioned the integrity of the axles. Arriving at the broken-down cattle corrals, we were there. Along with members of three local churches, we waited for Easter Sunday sunrise. In minutes, the sky would bloom into soft, impossibly beautiful desert colors.

Three old wooden crosses stood weathered and unwavering on the ridge, silhouetted against the awakening sky, a heavenly vision. Around them, a small flock of the faithful stood bundled in jackets, sipping thermoses of coffee that smelled like hope and survival.

The hymns and readings, heartfelt and hopeful. In moments of silence, the only sound was the breeze passing over the desert while worshippers whispered to each other.

The beauty of this service wasn’t just the sunrise, though that’s the part that brought us all together. It was the trip up a mountain before the world awoke to share grumbling and sleepy smiles. The unspoken camaraderie of people who choose to chase light.

Easter is about the impossible becoming real. Light out of darkness. Life out of death. Hope when it makes absolutely no logical sense. What better way to embody that than a 5 a.m. drive up a mountain road that looks like a moon scape.

Will we do it again next year?

Absolutely.

There’s something sacred about sharing the dawn with people you love. Something holy about standing under those old wooden crosses, watching the light crawl over the ridgeline like a whispered promise.

Was it convenient?

No.

Was it comfortable?

No.

Was it REAL???

Absolutely.

Jesus rose from the dead on Easter morning.

It was a very small sacrifice to rise from a warm bed to worship him.

Even at 5 a.m.

More tomorrow.

There’s something about the high desert that feels ancient and unspoken, as if time slows just enough for your soul to catch up with your body. Overhead, the sky stretches in a way it doesn’t anywhere else—wide, unbroken, impossibly blue. It’s the kind of blue that stops you in your tracks, makes you squint upward, and breathe a little deeper.

Every time HHH and I leave to run errands, I find myself commenting on the beauty of the surroundings. Growing up on a vineyard in the Central Valley of California, I never knew how luscious skies could be. That was until I moved to Nevada eleven years ago. The only thing that would make the desert any better is the return of the mustangs. As I wrote a couple of weeks ago, they are gone for good.

The high desert plains are not known for being easy. They are stark, windswept, sometimes lonely. The land rolls in soft undulations, dotted with sagebrush, scattered junipers, and the occasional jackrabbit vanishing into the shimmer of heat. But above it all, the sky is a balm—deep and clean, unmarred by skyscrapers, cell towers, or the haze of a too-busy life.

Being able to look for miles in any direction only to see open land is something city dwellers will never appreciate. Seeing snow-capped mountains one hundred miles away lifts the soul. The black of the desert night is something you need to experience to understand TRUE darkness.

In the early hours, before the sun fully wakes the land, the sky is a pale wash of silver-purple-ish-blue, hinting at the intensity to come. As the day builds, so does the color—azure at noon, shifting to cobalt by late afternoon. On clear days (which is most of them), the sky feels infinite. It pulls at your thoughts while opening your chest to invite you to dream.

There’s a kind of honesty in that sky. Maybe it’s the altitude—thinner air, less distortion. Maybe it’s the way the land below is stripped of frills and pretense. You can see for miles here, and you feel seen in return. The bluest skies aren’t just pretty—they’re revealing. Under them, you remember things: who you were before the world got noisy, what it felt like to be small and unafraid of it.

Clouds come and go like visitors—never overstaying, always moving. When they do, they add contrast, like brushstrokes on a canvas that doesn’t need painting but welcomes it anyway. During storms, the sky is a theater, where thunderheads roll in like ancient gods and lightning dances in the distance while the air stays dry.

The desert encourages us to look up. With so much open space, there’s no excuse not to. Out here, the sky isn’t just above you—it becomes part of you. A reminder that beauty doesn’t need embellishment and vastness can comfort as much as it humbles. Sometimes, blue isn’t the color of sadness, but of peace.

As a grieving widow in 2020, I found comfort in releasing balloons to mark the number of months I’d been alone. I can’t remember the color of the sky when I released the first lone balloon to travel toward heaven. Only 30 days widowed, I can tell you how the grass felt on my cheeks as I lay sobbing. The 12th release was on a bright sunny day, assuring me that travels through grief would become easier as the days went by.

The bluest sky is right outside my window today. With lots of gardening to do, I can’t wait to be out in the sunshine. Things are just healthier under our lovely skies.

If you ever find yourself on the high desert plains, take a moment. Look up. Let that blue fill your lungs, your heart, your memory. Because once you’ve seen it, you’ll never forget the bluest skies of the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

More tomorrow.

Health is one of those blessings that whispers rather than shouts. It moves in the background of our lives, subtle and constant, so subtle that we rarely notice—until it’s gone.

When healthy, we move through the world with a kind of freedom that feels natural: rising in the morning without pain, breathing without effort, eating without caution, and walking without pain or planning. But none of these things are guaranteed. They are, in truth, small miracles. When we stop to recognize them, we begin to understand that health is not just a physical state—it’s a grace.

Having been blessed with remarkable health for 69 1/2 years, I don’t stop to give it much thought as often as I should. That changed in January when Influenza A almost took me out. Life can change in a moment and it’s wise to remember that as often as possible. A gratitude journal should always start by recognizing the health you enjoy!!!

Health allows us to show up for the people we love. It lets us work, laugh, rest, and contribute will giving us the energy to pursue purpose, the clarity to savor joy, and the strength to endure challenge. In our fast-paced lives, it can be traded away piece by piece as we skip rest, ignore symptoms, or numb stress until our bodies finally ask us to listen.

Gratitude for health doesn’t mean pretending everything is perfect. It means honoring what is working, even in the midst of struggle. It means saying thank you for the breath in our lungs, the beat of our hearts, the resilience of our spirits. For the healing of a wound, the clearing of a mind, the steady rhythm of a body doing its best.

For those walking through illness or recovery, the blessing of health becomes something else entirely: a beacon of hope, a goal, a memory, a daily prayer. It teaches us humility and presence. It reminds us that even in weakness, there is strength. Even in limitation, there is life.

Health isn’t a trophy we earn but a gift we are called to steward. It should be nourished with rest, movement, food, and water, while not forgetting to show kindness toward ourselves and others. Not because we fear its loss, but because we cherish its presence.

Today, take a moment to be still and grateful. Recognize the quiet miracle of a body that carries us, a mind that reasons, and a heart that beats. Health may not always be loud or glamorous, but it is one of life’s greatest blessings—and one that deserves our deepest thanks.

My first week at Winterpast was like stepping onto a stage where everyone already knew the script. I arrived late on stage, flipping pages to find my place. Names were familiar to everyone but me, landmarks had stories I didn’t know, and the rhythm to life that took time to learn. All of that took a back seat during my first year of grief.

During the COVID quarantine, I needed to fit in somewhere. This was hard to do when all doors were shut tight while faces were hidden behind masks.

Fitting in didn’t mean changing who I was—it meant allowing myself to take root in new soil. The problem was that I’d become someone totally different, transplanted in an unfamiliar environment. Like in any garden, that took time, patience, spring rains, and a lot of sunshine.

In our small town, presence matters more than polish, and that was a blessing. People wanted to see if I’d show up, whether for Bible study or Sunday morning service. It was never about standing out but more about standing beside. Everything was strange. Slowly, every smile and handshake became a thread in beautiful new tapestry called “HOME”. Things would have turned out differently without God.

Small towns are rich in stories, and old-time residents keep them alive. Sitting at the café or lingering at the hardware store, I listened. I asked questions not just to be polite, but to understand. There’s a kind of unspoken respect in letting others tell you who they are before you introduce yourself. Slowly, I found the answers needed to survive and thrive.

In a place where everyone knows everyone, there was no room for pretending. The upside? I wasn’t expected to be anything more than who I was. Authenticity carries weight. Over time, people stopped seeing that “new person” and started seeing the new neighbor, the woman who helped at the Holiday food drive, or the gal who always waves from her Jeep.

One of the fastest ways to fit in was to contribute. Our small church relies on volunteers and neighborly help more than formal systems. Whether stacking chairs, bringing soup to a sick neighbor, or helping someone find their lost dog, those quiet acts echo loudly in tight-knit communities.

There’s a myth that small towns are either instantly warm or permanently closed off. The truth lives somewhere in between. Trust is a slow-growing vine, and fitting in can take months, even years. But when it happens, it’s real. Not transactional or temporary, but lasting—like the way someone leaves a porch light on for you when they know you’re coming home late.

Fitting in isn’t about erasing your edges to match a mold. It’s about learning the contours of the community and finding where your shape naturally fits. Small town people don’t ask for perfection—they ask for presence, patience, and a willingness to be known.

Now, when someone calls me by name at Walmart or stops by to say “Hi” on a Sunday afternoon—I know: I’m not just living here anymore. I’m a Nevadan.

Oliver and Wookie are just plain cute, which is a really good thing because they are a handful. A color-coordinated set, they stay on “high alert” most of the time. Of course, they rarely jump over the couch anymore, so maybe they’ve slowed down a tiny bit. They’re majestic little gremlins with fur. What most people don’t know is that our adorable duo doesn’t just steal hearts—they also rob bank accounts with the enthusiasm of two fuzzy Bonnie and Clydes.

In the beginning, high-maintenance Oliver lived with me, and high-maintenance Wookie lived with HHH. These dogs helped us through some very lonely times as we grieved. They were the best cuddlers and listeners we could’ve asked for. Oliver was loyal to the max unless he was on a toad hunt or eating the sprinklers and plastic solar lighting.

Wookie did her best to make HHH smile while she did the same. Yes. Wookie smiles at the right times and with purpose. In doing so, she makes the world a better place. She also races around the yard in a state of pure elation while Oliver barks at her heels. The two were meant for each other, just like their doggie parents.

Neither HHH nor I meant to own a high-maintenance dog. We both started with our own little furball. Marriage blended our families, and apparently, we enjoy chaos as we managed to double it.

Now we live with a small circus act that requires gourmet kibble, monthly spa appointments, and emotional support at frequent visits to puppy camp that make us both look like their pets.

Don’t forget dog food. These two have preferences. One refuses to eat unless she feels like it. The other eats so quickly, we use a puzzle bowl to keep him from throwing up after dinner. Combine the cost of kibble, fresh cheese, greenies, and other snacks, and it adds up.

They both have coats that grow faster than the weeds at Winterpast. So it’s off to the groomer every eight weeks, where appointments cost about $80/dog. They come back smelling like lavender angels… for approximately 3 hours before one of them rolls in the yard like a freshly shaved heathen.

They see the vet more than I see my doctor. One has dental issues. The other was neutered last year. “Would you like pain meds for Wookie? That will be $20 a pill, please.” Between check-ups and vaccines we basically fund a wing of the vet clinic.

Toys that are destroyed in under 4 minutes? Check. Don’t forget puppy camp. Going on vacation? Ollie and Wookie prefer their five-star staycations with their best friend Michelle.

Despite the hair on our clothes, the cheese disappearing from the fridge, and the never-ending doggy drama, these two high-maintenance weirdos are our little loves. They make us laugh daily, force us outside when we’d rather wallow, and greet us like rockstars even when just returning from the mailbox.

They’ve emptied the bank account, yes—but they’ve filled our lives in a way no amount of money could. (Although if either of them ever wants to get a job, I’m open to it.)

So to anyone considering one—or two—high-maintenance dogs: be prepared. You’re not just getting pets. You’re getting two furry dependents with emotional baggage and the life style of spoiled celebrities. In exchange, you’ll get unconditional love, warm noses on cold nights, and a life that’s messier, louder, and infinitely more joyful.

Just start a savings account first……

This spring, I did what every optimistic gardener does: I planted hope in the form of tender, innocent seedlings. With careful precision, I arranged rows of Black-Eyed Susan’s, Purple Cone Flowers, Lupine, and Shasta Daisies, each one a promise of cut flowers and happy blogs. This took the better part of a day two weeks ago. The gardens looked stellar.

And then… the squirrel moved in. Disaster came with tiny little teeth that mowed down my hopes and dreams. All that remained of the Zebrina were tiny little stems. As for the Yarrow, they were plucked from the ground with no sign that they The Aster’s survived, but only remain because they were planted in higher boxes.

You’d think he’d show up in polite, bushy-tailed fashion and nibble respectfully, taking one bite and moving along. No. He wasn’t an average squirrel, but a hardened, seasoned, flower-pillaging marauder who recognized our garden as an all-you-can-eat buffet. If it had thumbs, it would have given it a 5-star review with several enthusiastic tail flicks for good measure.

Teasing us from a variety of mysterious holes, he never buried any acorns. He simply flamed the grudge I have against him. Ready to give up and have a flower-less yard, HHH shamed me a bit. Was I going to let a little rodent win this war??? Was I that weak??? Where was my fighting spirit? All excellent questions that renewed my quest for success.

So far, we’ve invested alot in this years floral crop. There are the heirloom seeds, because no one wants genetically modified anything. Organic fertilizer to boost bloom production. Mulch of the highest quality. Peat pots, specially sprouting soil, and hours and hours of love to get these babies to grow under new lights necessary to grow fabulous plants.

After THE incident, one more expense nearly gutted me. A trip west to replace all the flowers on their way to blooming. There’s a direct relationship between filling the back of an SUV and an empty wallet.

One thing that can’t be replaced is the stretched and aching muscles used during one afternoon of seedling planting. Gardening, in theory, is good exercise. In reality, it’s a series of yoga poses invented by a sadist. I performed the “downward dig,” the “wheelbarrow shuffle,” and my personal favorite, “accidental knee-in-mulch scream.” By Sunday evening, I was the one with the heating pad. That day had been so happy and relaxing, with a dedicated bed for each type of flower. When finished, it was a thing of beauty, even if I’d need a few days to recover.

And for what? For a squirrel to treat my plot like a Vegas buffet and leave behind nothing but tiny footprints and tiny little stems.

Gardening books don’t cover this. They talk about “pest control” like it’s a minor inconvenience. This is not a pest. This is war. When there is a war, the warrior must have a gun. We have two. That squirrel is going down. Don’t worry. I’ll dedicate a blog to him when he’s gone.

Please, just try to humor me by agreeing with a few key points.

1. Squirrels are not cute. They are agents of chaos in adorable fur coats. Don’t be fooled.
2. Gardening is not alway relaxing. It’s a tragic comedy in three acts: Hope, Devastation, Replanting.
3. Flowers are necessary for a happy life. Therefore, we will absolutely do this again next year.

Why?

Because maybe, just maybe, this time we’ll outsmart the squirrel and there won’t be another. Hope is the first seed you plant, and stubbornness is the compost that helps it grow.

More tomorrow.

Spring and summer barbequing happen often here at Winterpast. HHH creates the most wonderful steaks and ribs, making it seem like they cooked themselves. That was until his Traeger started screaming like a banshee every time it was turned on. The squealing was so loud, he decided he’d put BBQing on hold for a while. Well, spring has sprung, and that time has arrived. Last week, it needed fixing.

All we needed was a troubleshooting guide and YouTube.It’s amazing how many quick repairs can be found online. With a video and troubleshooting options, we were ready to fix the Banshee Barbecue using the power of the Internet, some grease, and a screwdriver.

First, we needed to identify which of the two fans were squealing. Unhooking the first one, the squeal continued. But, when the second was unhooked ear-piercing noise stopped. Without cuts, or electrocutions, we’d located the problem.

Everything was just as the YouTube repairman had instructed after we had entered “How do I fix squealing Traeger”. Thank goodness it was the $20 fix instead of the $420 fix. We were careful to choose the on-line repairman that was easiest to follow.

On YouTube, we’ve found answers to beekeeping questions, advice on how to care for engorged teats after weaning a litter of puppies, and how to open the hood of a Ram Truck. The last one was necessary when I first became widowed and didn’t yet realize the true value of YouTube.

After watching the entire video, we searched for the necessary tools.

HHH needed the following:

• A screwdriver
• WD-40 or silicone lubricant
• A clean rag
• A vacuum

Once everything was unplugged, he followed the instructions on the video like a pro. In no time at all, everything was back in place. Reassembled and running, the fan sounded like a gentle breeze rather than a tortured squirrel. A thorough cleaning and a little grease fixed the problem..

There is nothing more tantalizing than a man who can fix anything! HHH, you are my hero!! Can’t wait to enjoy a season of your delicious BBQ’d meals.

Now, let’s find a video to fix the next thing on our list!!

It all started with a rustle. Just a little rustle in the garden, the kind you ignore because maybe it’s the wind. But this rustle had attitude. This rustle meant business. This rustle had a bushy tail and zero respect for property boundaries. I promised I would update you when I had news and boy do I have great news! The squirrel is gone!

This rodent wasn’t your run-of-the-mill nut collector. He an alpha backyard marauder—territorial, aggressive, and possibly hopped up on fermented birdseed. He dug holes like he was planning a subway system, ate seedlings like candy.

As you all know, I did what any rational adult would do: I declared war

HHH and I gathered our first line of defense. Deadly gopher pellets.

We sprinkled them like seasoning a gourmet squirrel salad. The directions said something vague like “Apply liberally to active burrows,” which, in this case, was anywhere within a three-mile radius. I imagined this creature sniffing the stuff, coughing, and dramatically packing his bags like, “Well fine, I see how it is.”

Nope.

Instead, he doubled down and made more frequent appearances.

And so, the challenge was on. Something was going down, and it wouldn’t be the petunias.

We went full action movie villains and bought gopher gas bombs—little chemical canisters that you light and shove into a burrow like a suburban depth charge. The instructions came with warnings like “Do not breathe,” and “Do not ignite near house.”

HHH lit the fuse, shoved it in the burrow, and waited like a patient assassin. And then… nothing. Not a whimper. Not a cough. Not even smoke. Nothing at all. And, worse than that, the destructive visits continued.

Broken, beaten, and deep into rodent warfare, we finally turned to technology. When cleaning out the shed, I found a solar-powered vibrating stake that claimed to “repel underground pests through pulses and vibrations.”

I was skeptical. Mostly because this squirrel didn’t live underground—he lived in my soul at this point. But desperate times called for desperate measures. I deployed this little device and then forgot about it.

The very next day, HHH brought out the gun and we were ready. This squirrel would enjoy his last visit to Winterpast. That’s all there was to it. It was going to die at the hands of My Mysterious Marine.

And this time… something changed.

The squirrel moved out.

At first, HHH waited by the back door with the pellet gun. One shot and the ordeal would be over. But, the squirrel never reappeared. Just like that, his hole is as empty as the flower garden.

Gone. Just like that. One day he was shimmying up our bird feeder pole, and the next, vanished like a tax return in April. Did the vibrations work? Did he finally get bored? Did he move to the neighbor’s yard with better seedlings?

A friend inquired about our seedlings the other day and I mentioned the problem with the squirrel.

“Ohhh, my dad just told me about a device that puts vibrations in the ground. Works swell. His squirrels moved out. Have you heard of it?”

Well, at least now we have a better idea of why he left.

I still wake up sometimes in a cold sweat, swearing I heard a chitter outside. But for now, peace reigns in the backyard. The new seedlings are sprouting. The lawn is healing. As for HHH and me? We’ve learned that sometimes it takes a little sun-powered passive aggression to win a war.

Stay vigilant, fellow gardeners. And never underestimate squirrels.

PS–

Not so fast. Another sighting has been confirmed within the last few minutes. The war continues. Stay tuned.

Today, millions across the United States are observing the National Day of Prayer. This is a time set aside for individuals of all faiths to unite in reflection, gratitude, and hope. Rooted in a long-standing American tradition, the significance of this day extends far beyond ceremonial gestures. It offers a moment for the nation to pause, breathe, and seek guidance, both personally and collectively.

Today, I’ll ignore the external noise of daily life, as well as my own internal clutter. It’s easy to go through the motions while skimming past headlines or seeing dates on the calendar without really noticing them. This day is an invitation to pause, breathe, and turn inward to pray.

In a world that often feels divided, prayer whispered in solitude, chanted in community, or held in silent hope, is a reminder of things that connect us across traditions. You don’t have to believe or pray the same for the act to mean everything. At its core, prayer is about humility, presence, and hope.

For me, prayer isn’t a grand declaration. It’s more of a conversation in quiet moments of requests for clarity where there’s confusion, peace where there’s unrest, and healing where there’s hurt. It’s also a moment for listening—something I’m working on.

Lift up those who are praying for strength to face illness, reconciliation in a fractured relationship, or justice where it’s long been denied. May those who don’t pray, but live filled with compassion, purpose, and service find blessings in their daily lives.

The National Day of Prayer isn’t about religion. It’s about the collective spirit of a people willing to seek, reflect, and hope together. In a time when headlines highlight so much of what separates us, days like this remind me of the threads that quietly bind us. The real power of prayer resides in the posture of our hearts.

Congress officially established the National Day of Prayer in 1952 during a period of post-war uncertainty and cultural shifts. Leaders recognized the power of a nation turning inward, through prayer or silent reflection, to strengthen its spiritual foundation and inspire compassion, community, and ethical leadership. President Truman signed it into law, and in 1988, President Reagan amended the act to set the first Thursday of May as its annual date.

In today’s fast-paced world, days like these are a reminder that stillness has power. Whether approaching prayer as communion with God, as spiritual contemplation, or as a meditative pause, the National Day of Prayer calls each of us to connect with something deeper than our daily routines.

On this National Day of Prayer, whether you’re lifting a quiet petition or participating in a community gathering, take a moment to reflect not just on your journey, but on the shared story of us all. In listening, asking, and hoping, find peace.

This week, I updated with a brand new computer. Having held on to Windows 10 for as long as possible, I decided it was time to renew and reinvent the way I blog. Monday, the huge box arrived.

This computer is everything I hoped it would be and more. It works faster than I can think. Sleek and beautiful, the monitor glows as it displays gorgeous imagery. All week, I’ve been learning a little of this and a little of that. Having heard so many bad things about Windows 11, I was a little leary to change. I shouldn’t have been, as everything makes sense, so far.

The old computer is still in the kitchen nook wondering where the heck I went. Migrating to the studio for a total reset, the old computer will remain for use on days we need a second space to work.

One of the first things that came up was the decision of which anti-virus software to install. With that handled, the new computer is safe.

I wish it was the same for me.

Another desert virus has attacked. This year has been a bad one here in my little town. Missing Bible study last night, I’ll be resting and healing for the next week’s fun.

As you all know, girls just want to have fun. With plenty of Kleenex in my suitcase, I’ll be off for a week of giggles and fun with besties. HHH has promised to give the seedlings plenty of water and cuddle the puppies until I return.

Whatever you do today, stay well. If you are sick, stay home. If you are well, try to avoid those who are sick. Viruses these days are nothing to mess with. I’ll be back on May 12th with lots to tell.

In a quiet little town, where neighbors greet each other by name and front doors are often unlocked, the unthinkable happened. Last week, three boys were reported missing under circumstances that the sheriff is now calling a kidnapping.

Happily playing in broad daylight at a local park, three ten-year-old boys disappeared, and what began as an ordinary afternoon quickly became every parent’s nightmare. As law enforcement agencies launched a frantic search, their families united in shock, fear, and grief.

According to local police reports, the children disappeared late afternoon last Tuesday. Within an hour, all three had vanished without a trace. Because of a strange text, family members alerted the sheriff, and the search began.

Within hours, the youngsters were located under the crawl space of a home just feet from our church. The kidnapper convinced them to follow his instructions or they’d be killed. They were beaten and terrorized during their time in captivity by one crazed individual.

The boys were found by locating the last ping of their cellphone. The kidnapper was arrested and the boys taken to a hospital for treatment of their injuries. Thank goodness for technology.

Throughout this ordeal, most of the community wasn’t aware. Other than a police presence in this one small neighborhood, the rest of the residents went on with life as usual.

The next day, the police asked our Pastor to review the church’s surveillance videos. Sure enough, the three boys and their kidnapper were there, walking along the road. The kidnapper hadn’t planned well and had to lift a child over the fence to have him unlock the gate from the inside. From there, he made the children go under the crawl space of the house.

Beneath this story lies a deep and aching question: Why?

Why would someone target three innocent children in such a small, tight-knit community? How can these tragedies by prevented?

This incident serves as a devastating reminder that even the “safest” places aren’t immune to danger. It highlights the importance of community watchfulness, robust child safety measures, and immediate response systems. The case has reignited a difficult but necessary conversation: stranger danger is real, and closer than we think.

For decades, we’ve taught the phrase “stranger danger” in schools, homes, and daycares. But the reality is, children are still vulnerable to manipulative or predatory adults, especially in moments of brief inattention or false trust.

This is not fear mongering. The truth is child predators often look and act ordinary. That goes for ANY predators. Often polite, they can be well-spoken, and sometimes familiar. The idea that danger always “looks dangerous” is a myth that must be broken.

It’s difficult to strike the right tone when talking about threats like this. Empowerment works better than fear. Teach children:

• Never to go anywhere with a stranger
• Not to trust adults who ask them for help
• To scream, run, and find help
• That it’s okay to say no
• To always check in before changing locations

If this tragedy leads to even one child being safer, more aware, more empowered—then these boys’ stories will not be forgotten. Remember, seniors are vulnerable, too. Always be aware of your surroundings.

We’re thankful that the children were found alive and pray for a complete healing.

More tomorrow.

When one is recovering from a virus, the world keeps spinning. Waiting to get better, I decided to write a story about something that may or may not have happened within the last week. We all need to be ready for the unexpected. What would you do if you faced this situation?

In a quiet corner of town, a simple act of compassion turned an empty building into something sacred. A local church, faced with the needs of a homeless man in their community, made the choice to open the doors of a vacant house they owned and allow him to stay for a short time. It wasn’t a grand gesture with press releases or social media fanfare. It was quiet, deliberate, and deeply human.

The little house had been empty for months. Once full of laughter and the everyday sounds of life, it sat shrouded in silence. Church members had been debating how best to use it. While many good ideas swirled through leadership meetings, the question remained. Should it be used for immediate income or for someone in need?

With no working bathroom, before it could be used for anything, it needed fixing. After installing a brand new tub/shower combination, that problem was fixed.

Within days of completion, a believer named James came along. Life had thrown him more than his fair share of storms, and slowly, everything that once made him feel secure unraveled. What he needed wasn’t just a meal or kind words. He needed a door that locked, a roof that held, and a place to breathe.

What could a tiny country church do to help?

So, the church let him in.

This decision was not without risks or questions. How long would he stay? Would it be safe? Was this fair to others in need? But rather than letting uncertainty paralyze them, the members leaned into grace. They drafted a basic agreement for clarity with J and coordinated volunteers to help furnish the space with donated items.

What happened next wasn’t dramatic, but profound. James rested. A few weeks in a stable place gave him time to think again about the future. Eventually, he’d be able to move on to more permanent housing.

And so, you decide. Did this happen or is it the product of way too much Mucinex?

In today’s world, where the scale of homelessness can feel overwhelming, it’s easy to believe that only large systems can bring solutions. But sometimes the most powerful thing is a single unlocked door. Churches, nonprofits, and communities across the country sit on vacant properties while people sleep under bridges. What if this story wasn’t the exception, but the beginning of a new model of radical hospitality?

This story isn’t about a church saving a man. It’s about the sacred intersection of resources and need. It’s about what happens when we look at what we have—not as ours to protect, but as tools to serve.

What unused space in our lives—physical or emotional—could become shelter for someone in need? The next time someone comes to your door, what would you do?

More tomorrow.

As the blessing of health is returning to me a little at a time, I’ve spent time thinking more about yesterday’s blog. Here is Part 2 of a possible story of kindness.

When a person has gone a long time without a home, the idea of “belongings” feels foreign. Carry what you can, leave what you must, and learn not to grow attached. Furniture, curtains, and tablecloths are luxuries for other people with keys in their pockets, fridges that hum at night, and a table.

That first night in a new home, James sat at that table in silence. No TV. No noise. Just him, the hum of the heater, and a tabletop supporting a well-used Bible. The air smelled like fresh paint and possibility, but also like distance from everything lost.

The following day, volunteers from a local church dropped by with bags of “necessities”, among them, a tablecloth. “These things are for you,” they said. “Hopefully they’ll help your place feel more like home.”

Carefully unfolding it, the soft green background covered with a white floral design touched his heart. It took a moment before tears started to flow. Somehow, impossibly, it was just like the one his grandmother had.

Long before life unraveled and loss and circumstance knocked him down, Sunday dinners at her house were his safe place. In those days, life felt full, and the original tablecloth was always there. He used to trace the edges while she told stories or scolded him for picking at food. It smelled like clean linen, chicken soup, and love.

He never thought he’d see it again, let alone have a table to cover.

But here it was. Maybe not the exact one—but close enough that memory rushed in like a flood, and for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like a stranger to himself, but like someone who’d come back home.

Slowly spreading it across his table, he smoothed out the wrinkles with reverence. That single act made the empty house feel full. Not with things, but with meaning, dignity, and something like grace.

To some, a tablecloth is just fabric. For James, it was proof he’d not been forgotten but seen as someone worthy of beauty. Healing often begins not with grand gestures, but with quiet ones stitched in kindness, folded in memory, and offered without expectation.

Every time he sits at that table now, he does so with gratitude. For the roof, yes. For the heat, the fridge, and the shower. But mostly, for the tablecloth and how it laid a foundation for something he hadn’t felt in a very long time:

Belonging.

Whether or not this story happened will remain my secret. I can tell you this. A couple was deeply touched in unexpected ways while dropping off a few bags of “necessities”. Sometimes, things happen that way when a simple act of kindness turns into something full of meaning and beauty.

As for me, the days of Kleenex and Mucinex are over and I’m back to my old self.

More tomorrow.

Each of us carries within us gifts we didn’t earn, talents we didn’t create, and abilities planted deep within our soul. These gifts are not random but rather divine fingerprints, unique to each of us and meant to bring beauty, healing, joy, and truth into the world. And yet, how often do we shrink back to dim our own light, fearing judgment, rejection while simply believing we’re not enough?

Here’s a thought. Hiding your gifts isn’t humility but fear in disguise.

Jesus told a parable about three servants entrusted with “talents” (a form of money, but the metaphor is unmistakable). Two invested their gifts and their master was pleased. The third, afraid of failing, buried his. When the master returned, he wasn’t angry because the servant failed, but because he didn’t even try.

The message is clear: Gifts aren’t for burying. They are to use, grow, and bless others. When you write, speak, create, lead, teach, heal, serve, or encourage, you’re not boasting but participating in something holy.

Many of us are taught to be modest, which is good advice as pride can distort. But modesty does not mean silence. It doesn’t mean shrinking back until we’re invisible. Real humility says, “These gifts aren’t mine but given to serve others.”

The world needs our hidden gifts. Imagine if artists stopped painting, teachers stopped teaching, or leaders stopped leading out of fear of being “too much.” Such beauty would be lost!

Jesus said, “You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden… No one lights a lamp and puts it under a basket.” That verse doesn’t suggest some people are lights. It says YOU are the light, created to shine with truth, beauty, and love. When gifts are used, miracles bloom as grace meets courage.

It takes bravery to stand in the light. To speak when it would be easier to stay silent. To create when criticism is always possible. To lead when others may doubt your ability. But if your gift is God-given, your calling is to be faithful, not flawless.

So, start the business. Sing the song. Apply for the role. Offer the prayer. Write the book. Open your heart. The world doesn’t need more perfection but more people willing to be vessels of grace, hope, and truth.

If you’ve been hiding, it’s time to come out of the shadows. God didn’t make a mistake when He gave you your gifts. You are not unworthy of them. You are a steward of something eternal and unique. Let the world see what God planted in you.

Your gift is not for your glory. It’s for the good of others, and for the glory of the One who gave it.

So go ahead—shine.

There are a few moments in life when the heart swells with overwhelming joy, and words aren’t enough. This weekend will be one of those rare and beautiful moments as we watch two of HHH’s grandchildren graduate from college. HHH is many thing to many people, but to them he’s just Papa.

Walking across the stage in caps and gowns, tassels swinging, smiles wide, and futures bright, they’ve met a huge milestone. These cousins have stepped into bright new chapters they’ve worked so hard to reach. Seems like yesterday, I graduated from my own Alma Mater. At 21, I had the world on a string as I prepared to leave for Moldavia, Russia as a new bride. Little did I know all the adventures life had waiting for me.

Life sped ahead, and in the blink of an eye, I was celebrating the graduation of my own children. How quickly they grew from inquisitive kids to successful adults with graduates of their own. Looking back, it hardly seems possible the years passed so quickly, but, indeed they have.

I’ve heard many stories about these graduates as babies. Back then, HHH wondered what their lives would look like. We’ve both dreamed, as all grandparents do, of happiness, love, and purpose for all our grandchildren. But dreams pale in comparison to the reality of witnessing them shape their own paths with grace and determination.

College isn’t easy. It’s a time of challenge, change, self-discovery, and growth. These two have navigated all of it through long nights, tough exams, new friendships, and moments of doubt with admirable resilience. One has earned a degree in education driven by her love of learning. The other studied business, while planning for success. Two different dreams, equally beautiful.

The best part isn’t just the degrees or accolades, but the kind of people they’ve become. They are kind and thoughtful. They care about their communities. They ask big questions and aren’t afraid to search for answers. They love deeply. They show up. Two beautiful reflections of their parents’ love and care throughout the years.

As a grandparent, you always hope your grandchildren will be happy. But seeing them grow into compassionate, capable adults who carry those values into the world is a gift HHH and I will treasure forever.

To these beloved graduates: thank you for letting me be part of your journey. Thank you for letting me see you shine. The world is waiting for you, and it is already better because you are in it.

Aloha, financially conscious 2026 beach bums!

We’ve decided to live our best life in Waikiki, sipping tropical drinks and applying SPF 50 like frosting, while preparing to hang ten with the best of them. Planning in 2025 for Waikiki 2026 is up to us. Believe it or not, when finding the best Waikiki Airbnb, one must start the year before.

Undoubtedly, Waikiki is beautiful, iconic, and priced like the Queen Supreme of all beaches. Hotels? Expensive. Resorts? Mortgage-level. Your best bet? Airbnb, where you can choose from places in the center of town or the most splendid beachfront abodes.

When budgeting a trip, be sure to do the math. Don’t forget….

• Round-trip flight
• 10 nights in Waikiki Airbnb
• Food, souvenirs, excursions, and incidentals.

Now, breathe. You’ve got time to work out the details.

Finding a good Airbnb in Waikiki involves time and a good city map. Mark your favorites and read the reviews carefully. If the place you’ve selected is under $200/night, there’s a reason. Perhaps it sits atop a local bar that closes at 2 am. Or worse, perhaps others have traveled home with bed bugs. Remember, air conditioning isn’t just a suggestion, it’s a necessity for heat and humidity.

To start your Aloha Fund now, open a dedicated savings account. Set automatic transfers and then, forget it until the week before you leave. Even $10 a week gets you closer to sipping a mai tai on the beach.

It may take a year to adjust your thinking to Hawaiian life. Start by saying “Aloha” each time you open a door, especially at work. Break in new flip-flops now. Play Hawaiian music every chance you get. Finally, enjoy Hawaii time on the weekends and arrive late for everything.

You can always split an Airbnb with friends. Choose responsible people who will pay their fair share on time and not ruin the shared cost. Make sure your travel mates have the same goals. If HHH isn’t planning to take the catamaran ride to Diamond Head at least once a day, he’ll need to reconsider. This girl is going to be on or in the water, one way or another

Planning a 2026 Waikiki Airbnb vacation in 2025 isn’t just financially smart—it’s emotionally satisfying. Each time someone says, “Man, I need a vacation,” we’ll now reply, “We’re traveling to the islands in the spring. Wanna come along?”

There you have it. Set the alerts, build the fund, and choose which Hawaiian MuMu best expresses your attitude. In less than a year, you’ll be watching the sunset over the Pacific, thinking:

“I’m so glad we planned ahead. Now, where’d I put my flip-flops?”

Today, on World Bee Day, while sipping coffee, I listened to the soft hum of wings winging their way through the gardens of Winterpast. That delicate buzz threads life between blossom and bloom. In a world often too loud to hear the quiet heroes, the bee is a balance of harmony and interconnection.

Bees are more than honey-makers. They are nature’s master pollinators, quietly servicing over 75% of our crops. Apples, almonds, blueberries, coffee, cucumbers, and more rely on bees. Without them, the vibrant palette of our plates would fade to monotony. Yet, the role they play goes far deeper than agricultural value.

In pollinating wild plants, bees maintain the very fabric of biodiversity. Every flight from flower to flower is an act of creation, ensuring that trees, shrubs, and wildflowers reproduce while ecosystems flourish. They are keystone species, holding together entire webs of life with invisible threads.

Despite their importance, bees are in crisis. Last year alone, 60% of the hives in the United States collapsed and died. In our area, we know of almost 100 that failed. Pesticides, habitat destruction, monoculture farming, climate change, and disease have all taken a toll. But, the scariest thing is that the experts haven’t found the real answer to why.

Since the early 2000s, bee populations have declined sharply around the world. The quiet vanishing of bees is not just an ecological tragedy—it’s a warning. Their loss signals a breakdown in a system that sustains us all. The loss of our hive last year broke our hearts, but not our spirit.

This year, our queen is supreme! Every day, she lays more eggs, which develop into larvae and then into capped brood. Our hive is filled with busy little bees that keep to themselves while foraging for pollen and nectar. In a few weeks, we’ll be adding the honey super (top box smaller than the other two) that they’ll fill for us! This year, we’re hopeful we’ll have honey to share with friends and family.

Each bee, small and delicate as it is, carries a profound message: our survival is inseparable from nature’s health. If they disappear, it’s not just their hum that fades—it’s the chorus of life itself.

World Bee Day is not just a celebration—it’s a plea.  In 2017, the United Nations officially designated May 20 as World Bee Day to highlight the importance of bees and other pollinators in sustaining life on Earth. The date was chosen in honor of Anton Janša, a Slovenian pioneer in modern beekeeping, who was born on May 20, 1734.

World Bee Day is observed annually on May 20. Every year, individuals, organizations, and governments worldwide come together on this day to spread awareness about the declining bee population and to promote protective measures. There are several meaningful ways to celebrate World Bee Day. For instance, you can plant bee-friendly flowers in your garden, avoid using harmful pesticides (please, discard your Sevin), and support local beekeepers by purchasing honey and other bee products.

Bees see flowers not only as sources of nectar, but as luminous patterns in ultraviolet light—a secret beauty humans can barely imagine. They live in complex societies, communicate through dances, and make collective decisions. Their world is rich, layered, and filled with purpose.

To honor bees is to live more attentively. While listening to the earth, find awe in the ordinary, and protect what is precious simply because it is alive. This World Bee Day, please remember that the hum of a bee is the heartbeat of the earth.

Life can change in an instant. One moment, you’re bandaging a scraped knee; the next, you’re navigating an unexpected hospital admission. Although every medical emergency can’t be predicted, we can prepare for them—physically, mentally, and logistically.

A dear friend from Kansas is having a rough go in intensive care and needs prayers today. Along with her, the photographer from our wedding was airlifted to the hospital last night in respiratory distress or something worse. Both dear friends were healthy just days ago. Some horrible viruses are wreaking havoc on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Stealth and potentially lethal, one never knows when they’ll strike close to home.

it’s important that somewhere in your wallet, you carry the phone number of the person in charge of making your medical decisions if you are unable. Good job if you’ve already made medical directives and organized last wishes. In this crazy world, one thing is certain. The unexpected happens.

Whether it’s a minor cut, a sudden illness, or a long hospital stay, here’s how to be ready when your health or that of someone you love is on the line.

A solid first aid kit is your frontline defense against everyday medical issues customized to fit your household’s needs. This kit is really important when living alone. There is nothing worse than needing to run to the store when sick or injured. Be sure to check all expiration dates on your supplies, replenishing and replacing as needed.

Essentials:

• Adhesive bandages (various sizes)
• Sterile gauze and medical tape
• Antiseptic wipes or solution
• Tweezers and small scissors
• Digital thermometer
• Pain relievers (check expiration dates)
• Allergy meds (in our case, an EpiPen for bee stings reactions)
• Anti-nausea and antidiarrheal meds
• Mucinex (both pills and liquid)
• Electrolyte packets or oral rehydration salts

When things go wrong, information saves time and lives. Keep both digital and printed records of:

• Medical history
• Allergies and medications
• Emergency contacts
• Health insurance cards
• A copy of your ID
• Advance directives or healthcare proxies, if applicable
• Next of Kin phone name, relationship, and phone number.

Use a folder, waterproof bag, or medical binder to keep things accessible. There are even apps that let you store and share this information securely. If possible, keep a copy in your purse.

If you need to isolate during a contagious illness it helps to have a dedicated “quarantine zone”.

Consider having on hand:

• Gloves and masks
• Disinfectants and cleaning supplies
• Waste bags and a safe sharps container
• Pulse oximeter and blood pressure cuff
• Extra bedding and towels
• A notepad to track symptoms or medications

Medical emergencies often come with zero warning. A hospital go-bag can ease the confusion. Pack a bag with a change of clothing, underwear, toiletries, and pajamas. If you’re like me, you’ll throw in an extra blanket.

Medical disasters don’t just hurt physically but shake a sense of control. Part of preparation is emotional resilience.

• Know your support network (friends, neighbors, therapists)
• Talk about your wishes with family
• Practice calming techniques (breathing, grounding)
• Accept that asking for help shows strength, not weakness

Being mentally prepared doesn’t mean expecting the worst, but allows one to stay grounded when the worst happens. Preparing for medical disasters is about self-respect and responsibility. Whether it’s a scraped elbow or a week in the ICU, focus on healing, not the small stuff.

You may never need that backup oxygen meter or printed medical record. But if you do, you’ll be glad you were ready.

Start today. Start small. Just start.

More tomorrow

One of the great mysteries of married life isn’t how to fold a fitted sheet or who left the wet towel on the bed but discovering what lays frozen in the back of your freezer.

After 1.5 years into marriage, we uncovered the top layer of our wedding cake. Tucked behind a bag of German sausage and a long-forgotten turkey roast, there it was. Frostbitten, slightly lopsided, and still dressed in its original plastic time-capsuled from our big day.

What a beautiful cake it was! Created by HHH’s daughter, soft white layers were frosted in buttercream and crowned with a cascade of rich fall flowers. Burnt orange roses, burgundy mums, and golden ranunculus were delicately arranged to make our cake look like it had come straight out of an autumn meadow. Equal parts of rustic and romantic, there was a hint of October in every bite. Even after a year and a half in a deep freeze, it still looked like it had come out of a fairy tale.

Traditionally, newlyweds eat the top layer of their cake on their first anniversary. We meant to. Really, we did. But instead of cake, we celebrated our one-year milestone by meandering through the geysers, grizzlies, elk, and waterfalls of Yellowstone National Park. Romantic? Absolutely. A practical place to enjoy a frozen dessert? Not so much.

So the cake stayed in the freezer. Forgotten, it remained a sugary relic from the past.

1.5 years later, this humble cake has a new purpose. This October, two dear friends (affectionately nicknamed “The Doves”) are tying the knot. In a sweet twist of fate, Mr. Dove was the 6th-grade teacher of HHH’s daughter. With some fatherly encouragement, she’ll make their cake, too! It only makes sense to share this chilly little heirloom, allowing them taste-test a slice of love’s past?

The Doves are walking a path familiar to us, embarking on married life a bit later than the average couple while navigating all the same questions, hesitations, and what-ifs we faced. Watching them choose love brings back memories of our own story. We couldn’t be happier for them.

Is eating a cake frozen for 18 months safe? Honestly, we’re not entirely sure. We’re hoping that love, sugar, and an enthusiastic dose of frosting can overcome the minor inconvenience of the cake being past its expiration date. Worst-case scenario, they spit it out and find another baker. Best case? We’ll pass a magical moment of wedding tradition like a culinary baton.

So here’s to old cake, new beginnings, and the strange, beautiful things you find when you empty your freezer. Love is wonderful, even if it takes time to say “yes” to a beautiful future.

Tomorrow, in the quiet stillness of early morning, before the sun climbs too high over the sagebrush hills, a gentle procession will begin . Volunteers of all ages, families with small children, veterans in crisp caps, and Boy Scout troops holding bundles of American flags will gather at the gates of the Northern Nevada Veterans Memorial Cemetery. Each flag they will plant represents promises to remember, honor, and never forget.

Memorial Day here is not just a holiday but a sacred ritual observed by thousands who come from miles around. We are lucky enough to be home to the national Cemetery which is the final resting place for almost 10,000 veterans.

As we walk through neat rows of headstones, the silence is almost reverent, broken only by the rustle of wind across the desert and the soft flutter of flags already placed. Some stone markers are newly etched, while others bear the marks of weather and time. But each one holds a name, a story, a life that chose service above self.

When you kneel at a gravesite, press a flag gently into the soil, and read the name engraved there—James E. Michaels, SGT, U.S. Army, Vietnam—you cannot help but wonder who he was when he was 19, or 35, or in the final moments of his last deployment. Did he love fishing at Pyramid Lake? Did he write letters home every week? Did someone wait at the kitchen window for him, long after the war had ended?

For many of us who come to place flags, this is not an act of routine patriotism. It is an act of connection. There’s a shared understanding and silent fellowship when you look into the eyes of another volunteer who kneels while remembering. Some hide their tears. Others speak aloud: “Thank you.” That’s all. Two words carried into the wind like a prayer.

This cemetery is special. Tucked away from the bustle of Reno and the casino lights of Sparks, it sits in solemn peace under Nevada’s big sky. In that vastness, something powerful happens when the enormity of sacrifice becomes intimate.

Children ask questions: “Did she fight in a war?” “Why do we put flags?” Their parents answer with stories of courage and conviction. In this way, Memorial Day becomes more than symbolic. It becomes a generational and living history passed from hand to hand, one flag at a time.

Before an hour passes, the landscape transforms. Ten thousand small American flags stand at attention in the wind, like a sea of red, white, and blue stitched into the earth. The cemetery, once still and green, is now vibrant with life and gratitude.

Finishing in silence, our hearts heavier but also lifted. To honor the dead is to recommit to the values of duty, freedom, sacrifice, and love of country. While they no longer walk among us, their presence is deeply felt.

This is what it means to remember.

So next Memorial Day, if you find yourself wondering how to truly honor the fallen, come to a place like this. Bring your hands, your heart, and a flag. You’ll leave changed.

As the unofficial start to summer, Memorial Day often brings with it barbecues, family gatherings, and long-awaited vacations. Yet beneath the sunshine and festivities lies a solemn and profound truth: Memorial Day is a sacred time of remembrance. It’s a day when we, as Americans, pause to honor the brave men and women who gave their lives in service to our country.

Memorial Day is not simply a long weekend but a national day of mourning and gratitude. From the Revolutionary War to the most recent conflicts overseas, countless Americans have laid down their lives so others might live free. Their sacrifice forms the bedrock of our liberties, democracy, and the peace we often take for granted.

These heroes came from every corner of the nation, from every background and creed. What united them was a deep belief in something greater than themselves: the promise of America. They fought not for fame or recognition, but for the people they left behind including their families, their communities, and future generations who would never know their names but would live under the flag they defended.

On Memorial Day, we are called to do more than simply remember, but also reflect. Take a moment to visit a local veterans’ cemetery, attend a memorial service, or simply observe the National Moment of Remembrance at 3:00 PM local time. Let the silence echo the lives lost and the weight of their absence.

Talk to veterans. Listen to their stories. Teach your children not just the history of war, but the humanity of those who serve. By passing on these lessons, we ensure that the stories of our fallen heroes are never forgotten, and their sacrifices never taken for granted.

I’m so proud of my two sons who gave over almost 5 decades of their lives to the United States Air Force. Deployment in time of war is not only hell for the soldiers but also for their families at home. Those lucky enough to return are forever changed, mentally, physically, spiritually, and emotionally. Veterans and their families also need our prayers long after their service is complete. War is hell.

I’m also proud of My Mysterious Marine, HHH. Serving in the 70’s wasn’t always the easiest for a young man and his brand-new family. Thank you for all the sacrifices you made then, and your continued life of excellence as the Marine you’ll always be.

We owe them more than thanks. We owe them our commitment to live lives worthy of their sacrifice. That means building a more perfect union grounded in respect, service, justice, and unity. It means caring for those who return from war, supporting the families of the fallen, and standing up for the values they fought and died defending.

This Memorial Day, let us bow our heads not only in sorrow, but in gratitude. Let us remember not only the lives lost, but the ideals they fought to protect. Let us live not just for ourselves, but for the legacy they left behind.

Because freedom isn’t free and the cost has been paid in the lives of our finest.

May we never forget.

I must be honest and tell you that real grass is a bit of a diva. It needs sunlight but not too much sunlight. Water it, but not too often. Keep it trimmed, weed-free, fertilized, aerated, and whispered sweet nothings to under a full moon. What’s the reward? Patchy brown spots from our female canine and random dandelion invasions.

Enter the glorious world of artificial turf, also known as fake lawn. This is the best decision we’ve made since upgrading to heated car seats. Fake grass doesn’t care about droughts, foot traffic, or our tragic track record with the 2025 houseplants. It’s vibrantly green year-round and never throws a tantrum in the middle of summer. No more yellow patches. No more “we’ll just re-seed it next year” lies.

The back yard at Winterpast is home to the nicest “real” lawn in the world. Other than suffering with girl-dog brown spots, it’s doing well. It gets mowed two times a week to stay in tip-top shape. At the first hint of a weed, HHH and I are on the attack. It’s the prettiest shade of green although the actual variety remains a mystery.

Now, the front yard once had an equally lovely lawn, until it was ripped out by the roots and replacec with white rocks. With the up-do on the front yard in full swing, it’s time to bring on the green, even if it is artificial.

Last Saturday, HHH and I decided to drop by Kelly at the carpet center in town. Kelly is such a go-getter. Along with selling synthetic lawn, he also sells blinds, carpet, linoleum, flooring, and U-Haul rentals. In his spare time, he’s thinking of opening a nursery which is something our little town desperately needs.

We only needed to ask about his opinion of installing synthetic lawn. It turns out he’s had his for five years and other than treating it twice a year to a little “spa” treatment, his looks as good as the day it was installed.

We can’t wait until our neighbors walk by and whisper, “Wow, how do they keep it so nice?” We’ll just smile and wave, never disclosing our little secret. Low-maintenance landscaping at its finest will leave more time for lounging and less time for lawn therapy. In our drought-ridden desert, fake grass will be our best friend. No irrigation. No sprinkler system drama. No prayers for rain. Just pretty green at all times.

Of course, grass purists may sniff and say, “But, it’s not natural.” To them, we’ll reply “Try it before you knock it.” A true Master Gardener would shudder at the thought, but, here at Winterpast we need a facelift. It can’t come soon enough.

The next steps will involve finding someone to chop down one tree, grind a stump, move some rocks and get to work!!! I promise to share pictures when complete.

Cheers to the lawn that never quits! Our new synthetic grass will stay cool (figuratively) under pressure. Sometimes, the most beautiful thing about nature is being able to fake it in just the right shade of green.

There’s something sacred about a garden planted not only with seeds, but with memories. Tucked between the church and the Tee Pee Bar and Grill, and nearly hidden beneath layers of ivy and time, was such a place. A meditation garden, once a quiet haven of prayer and remembrance, had long fallen into neglect. Thanks to the faith and fellowship of our congregation, that little patch of holy ground has begun to bloom again.

The garden quite literally sprouted from love. Many years ago, Pastor Marilyn, who served our congregation with a gentle spirit and a green thumb, envisioned a place where people could reflect, remember, and feel close to God. A gardener herself, she believed the church grounds could use a special sanctuary, something more than just grass and trees. So she gathered a few volunteers, picked out plants with purpose, and carved out a space where hearts could heal in the quiet beauty of nature. That vision grew into the meditation garden.

Over time, however, seasons changed, people moved on, and Pastor Marilyn took her place in heaven. The garden, once so tenderly cared for, became overgrown and forgotten. It all might have ended there if not for one thought spoken on a Sunday. “We should do something to clean up the garden.”

Memories came flooding back. Names whispered in prayer under its trees and the quiet comfort it offered to grieving hearts. Before long, another church group asked if they could help clean it up. Not only did they ask, but they showed up armed with gloves, shovels, and a determination to bring it back to life.

Years of leaves and overgrowth had blanketed the space. But as the work progressed, the garden slowly began to reveal itself. From beneath suckers on a tree trunk, a small plaque was uncovered. Weathered but intact was laminated sheet music for Jesus Loves Me, mounted on a tiny wooden board and drilled lovingly into the side of a tree. That simple melody, so deeply ingrained in our childhoods, felt like a benediction from the past.

More treasures followed. Hand-painted plaques with short verses. Faded yard art spinning in the breeze. Perhaps most poetically, someone uncovered a shrub unlike the others. HHH pulled out his “Plant Parent” app to find out that this bush was actually named “The Burning Bush” (Euonymus alatus). The name was more than botanical and felt like a message. Just as God spoke to Moses through the burning bush, maybe He was speaking to us now: “Take off your shoes, for the ground you are standing on is holy.”

The burning bush has become our symbol of renewal, of God’s abiding presence, and of how life renews itself even in forgotten places. We’ve been pruning and praying. James has been out working the garden every day, plucking weeds before they have a chance to grow. With water, work, and time, this garden will again bring peace to our community.

While the garden is once again taking shape, it’s the togetherness that’s truly blossoming. Older members share stories, younger ones lend their strength, and in the rhythm of digging and planting, we’ve found community. The church isn’t just a building or a schedule of services but people showing up, getting their hands dirty, and loving one another.

In the evenings now, when the sun filters through the trees while illuminating the little Jesus Loves Me plaque. You can almost hear the song, faint and sweet, like a lullaby on the wind. It stands, decades later, as a message that Jesus loves us. Still. Always. Forever. Even in overgrown corners and long-forgotten gardens.

Yes.

Especially there.

There is a quiet kind of healing that slips into the soul when you step outside into the hush of a backyard sanctuary. At Winterpast, our home nestled gently into the rhythms of nature, the backyard is more than a space. It’s a refuge. A place where time doesn’t rush and peace lingers like the scent of flowers after rain.

Recently, we’ve had visitors who stopped by for a minute, and then just sat and relaxed. Everyone agrees that they don’t want to leave. With Mother Robin feeding her young with worms from the garden to hummingbirds that have finally arrived, our garden is a wildlife sanctuary. Unfortunately, still includes one squirrel, but this blog is about relaxation, so I’ll save that for another time.

The mornings begin with birdsong, clear and unpretentious. Doves flit among the branches, finches chatter near the feeders, and every now and then a hawk will ruin the party, causing everyone to run for cover. Their melodies are not just sounds but reminders that the world still hums with beauty even in the smallest corners.

Even the crows are in on the action. As my favorite bird and totem animal, the crows are quite humorous. HHH now agrees that where I go, so go the crows. One has taken to sitting on our fountain to get a drink. This guy is magnificent as he perches on the top tier.

The fountain gurgles steadily, a liquid heartbeat for the garden. Its water rises and falls in a soothing cadence, each drop catching sunlight like a fleeting gem. Sitting nearby, I often lose track of time, lulled by its constancy. It speaks in a language older than words, of movement and stillness, of giving and returning.

Last week, I finally found a use for my grandmother’s cast-iron caldron. That sounds really bad, but Grammie had her very own. On the ranch, she made delicious watermelon jelly over an open flame. While we farmed there for 17 years, the caldron became mine. For years, it’s been packed here and there. I finally ordered a solar fountain for it, and next week hope to buy some water lilies.

Wind chimes sway in the breeze, their tones delicate and sometimes imperceptible until they drift to your ear. There’s a magic in the unpredictability as they whisper wisdom from the wind itself. They never sing the same tune twice, yet their music always carries the same message: “Be here. Right now”.

The breeze at Winterpast is a kind and constant companion. It moves through the trees, rustling leaves like turning pages, as nature reads its own poetry. It brushes across the skin not to chill, but to wake. A beautiful invitation to breathe deeper, pause longer, and notice more.

And then, there’s the flowers. They don’t shout their beauty, they simply exist in vivid, fragrant confidence. Daisies are finally opening like smiles, lavender leans into the sun, and roses, (even with their thorns), bloom without apology. Watching them reminds me that growth is quiet, but never still. It continues even when no one is looking.

Everyone who visits Winterpast feels it. There’s a softness here that settles over the spirit. The gardens speak to something universal that every soul is longing for in this crazy, noisy, busy world: stillness.

Ands so, no one wants to leave. People linger longer than they planned to, holding cups of coffee that have gone cold, not because they’ve forgotten them, but because they’ve remembered themselves. Time slows. The noise recedes. And in the quiet, they find what they didn’t know they were looking for.

Winterpast is aptly named speaking of seasons that have gone, sorrows that have softened, and memories that have settled like fallen leaves. In its backyard, one finds not just peace, but the kind of stillness that restores. The kind of silence that speaks volumes.

May we all find our Winterpast where the soul can sit quietly, listening to fountains and finches, feeling the breeze, and learning once again how to be at peace.

Late spring feels like the desert is exhaling after the long hold of winter and the unpredictable churn of early spring. Trees are fully dressed in green, the sun lingers a little longer in the sky, while the air smells like possibility. Last night, we had one of those evenings that will settle softly into memory. Not flashy or dramatic, just full of warmth and laughter, while surrounded by good food and even better friends.

The backyard looked like a little slice of summer waiting in the wings. String lights zigzagged overhead, casting a golden hue as twilight slowly deepened. Six patio chairs with brand new cushions made things feel special.

We’d worked all day preparing for the special night. The guests remained a mystery because many were invited, but few had RSVP’d. Even the new landscaping professional and his son might stop by. We’d planned for everyone we’d asked and hoped they’d all fit around the tables in the house. Buzzing around the entire day, by the time 5:00 rolled around, we were a little spent.

But, this normally punctual group didn’t arrive on time. Soon, it was 5:15, and still no guests. Finally, Miss Dove arrived at the front door on foot.

“Oh, we did something so silly…..” She went on to tell me they had entered someone else’s house. The rest of the party was still at Ninja Neighbor’s. For those who don’t know, she lives right next door. Our guests got lost thinking her house was our house. They went in carrying gifts and food as she came around the corner.

Miss Dove thought the house looked a little different and thought NN was another guest they hadn’t met. Mr. Dove happened to know her and so, they struck up a conversation in NN’s living room. Just an unexpected part of a really fun evening.

The grill was the heart of the evening. You could hear the familiar sizzle as hamburgers hit the grates, the scent of smoky beef rising in the air. There’s something deeply nostalgic in the simplicity of buns laid out on a platter, surrounded by ketchup, mustard, pickles, and onions. Nothing fancy because it didn’t need to be.

Along the table sat the sides that every barbecue ought to have. A mountain of potato chips in a big bowl, cold and crispy. Baked beans in a crock, steaming and sweet, kissed with brown sugar and just a hint of something spicy. And then, sitting like the crown jewel of the evening. Miss Dove baked a fresh apple pie with golden crust and flaky edges, the apples inside soft and caramelized. Served with scoops of vanilla ice cream that began melting the moment they touched the warm filling, this dessert tasted like childhood.

But more than the perfect bite of burger or that fork full of pie was the feeling around the table. Friends gathered just to be together. People leaned back in their chairs, and laughter filled the evening. Stories told, some for the tenth time, were still just as funny. A certain someone (who will remain nameless) managed to lose all their underwear in a traveling snafu. That story was the jewel of the night. As dusk settled in and the solar lights started blinking at the edges of the yard, contentment, like a blanket, gently wrapped around all of us.

There was no big occasion. No celebration beyond the season itself and maybe that’s what made it so meaningful. It reminded me that joy doesn’t always come from planning or grand gestures. Sometimes, it shows up in a Chinet piled with food, ice clinking in a glass, and a slow sunset shared with people you care about.

As we washed dishes and packed up leftovers, someone said, “We should do this again soon.” We all nodded, knowing life gets busy and weeks slip by faster than we expect. Even if we don’t gather again right away, this perfect, unhurried slice of late spring will linger. A simple reminder that happiness is often homemade, grilled to perfection, and best served in a little town off the interstate nestled on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

Every year, I quietly celebrate “National Speak-in-Complete-Sentences-Day”. It’s the one day a year where fragments go to die, emojis cry lonely tears, and this retired 3rd Grade teacher raises a triumphant red pen to the sky.

This highly underappreciated annual celebration is held on May 31, which fell on Saturday this year. The only people celebrating it were over-caffeinated grammar enthusiasts, parents trying to correct their children, or me.

National Speak-in-Complete-Sentences-Day was probably invented by someone who got tired of hearing things like “Wanna?”, “Same”, and “Huh”? It’s a day to honor the entirety of the English language including, but not limited to subjects, predicates, and proper punctuation.

That’s right. Not only must full sentences be spoken, but the Grammar Gods expect punctuation so precise you practically have to narrate it. “I’m going to the store, comma, because we are out of milk, period.”

The first victims?

Text messages.

If you’ve never tried texting exclusively in complete sentences with correct capitalization and punctuation, Congratulations to you. You’ve probably never been mistaken for a Boomer by youngers.

Example:

Normal text:

“u there?”

Complete sentence version:

“Hey, are you there? I just wanted to see if you’re still coming to brunch at 11:30 a.m.” (For the record I never learned the abbreviated form of texting).

Don’t even get me started on Twitter, which became popular about 15 years ago. To put entire paragraphs of thought into 60 words or less has been “Mission-Impossible” for me, even though I was chosen Secondary Teacher of the Year. Thank goodness I taught Secondary Science and Math because “Creative Writing” would’ve finished me.

On Saturday, parents across the country spent the day explaining to their children that “Because I said so” is a complete sentence. Children retaliated by asking follow-up questions. Sentences multiplied. Conversations spiraled and the entire goal of the National Day was met.

National Speak-in-Complete-Sentences-Day may have come and gone, but its legacy lives on in the hearts of those who believe a sentence isn’t truly finished until it’s ended with a period or, in times of excitement, an exclamation point.

Next year, when May 31st rolls around, try embracing the full sentence. Eschew the fragment. Reject the grunt. And for heaven’s sake, if someone says “LOL,” politely ask them to elaborate.

You just never know what the heck can happen when watering the church lawn. HHH and I have become the unofficial gardeners for the property. When we took over the job, HHH decided the dead spots in the lawn needed some TLC. And so, intensive watering began.

At first , we’d just go in the morning and night.

OY VEY.

I’m turning into my dad, who loved to water his church’s lawn at 3:30 AM. Over weeks of consistently visiting the church property in the middle of the night, he met a homeless man named Michael. At one point, Michael insisted that his friend, Elmer, must certainly be an angel because no human would take the time to water the lawn in the middle of the night. In many ways, my dad was Michael’s angel all those years ago.

Fast forward to our little church. While getting the new lawn to sprout, we brought the empty vegetable garden to life. Today, we’re growing two types of tomatoes, cucumbers, beans, strawberries, marigolds, and peppers. The hope is that the extra food will help those in need over the summer. Everything’s growing like crazy.

The Meditation Garden is also benefiting as James comes out to rake and trim every night. Things are looking quite nice here in our little bit of heaven.

Today, HHH and I were having a great talk about the price of groceries. The sticker shock of todays purchases was something that needed discussing. Rib Eye Steak? $29/pound. Bacon, on sale, $7.00/12 oz. And, the list went on, until we a young woman snuck up behind us.

“Is this your duck?”

What the heck? Homeless people that think we are angels, we might expect. But, a duck? A honest to goodness female mallard duck strolling through the very dry meditation garden?

“”Quack, quack, quack” as it interjected itself into our afternoon.

As the young lady continued on, she told us about reports of two ducks, but now there was just the one. Could she come get it after work? Would we mind? Was it ours?

Well, of course she could have the duck. After all, it wasn’t ours. She went back to the beauty salon, and then, the magic happened. This duck became OUR duck for a short time. It followed HHH around to get drinks of water from the hose. It quacked sassy little things to me. Once showered and refreshed, she spread her wings and wiggled her ducky little tail. If ducks can show gratitude, she did as she enjoyed the cool water.

Strutting her stuff from one side of the garden to the other, she enjoyed a good spray from HHH’s hose. She was one happy duck in a very short time.

I can honestly say, it’s been a very long time since I’ve had such fond feelings for any bird, yet alone a duck. As she sucked water off the ground, she was as happy as we were to meet on a hot and sunny afternoon under the bright blue skies of Northwestern Nevada.

When the hose was put away and it was time to go, we promised each other we wouldn’t look back. Never Look Back. With the two very busy dogs of Winterpast, the last thing we could adopt was this duck.

You just never know what can happen when you give a little of your time at the local church. It might be your day to be blessed with the happy antics of one female mallard. I hope some day you’re that lucky!!

More tomorrow.

A quiet kind of grief comes with sorting through someone’s belongings after they’ve gone. Though heavy, it’s not the kind that overwhelms with tears in the moment. This slow and steady sadness hums under the skin while echoing in the creak of a floorboard or faded certificates on the wall.

This past week, a few of us have gathered to clean out the home of our friend, Miss M. On a Saturday evening, she was enjoying a brand new porch swing with friends. Two days after being rushed to ICU, she was gone. Just like that.

Born in Kansas, SHE’d lived a simple life, full of love and laughter reflected in her things such as mismatched mugs with stories behind each one, clothing she always claimed was “on sale,” and books filled with thoughts she never got to share. Her house was humble, but her warmth hid in in every corner.

We didn’t rush the process. We touched each item, paused over photographs, passed around trinkets and memories like communion. It was heavy, as grief always is, but also strangely beautiful. There’s something deeply human about handling the pieces of a life that meant so much, even in the ordinary.

Some things went to family. Others to friends. A great deal was donated to the little house behind the church. We all agreed this would make HER very, very happy. Quiet and thoughtful, there was also a dark and funny being that lurked below the surface. We all agree she is up in heaven playing the most beautiful golf courses, something SHE hadn’t been able to do for years.

Packing things from the cupboard while carefully arranging them, I thought about how Miss M’s life extended past her death. The belongings she no longer needed would now help someone who still very much did. It was one of those small, quiet acts of grace that reminded me that we don’t stop giving just because we’re gone.

There’s so much talk these days about legacy or how we’ll be remembered or what we’ll leave behind. Most of us won’t be remembered in history books or quoted in speeches. We’ll be remembered when someone holds a mug and thinks of us or as we’re shielded from the cold by HER warm jacket. In those ways, kindness will carry on through ordinary objects that once filled HER life.

As we finished, I looked back at HER little house waiting to be filled with someone else’s life. My thoughts then turned to belongings that will help the people she never met. Although she’s gone, HER kindness remains. Not the stuff, but the love that lingers within. The care. The intention. The quiet legacy of a life well-lived.”

May we all be so lucky to leave behind something we once called ours that still has the power to comfort, nourish, and warm. Thank you, Miss M, for wisdom and friendship. Now, go get that hole-in-one just around the bend.

June 3rd, 2025 — High Desert Plains of Northwestern Nevada.

The bees are humming.
The skies are blue.
The coffee’s hot.
The page is blank.
And so is my brain.

It’s the fifth day of June, and Winterpast is looking like she was handcrafted by a benevolent God in a particularly generous mood. The high desert plains of northwestern Nevada are glowing under a brilliantly blue sky begging to be written about. Poets would weep. Photographers would swoon. Yet, here I sit, fingers poised over the keyboard, mentally Googling “how to get struck by inspiration without also getting struck by lightning.”

Today there is nothing to write about. Which means, of course, it’s time to write about that.

Leaning into the emptiness like a literary chaise lounge, I’ll describe the void while making it dramatic. Make readers question their own productivity and whether maybe, just maybe, “not writing” is actually a high art form.

When you’re stuck, it helps to get poetic about your surroundings. Take Winterpast, for instance. The windchimes are creating a Zen-like experience imitating the ten Solfeggio frequencies. The bees are out there humming like tiny, winged jazz musicians. Somewhere, a lizard does a push-up while our mother Robin comes in with another beak full of worms for her babies. I wonder if the bees ever suffer through days in which nothing new is going on.

Thinking about it, “nothing to write about” is its own strange kind of abundance. Because even in the absence of narrative, there is still the presence of a day well-lived. A day where the wind hums, the sky sparkles, and the only pressing plot point is whether I should make another cup of coffee.

Some days are meant for breaking news. Others are meant for quiet skies, a blooming garden, and lazy bees.

Today is the latter.

And you know what? That’s enough.

Dear reader, if you find yourself with absolutely nothing to write about — congratulations. You are now in the exclusive club of creative people whose brains have momentarily checked out to admire the view. Take a breath. Watch the bees. Name a cloud. Write about writing nothing.

Because sometimes, that is the story.

And it’s a pretty good one, too.

During the winter of 2024-2025, mice established themselves in our very clean garage where they found warmth and some food in the empty beehive. As we trapped and trapped and trapped some more, it became a war. It was them or us. With opposable thumbs, in the end, we would win.

Being young enough to battle the vermin, HHH and I are quick to identify signs mice are around. If you know of elderly shut-ins, check to make sure they aren’t living with a silent killer. Mice can chew through wires, contaminate food, and spread dangerous diseases, including Hantavirus Pulmonary Syndrome (HPS). This deadly virus is transmitted through rodent droppings, urine, or saliva. If you suspect a mouse infestation , cleaning it up quickly and safely is critical.

HPS is a rare but serious respiratory disease that humans can contract when they inhale particles contaminated with the virus. It killed Gene Hackman’s wife, while also killing three people in Mammoth Lakes, Ca. We’ve had several people become sick with this illness just 40 minutes to the west. HPS is very serious.

The virus can become airborne when contaminated materials like droppings, urine, or nesting materials are disturbed. Common exposure scenarios include when:

• Cleaning out barns, sheds, attics, or garages
• Opening cabins that have been closed for the winter
• Sweeping up rodent droppings

Symptoms usually appear 1–8 weeks after exposure. They can include:

• Fever, muscle aches, and fatigue
• Headaches, dizziness, chills
• Nausea, vomiting, and abdominal pain
• Shortness of breath (as the lungs fill with fluid in later stages)

There is no specific cure or vaccine for hantavirus, and the condition can be fatal. That’s why prevention and proper cleaning is critical.

Before you clean up, confirm if you’re dealing with an active or past infestation. Common signs include:

• Droppings (small, dark pellets)
• Sightings
• Gnawed food packages or wires
• Nesting materials like shredded paper or fabric
• Musty odors
• Scratching or squeaking sounds, especially at night

If you are experiencing a problem with mice, ventilate the area. Open windows and doors for at least 30 minutes before you begin. Leave the area during this time to let fresh air circulate.

Wear protective gear. Protect your hands with rubber or latex gloves. Protect your lungs with an N95 respirator mask and wear safety goggles.

Spray all droppings with a commercial disinfectant or a solution of 1 part bleach to 10 parts water. Saturate all droppings, urine stains, and nesting materials. Let it soak for at least 5 minutes.

Use paper towels to collect the waste. Place all contaminated materials in a plastic bag. Dispose of it with your outdoor trash.

Wipe down all affected surfaces with disinfectant. Wash hands thoroughly with soap and warm water after removing gloves.

If your health is impaired, ask someone else to come and do the cleaning.

For large infestations or heavily contaminated areas (like insulation), consider contacting professional pest control or biohazard cleanup services. Disturbing large amounts of contaminated materials can significantly increase the risk of airborne exposure.

To keep mice from coming back, seal entry points, eliminate their food source, and reduce nesting areas. After the initial cleanup, check for signs of return in the form of dropping, gnaw marks, or sounds. Set traps if needed.

Mice infestations aren’t just inconvenient, but a serious health hazard. With hantavirus a real risk, especially in rural or dusty environments, it’s crucial to clean thoroughly and carefully.

Always prioritize safety by wearing protective gear, using disinfectants, and never stirring up dust or droppings by sweeping or vacuuming. When in doubt, don’t hesitate to contact professionals.

Stay safe—and rodent-free!

If you’re ever in town, plan to join us at church on the second Sunday of the month to sit a while and share some of the finest food anywhere in the state. Church members plan their dishes for week to create a buffet of deliciousness. Yesterday’s menu didn’t disappoint.

Sadly, it was very different. Last month, we lost our dear friend Miss M. We can only wonder what she’s enjoying at the Sunday Potluck in heaven. As someone that loved to cook here on earth, she always brought interesting and delicious food for us to try. She is dearly missed and will be remembered for a very long time.

Our Pastor has vacationed for the last two weeks. Enjoying a much-needed visit with family and friends in Texas, he should have returned rested and happy. Instead, he came back with the dreaded virus we’ve all been plagued with this year. It’s taken him and his sweet wife down, leaving us to enjoy another week with the visiting pastor. The meal was a nice “Thank You” for a wonderful sermon on God’s grace and mercy.

Our church family is small but mighty with a core group that make things happen every week. There are the men who open the church and put out the flags. A sweet guy makes sure the inside of the chapel shine and the fountain bubbles with fresh water. Then, there are the church gardeners who are working to make the church gardens grow. (That would be HHH and me, with help from our friend, James).

As the vegetable garden thrives, it’s hardly recognizable. Starting with dry garden boxes filled with hundreds of volunteer marigolds, the new vegetables are growing by leaps and bounds. Tomatoes are caged, while extra marigolds sprout everywhere. Some even made their way to Winterpast to triple in size. Marigolds are such happy flowers.

With summer just around the corner, yard work has been great exercise. The Meditation Garden is now starting to bloom. The red Hollyhocks make me want to sit and make the blooms into little dolls like I did so many decades ago. Day Lillie’s are coming back to life after years of struggling without water.

An old fountain from Miss M’s house will be a new bath for the church birds. Many of them probably follow us to the church, knowing we’re doing something cool. Although we haven’t found any more adorable ducks, I can report that our favorite little friend found a new home. Living with other rescue ducks, she’s now officially called Lucky Duck. All’s well that ends well.

Spring is a season of hope, growth, and new beginnings. It’s a time to give thanks to God for the wonders of creation that stir our hearts with joy and gratitude. The flowers that blossom around us fell like little bursts of happiness, reminding us that sometimes, God laughs in color.

While all of us were working with this and that, the food began to arrive. Kentucky Fried Chicken and Port-Of-Subs topped off our meal. From tri-tip sandwiches to tiny cherry cheesecakes, the menu was delicious. Visitors enjoyed the meal with us, taking “To-Go” boxes, along with warm wishes for their safe travels and return.

After the meal was over, it was time to clean up. Many hands made the work light. In a very short time, everything was clean and back in order.

Our Pastor did stop by to get a box of food to go for he and his wife. Our prayers are with them for a speedy recovery and return back to health. As we all know, returning from a trip, sick with a virus isn’t anyone’s idea of a good time.

Whatever you do this week, if you don’t have a church, think about finding one. There, you will find your very own group of new friends. HHH and I attend one of the nicest churches in the country. A true blessing in this crazy world.

More tomorrow.

Wire formed into words hangs over my kitchen table. My best friend, CC, is the one who gave it to me as a housewarming present six years ago. Two words. “CHOOSE HAPPINESS!” That’s something everyone in the world needs to do right now. Just sit down and be truly grateful for the blessings in life. No matter what trials we face, we all enjoy blessings, too.

You can’t buy a jar of “Happy” through Amazon. The biggest jackpot at the local casino won’t do it. Even living in the best house on the best street in the most wonderful desert town won’t do it. It sprouts from within, quietly at first.

Happiness strikes a chord in our heart when we find THE ONE THING we’re supposed to do with our lives and do it. I’m finally healed enough to go on with my journey. MY ONE THING used to be teaching. The flames of my passion were never extinguished, but instead, were dwarfed by grief, sadness, and loneliness that consumed me. Years have passed. Now, it’s time to try new gifts and talents.

No one can leave a box of happiness on your doorstep. It doesn’t appear with prideful demands or expectations. It just happens.

There’s no measure to tell you when you’ve found enough. Like painting, a small stroke transfers into a smear and smudge. Soon, friends begin to ask if you’ve been painting the hallway. You might not even notice at first. Internal happiness blooms like that, and soon, a noticeable change occurs.

“This is the true joy in life, being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one. Being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it what I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no brief candle to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.”― George Bernard Shaw

Now, isn’t that is just the best quote ever? “Feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy?” I just love that.

I intend to be thoroughly worn-out before I’m thrown into the scrap heap.

I refuse to waste another moment as a “feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making me happy”.

I choose to be a force of nature, like the wind.

What affirmations! The only person who can turn on the happy is me. It’s a choice.

A few years ago, I had the most wonderful lunch with three couples, a mom, and a daughter. Each couple carried heavy burdens. One couple would enjoy their mother on this earth only a few more days. One couple shared only three legs between them. Everyone had scars from Covid. I was the “Plus .5” that no one wants to be. Each one of us had reason to dominate the table with tales of woe. But we didn’t choose to do that.

Instead, there we sat after church, brand new friends enjoying each other’s company. For two hours, we laughed, enjoyed our meal, and got to know one another. Even the teen daughter, who had ever right to be very unhappy due to the 50 year age difference between us, added humor to the lunch, enjoying little conversations with everyone at the table.

The man that had the best attitude of all had just had his leg amputated a few months before. With an infectious attitude of kindness and gratitude, he had us all laughing with his amazing stories during this most special lunch. It was an afternoon I will remember.

So, make a choice today. If you must, “Fake it ’til you make it.” We all have our “somethings” that are unpleasant and painful. If we take inventory, we’ll see that the basket that holds our “beautifuls” overflows into a colorful puddle that can look a lot like happiness.

More tomorrow.

We’ve been dreaming of a peaceful beach vacation! The kind with fruity drinks, no responsibilities, and maybe some light toe-in-sand existential reflection. Leaving behind two high-maintenance dogs and a garden that rivals the Amazon Rainforest takes time and thought and it takes Team Winterpast to keep things going during our absence.

Three weeks ago, HHH looked out at our backyard jungle and said, “It’ll be fine. The plants are automatically watered and Oliver and Wookie will be at the kennel. All will be fine. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Last week, we walked through our garden to assess the situation. It was like walking through a therapy session with every plant we’ve ever neglected. Everything in the garden is at a critical time in their life cycle right now. With blooming tomatoes and baby zucchini, the new irrigation system needs to be supplemented with AM and PM watering.

Realizing we’d need to hire a botanist or perform a detailed rain dance, we did the next best thing by making a detailed care schedule. Last night, we handed off the plans to Ninja Neighbor, who will happily water for us in exchange for some cherries! Win! Win! for both sides of the fence.

In an hour, I’ll be off on a two-hour tour to drop the dogs at Puppy Camp for the week. Oliver is a 30-pound Standard Wire-Haired dachshund who resembles Valcor from “A Never Ending Story”. Wookie is a miniature Aussie-Doodle who lost her miniature side sometime ago. Between the two of them, there is never-ending drama. The person who makes all this work is our wonderful friend Michelle at Puppy Palace. We only need to mention her name, and the two dogs lose their mind. Little do they know that they are only half as excited as HHH and I.

This week, packing for myself only took 45 minutes, as I carefully selected clothing for a different climate. On the other hand, HHH assures me that his packing will take 5-10 minutes on the morning we leave. I’ve seen him in action. It’s a thing a beauty when someone can remember everything they need to take and fill their suitcase with speed and grace.

While I’m gone to drop the dogs off at Puppy Palace, HHH will be meeting with a new landscaper to get an estimate for work in the front yard. It’s better that I’m not there to complicate things with extra little jobs.

While on vacation, I won’t be worried about blogging, gardening, or playing ball with Oliver and Wookie. We plan to put our feet up and relax for the entire week, as we find respite from the demands of retirement here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

I hope your week is grand. I’ll be back to fill you in on our vacation on Thursday, June 19th. Until then, may spring sunshine and happiness fill your days.

Leaving the ocean is always bittersweet, as the waves, salt air, and stillness provide space to breathe, reflect, and hold close the ones we love. This time, saying goodbye was even harder, as we left behind two incredible women who mean the world to us. They are both full of grace, wisdom, and a special strength that leaves a lasting mark on us every time we visit. Their love, wisdom, and humor are gifts we carry home each trip.

After all, it isn’t every day that visiting with an actual Goddess is possible. The Goddess of the Central Coast (GCC) earned that title years ago. To this day, she fits her regal name, often observed floating along the ocean front roads, top down, with tresses floating behind her. Having lived in the same area for decades while creating history along the way, she remembers all the best details of the Central Coast. It’s fun listening to her stories while trying to imagine life during those years when so few lived there.

Of course, no visit would be complete without spending time with Auntie TJ. How was I so blessed to have known and loved her my entire life???? A blessing it continues to be. When the two of us meet up, the giggling and stories begin. The difference now is that HHH adds to the laughter and any observer would believe he’d been with us every step of the way.

Along with visits to our two favorites, there was time to walk along the beach. Hand in hand, we found new rocks for our aquarium that continues to thrive. We had time to discuss upcoming plans for the gardens at Winterpast. Best of all, we had time to enjoy each other’s company in one of the most beautiful places on earth.

No trip to the ocean would be complete without HHH’s signature Steak and Lobster Dinner for Father’s Day. Again, he nailed it and we both ate until we were stuffed. That boy can cook!

As vacations go, there are always some down sides. When booking an AIRBNB, don’t just rely on pictures. A delightful outdoor area was taken over by a group celebrating a graduation for five days. But, the worst was unseen.

NEVER.

NEVER.

NEVER.

Never rent a downstairs apartment. How the landlord rented it to a herd of miniature ponies suffering from ADHD, we’ll never know. There is an AIRBNB that is off our list forever. Enough said about that.

I’ve always loved visiting the ocean. From the time I was a baby, my family enjoyed the beach when summer day temps in Fresno, California were above the century mark. So many memories of surf fishing and deep sea treasures like Ling-cod and rock fish. As little’s, we wouldn’t get out of the surf until we shivered uncontrollably, lips blue from the cold. Sleep came quickly in a squeaky metal Murphy bed under heavy handmade quilts after enjoying the best home-cooked meals. The Central Coast of California will always hold a special place in my heart.

After returning, we prepared for our Grief Share group at church last night. Wednesday nights are a sacred space where no one needs to be “ just okay.” Once a week, shared sorrow brings healing while hope glimmers through the cracks of heartbreak.

It was our turn to provide a little meal. HHH and I whipped up Ziti and French bread. There’s something very healing about sharing a meal with friends. Everyone had a wonderful time, and we’re glad to be back home with our friends. Whether by the sea or among our church family, we’re surrounded by love.

With the suitcases put away and the dogs back at home, we’re ready for a summer of fun. In two weeks, we’ll be sitting alongside Main Street watching the Independence Day Parade pass by. There’s no place in the world we’d rather be this summer.

Here’s to honoring life. Times and places we must leave, those we return to, and the people who help us walk through each one.

If you’ve ever looked at your sensible home and thought, “What this place needs is Roman pillars, 58 bedrooms, and a private zoo,” then Hearst Castle was built for you. Nestled on the rolling hills of San Simeon like a celebrity hiding from the press, this historical mansion is the architectural lovechild of publishing tycoon William Randolph Hearst and architect Julia Morgan. Alone on its beautiful perch, it screams to the world, “I have more money than I know what to do with.”

Hearst Castle was built five miles past nowhere, just off California’s iconic Highway 1. The road to San Simeon winds along cliffs, through clouds, and over the collective dreams of writers like me. Beautiful and dramatic, it feels like a ride through a car commercial, minus the sleek SUV and perfect hair.

Other than cows, elephant seals, and a few zebras, there is nothing for miles along the coastline. That’s because the Hearst Corporation still runs a major cattle ranch there.

Once arriving at the interpretive center, a shuttle bus was waiting to carry us to the top of “The Enchanted Hill,” which is not metaphorical but literally enchanted. The views? Ocean on one side, hills on the other, and Aoudad occasionally photobombing like they own the place (because they kind of do). We were lucky enough to see a family of three sunning themselves on the hillside.

As soon as the bus dropped us off, we were immediately smacked in the face with opulence. Imagine if a European cathedral had a baby with a Hollywood film set, and then that baby inherited a billion-dollar trust fund and developed a taste for marble, gold, and indoor fountains. That’s the vibe.

The castle was designed by Julia Morgan, one of the first successful female architects in California. She and Mr. Hearst dreamed big for over 28 years, creating the castle on a hilltop where his family often camped in tents.

A Mediterranean village, a Moorish palace, and an art museum are all found in the same building. Each room is more exquisite than the last, with a dining hall that looks like the one at Hogwarts. The movie theater is a private screening room with a popcorn machine older than Grammie. The library contains more first editions than the US Library of Congress, while smelling like ancient wisdom and expensive wood polish.

If guests overstayed their welcome, Hearst would simply stop serving them alcohol. Bachelors stayed in one guest house, while single ladies were closely watched in the main house. Mr. Hearst was the only person who could cohabitate with his girlfriend, but then, he got to make all the rules.

Having visited before, HHH and I chose the Upstairs Suites Tour which was a 70-minute guided experience that delved into the upper levels of Casa Grande, Hearst Castle’s main residence. We climbed approximately 367 steps to discover Doge’s Suite, the Gothic Suite, and Duplex bedrooms.

Walking through the massive castle, my mind wandered back to days of black and white movies and glimpses of the one and only Marion Davies……

My favorite rooms of the castle were the matching Celestial Suites, located in the bell towers. These two rooms offer panoramic ocean views while being illuminated by natural light filtered through the structural arches.

No Hearst Castle visit is complete without a visit to the amazing the pools. The Neptune Pool is surrounded by ancient columns imported from Europe. The Roman Pool, an indoor stunner covered in glass tiles and gold leaf, looks like someone tried to bedazzle the Sistine Chapel and accidentally invented perfection.

You can’t swim in them, but you will join others in spending a solid 10 minutes figuring out how to make one your phone wallpaper.

If all that wasn’t enough, the gardens were amazing. Oranges and lemons grown there are donated to the local food bank. Under the clouds and the sea, the roses flourish. Truly a gardener’s delight.

So whether you’re a history buff, architecture nerd, or just really into Aoudad’s and an occasional wild zebra, Hearst Castle is a must-see. Just remember: pack your sense of wonder and maybe a monocle, for the vibes.

In a world that often feels loud, chaotic, and out of control, prayer offers something rare and sacred. There is stillness and a quiet place of refuge when life is too much to carry alone. It doesn’t require the right words, posture, or time of day. To pray, just show up with your hope, grief, gratitude, questions, and fears.

Deeply rooted in faith, prayer is a way of speaking with God. Beyond religious boundaries, it’s the act of opening our hearts while being vulnerable as we reach beyond ourselves. In that reaching, something shifts as we connect, release and trust.

Prayer isn’t always about asking for something. Often, it’s about surrender. When we’ve done all we can and are exhausted by effort and uncertainty, prayer becomes an act of letting go. Strength comes in a moment of surrender while whispering, “I can’t do this alone,”. Through prayer, countless people have found courage to face a diagnosis, comfort in their grief, or peace in the chaos of life. It may not change the outcome, but it always changes us.

One of the most powerful aspects of prayer is its ability to anchor us in a storm. Life is unpredictable. We lose people we love. Dreams slip away. The path ahead can be uncertain. Prayer doesn’t magically remove the pain, but it reminds us we’re not alone in it. It becomes a steady rhythm in our hearts: “ I BELIEVE. I’M NOT ALONE.”

Whether it’s a grandmother’s gentle prayer for her family, a child’s simple thank you before bed, or the desperate cry of someone in a hospital room, each prayer matters. Each one adds light to the darkness.

Prayer not only connects us with the divine but with each other. The phrase, “I’m praying for you,” is more than kind words. We’re joining hands in spirit and saying, “I care. I see you. I’m holding hope with you.” In this fragmented world, those moments of connection are priceless. Sometimes, the most beautiful prayers are silently given through tears spilled in the middle of a sleepless night. They carry just as much weight and love as those offered in the middle of a crowded church.

Far out on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada, nestled among sagebrush and wind-shaped hills, a small but mighty prayer group wait without fanfare. This little group has been a lifeline for many, offering not only comfort and connection but, remarkably, a place where miracles have quietly unfolded.

Among them is the story of an 80-year-old who underwent open heart surgery over two weeks ago. Doctors were unsure if he’d survive the procedure, let alone recover. But the steadfast and faithful prayer warriors held him up in prayer. Against the odds, this gentleman is in rehab, walking, smiling, and praying for others in need. His recovery has stunned a medical team, reaffirming to the group what they’ve known all along. Prayer is the ultimate power when spoken in love and unity.

There will be seasons when prayer feels easy and seasons when it feels like shouting into the void. Both are okay. The beauty of prayer is that it meets us wherever we are and doesn’t require perfection. It only asks that we come honestly.

The power of prayer lies not in eloquence or outcome, but in the deep, invisible thread it weaves between us. In time, we may not remember all the words we prayed, but our hearts will remember the comfort, peace, and presence. There is quiet power in being heard. It teaches us to listen, hope, and love beyond what we can see.

Ah, there’s nothing like the first zucchini of the season! HHH carefully plucked it from the vine with reverence, not disturbing the others. Cradled in his arms, he imagined the fresh veggie sautéed in melted butter. Pretty sure I even heard him tell it, “You’re the chosen one.” And for one fleeting, chlorophyll-scented moment, it was.

It was the first golden hour of zucchini ownership when we are still in control. With two vegetable gardens under our care, we’ll have twice the zucchini to peddle to any takers we can find. In the beginning, it’s always easy.

This zucchini, grown from a tiny little plant, was a delightful yellowish color. When sliced, the goodness oozed out in tiny beads of liquid. After melting butter, HHH worked his magic, cooking the squash until it was soft and translucent. It was the best zucchini we’ve ever eaten. But then, food fresh from the garden always is.

Leftovers here at Winterpast are something to behold. Saturday night, as we enjoyed our first garden produce, Philly Cheese steak sandwiches made with leftover filet mignon, a Parmesan-crusted pork chop split two ways, my famous Ziti, and HHH’s marvelous au gratin potatoes completed the menu. Each bite was awe-inspiring, but all that paled compared to the first zucchini of the season, which was perfect in every way.

With each bite, all the water poured into the garden box was worth it. Desert water doesn’t come cheap. After adding up the price of all the seedlings eaten by the squirrel and the price of each watering, I’d estimate the cost of this one small squash to be more than a night out on the town. But, THIS zuk was worth it.

As the fourth girl of five, my mother was done with growing zucchini during my childhood years. Although we grew everything we ate, from rabbit to artichokes, zucchini seeds never made it into the garden. Other than serving it fresh, squash is difficult to preserve. My mother must have put her foot down, refusing to find homes for the abundant harvest that would surely come in July and August.

In three short weeks, our porch will be covered with free zucchini. Anyone coming for a visit will be required to leave with at least two. Before sunrise, HHH will mutter sweet nothings to his garden plants while secreting a five-gallon bucket of oversized zucchinis to Ninja Neighbor’s porch. We’ll enjoy grilled, sautéed, pickled, and spiralized zuk’s, even disguising them in my favorite Ziti recipe.

But let’s not get too far into the summer. The first zucchini was still a miraculous, tender little promise from the garden gods that we can grow our food despite the crazy spring weather and one very hungry squirrel. Beaming with pride, we washed it under cool water while imagining our grandparents nodding with solemn approval.

Despite its inevitable descent into overabundance, the first zucchini is always special. It’s a sign that we’ve survived the frost, dodged the squash bugs, and remembered to water. It marks the true beginning of summer when dinners get simpler, gardens get wilder, and everything tastes crisp and fresh.

Honor that first zucchini. Slice it thin and lovingly sauté it in melted butter. Eat it as if it’s the only one you’ll ever have. Because next week, you’ll be Googling “Can zucchini be used as payment for our next vacation?”

Grief has a way of dismantling time. Days blend, thoughts fragment, and even the simplest acts like getting out of bed, eating a meal, or answering a message, can feel like climbing a mountain with bare feet. When grieving, we often fall into survival mode, where self-care can feel indulgent or irrelevant, even when this is the time we need it most.

Self-care during grief isn’t about spa days or inspirational quotes. It’s about honoring your pain while tending to the small, essential things that allow you to keep going. It’s not about “getting better” or “moving on,” but gently creating space to coexist with your loss.

The first act of self-care is giving yourself permission to feel, rest, and not be “okay”. Grief doesn’t follow logic, and it certainly doesn’t follow a schedule. You may feel sadness, anger, guilt, or even moments of peace or laughter, all normal parts of loss.

While friends and family often want us to be “strong” or “resilient,” realize it takes real strength to fall apart necessary. There’s no “right” way to grieve and only you will find your way.

You may not feel like eating, or you may find yourself overeating for comfort. Try to aim for balance, not perfection. Simple, nourishing meals like toast, soup, or a smoothie can make a difference.

Sleep may be elusive or overwhelming because grief often disrupts our nervous system. A consistent nighttime routine, or even short naps when needed, can help stabilize your body’s rhythms. Most adults need 7 – 9 hours of sleep per night.

Rather than trying to suppress or avoid your grief, create gentle rituals that allow it to be expressed. Writing letters to the person you lost can help the healing process. If it feels good to talk to them, do it. Remember to make space for tears. Grief doesn’t demand to be fixed, it asks to be acknowledged.

Writing has been a lifeline for me. In the beginning, words pulled me out of bed at 4:30 am to blog. Life finally distilled down to a true love of writing, and I began. On September 24, 2020, my grief found a voice as it traveled out of my fingers, through the keyboard, and onto the screen. With each word, my outlook on life improved. It’s all there in the archives.

People around you want to help, but may not know how. Some will say the wrong things while others may disappear entirely. Focus on those who offer presence without pressure. Let others bring meals, run errands, or sit quietly beside you. You don’t need to explain your pain for it to be valid. Remember, it’s okay to protect your energy. Avoid conversations that feel too heavy. Let texts go unanswered. You’re allowed to guard your grief.

If experiencing widow’s fog of grief, small, grounding practices can be lifelines. Watch the sky change, take a daily walk, or just drink your coffee slowly, with intention. These simple moments are not a betrayal of your grief but signs that you’re still alive and tethered to the world.

Remember to be kind to yourself. Avoid thoughts like, “I should be further along,” “I shouldn’t feel this way,” “They would want me to be happy.” There is no schedule for healing nor prize for hiding your pain. Practice speaking to yourself like you would to a friend using patience, care, and tenderness.

At some point, many find themselves asking, “What now?” This doesn’t mean rushing to find a silver lining or a purpose in loss. Over time, new dimensions of love, empathy, and perspective will appear while living through grief

Grief changes you. You never asked for a broken heart, but over time, the mended scars will become sacred. They can become places where new growth will emerge over time.

Self-care while grieving is not a cure. It’s a soft, steady light and a reminder that you are still worthy of care and capable of healing, however long it takes. If you are grieving, be gentle. If someone you love is grieving, be present. That’s enough for now.

More tomorrow.

There’s something quietly breathtaking about an older bride. It has nothing to do with the dress or flowers, though those can be beautiful too. It’s all about the story etched in her eyes, the grace in her step, and the courage in her heart to choose love again.

She stands before the mirror, smoothing down her gown, not a girl, but a woman shaped by years of laughter, loss, and change. She’s known heartbreak and what it means to start over. And still, the sparkle in her eye is unmistakable as the light of someone who has rediscovered joy when she wasn’t sure she ever would.

When she speaks of the man she now calls hers, her voice softens, and a blush blooms gently in her cheeks. Not the fiery rush of first love, but something deeper and sweeter. It’s the blush of a woman who never thought she’d feel this way again, now marveling at the miracle that she does.

There is uncertainty, of course. Life has taught her to hold joy with open hands. She doesn’t pretend to know what the future will bring. Part of the beauty is that she chooses to love anyway, not out of naïveté, but from strength. Knowing how fragile life can be, she walks forward, eyes bright, heart full, ready to begin again.

Hope, at this age, is different. It’s not about perfect endings or fairy tales. It’s much quieter and wiser while holding someone’s hand through the ordinary. It’s about being seen, cherished, and known in spite of old scars, and because of them.

She laughs more now. Not because life is easier, but because love has returned to her doorstep when she least expected it. She dares to make plans with faith and hope that this chapter will be the sweetest yet.

The beauty of an older bride is not in the illusion of youth but in the radiance of realness. It’s in every silver strand that has weathered life’s storms. It’s in the steadiness of her step, and the wonder that she still feels nervous butterflies. It’s in the grace with which she chooses love again, knowing very well what love demands.

To witness her is see the quiet triumph of the heart.

When it finds you again, love doesn’t ask how old you are. but simply asks: Are you ready?

And she is.

Oh my, yes she is.

We all face mountains.

Sometimes they rise slowly in the distance, giving us time to prepare. Other times, they are massive, intimidating, and impossible to ignore. These mountains come in many forms, such as illness, death, heartbreak, loss, failure, uncertainty, and deep personal battles. They block our view, drain our strength, and whisper lies that we’re not strong enough, capable enough, or worthy enough to keep going.

But here’s a truth that often gets lost in the exhaustion. You can choose to be overwhelmed by the size of your mountain or energized by the climb.

That choice doesn’t erase the pain. It doesn’t flatten the slope or remove the storms. But it does awaken something inside, igniting faith and calling courage to the surface. The mountain isn’t an obstacle, but a holy place where something greater is unfolding.

On the other side of every mountain are wildflowers that celebrate moments of beauty, growth, healing, and grace. They only bloom in places where the struggle was real and perseverance was chosen. Watered by our tears, these wildflowers don’t grow in the valley, but on the sides of jagged cliffs where the journey was steepest. Their blooms tell of survival and resilience while reminding us that it was all worth it.

The most powerful truth of all is that you don’t climb alone. Somewhere along the path, when your legs shake and your heart is broken, the Savior will reveal Himself. It isn’t always with thunder or lightning, but with gentle comfort and a peace that makes no sense. His grace will hold you together when you feel like falling apart as HE climbs with you.

He’ll wipe the sweat from your brow and whisper, “I’m here. Keep going.” He knows the pain of the terrain. He’ll help you along and then wait for you at the summit.

So whatever mountain you’re facing right now, don’t stop climbing.
Pause if you must. Breathe. Weep. Rest. But, DO NOT give up.

The view is coming.
The wildflowers are waiting.
And the Savior is near.

You were made for this mountain.

Keep climbing. 🌿

More on Monday.

Who says fairy tales are just for the young? When two hearts find each other later in life, it’s a beautiful reminder that love can blossom at any stage. This engagement party wasn’t just about rings and roses—it was a celebration of second chances, lifelong dreams, and the joy of saying ‘yes’ when you thought the best chapters had already been written.

Our friends, “The Love Birds”, have been spreading smiles and happiness throughout our dusty little town on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Just a year ago, their lives were quite different. Both struggling through loss, something was missing. Happiness and the power of hope for the future have changed everything. Their wedding bells will ring in a mega-wedding at our megachurch two days before our own 2nd anniversary.

It’s hard to know what’s appropriate these days. The bottom line is that anything goes. Planning a wedding between two people in their 70s, the script is theirs to write. Our groom had definite feelings tied to traditions from the past. There would be no engagement party. How silly. At THEIR age? Not happening.

On the other hand, Miss Bridge-Girl had different ideas. After the chapter of her past lifetime of marriage ended years ago, she’s ready to start anew. And so, our two brains came together and decided to surprise Mr. Groom!

On Friday at Winterpast there was a flurry of non-stop activity. Every dead bloom was clipped. Paths were raked clean. Tables and chairs were set up on the lawn. The dogs knew something was up, but weren’t sure what. With each change, they sniffed everything to assure we were safe.

By 11:00 am, it was time to pick up the food platters at the local grocery store. HHH and I had combined last-minute errands to maximize efficiency. Along with the food, we needed ice and one bean burrito for a guest with life-threatening nutritional issues. Bean burritos are the perfect plant-based meal for her, and we were happy to comply.

Pulling up to the grocery store, we were so proud of our accomplishments. We’d be ready by 4 pm to enjoy an hour of peace and quiet before the guests arrived. Hand in hand, as we always are on shopping days, we entered the store and ran right into “The Love Birds”. No kidding.

The little lie we had told the groom was this. They were invited to a BBQ at 5:30. How would we explain the food trays we’d be purchasing????? After a full game of cat and mouse, we left the store with our food trays, our secret still safe.

Next, it was on to the nearest Taco Bell. After such a busy morning, a bean burrito sounded good to me, as well. Our order was complete. One burrito WITH cheese and one without for our friend. All went well until I realized, I’d taken a bite from the cheeseless burrito, which was the entire reason for our purchase.

Laughing so hard, HHH turned the car around to go through the line again. The associate was a little confused. Hadn’t we just been through? Through intense laughter, we shook our heads and got the heck out of there with our guest’s dinner.

With maximum secrecy, 28 guests (aged 4 – 92) managed to stay silent and create a major surprise! As the evening unfolded, Mr. Groom had to admit that engagement parties rule. Especially his! Surrounded by their favorite people, the couple led us all through the buffet line. They shared their love story to an adoring crowd. Presents were opened and a beautiful chocolate cake was enjoyed by all.

As the evening progressed, everyone agreed that Winterpast is a botanical delight. Guests picked the few apricots we have this year. By the time the evening ended, new friendships were formed. Everyone agreed that this love affair is sweet, beautiful, and perfect for these two at this time in their lives.

A few of the guests helped clean up the kitchen, while getting in the last little bit of visiting. And, just like that, it was like there had never been a party at all.

Celebrations are wonderful times to deepen friendships. With so many blessings in our lives, we all have reasons to host a party. Whether it’s a coffee date for three or an engagement party for 28, think about hosting a little summer shin-dig.

CHOOSE HAPPINESS!!!!

One thing we can count on here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada is the wind. The day can be calm as can be, and then, as it happened just yesterday, trash cans can blow in every direction.

Winter, spring, summer, fall, Zephyr winds blow through all.

Currently, a young mother robin, is battling nature on our patio,fluttering against strong gusts. Bringing in twig after twig, she places them and they are blown to the ground, where she swoops down to pick them up and try again.

This isn’t only about nest-building, but about tenacity, fortitude, and the will to build a home, no matter the conditions. It’s all about persistence in the face of adversity while enduring extreme conditions. All those college words mean nothing to this little bird. She’s just preparing her nursery for her new family.

If there’s one thing HHH and I differ about, it’s the wind. He sees it as an ever-present force working against progress. This comes after years of working in outdoors in heavy construction, while the wind played havoc with the machinery and the work site. I must agree there’s nothing worse than working outside on a windy day. This is especially true when temperatures are pushing 100 and the wind feels like a blow-torch.

I love the wind. The windier the better. This comes from living in Central California, where there was very little wind, EVER. The skies never change from a greyish blue, while the stillness of a summer day is absolutely suffocating. Temperatures there soar well above 100 as the residents always assure newcomers that it’s a dry heat. Who cares???? It’s hot and still.

The wind is a force of nature that’s mysterious and unpredictable at times. It can flatten the fences in a neighborhood and then be gone for three months. It flutters the cottonwood leaves, producing the sweetest lullaby, or on really bad days, rattle the windows here at Winterpast. On the desert, you just never know.

Watching this young mother choose her site has been interesting. Although no perfect spots exist, the patio gives a little more protection than the trees on the property. She’s chosen flexible, strong materials such as grasses and leaves and slowly, they’ve taken the shape of a comfy nest. With repeated efforts, each failed attempt has taught her something new.

One thing is for certain. She isn’t giving up. Without one bit of hesitation, she’s kept going even when her efforts blew away in the beginning. The wind scattered her progress, but it didn’t stop the process. Very soon, she’ll sit quietly on a clutch of new eggs, while the cycle of life will begin again.

The next time I experience struggles and the winds of life are against me, I’ll remember this little bird. If you drop your twig, circle back, pick it up and try again. Even if strong gusts are blowing you off course at the moment, keep going. Soon, they’ll subside and things will return to normal.

This summer, take a moment to watch some birds. If you have a bird feeder and a source for water, you may be lucky enough to watch a nest of your own. Birds are a special gift of nature. Their quiet determination can teach us a lot about life.

When I used to think of serving in the church, I imagined leading a prayer, teaching Grief Share, or maybe sharing my testimony. But a whole world of behind-the-scenes service is just as important and sacred. Keeping a church running smoothly takes more than just spiritual leadership. It takes hands-on work from everyday people willing to show love through action. Whether you’ve got a green thumb, a mop in hand, or a willing heart, there’s always something to do to help around the church.

Let’s start with one of the simplest but most important tasks: mopping the floors. After a busy Sunday or midweek service, the floors can take quite a beating from heavy foot traffic. A clean and shiny floor looks good and shows respect for the space where people gather to worship. Whether tile, linoleum, or hardwood, taking the time to mop is a small task that makes a big difference.

Recently, the church hosted a large event. During the day, guests accidentally dropped crumbs and spilled drinks. My mother used to say it wasn’t dinner unless something got spilled. But, home spills are something different. At the end of a Sunday, there aren’t five daughters waiting to help clean up and the cleanup is often left to a tired pastor. Do you have a mop and an extra few minutes to help?

It may not be glamorous, but cleaning the church bathrooms is another ministry of hospitality. Imagine being a first-time visitor and walking into a spotless, fresh-smelling restroom. It communicates care, dignity, and attention to detail. Scrubbing toilets, refilling soap dispensers, and wiping down counters might not make headlines, but play a vital role in making people feel welcome and comfortable. Would this be beneath you?

Many churches have kitchens used for everything from coffee hour to full-scale community meals. A clean and organized kitchen ensures food safety. Washing dishes, wiping down counters, emptying the trash, and maintaining appliances may seem routine, but it supports everything from potlucks to outreach events. A clean kitchen helps feed both body and soul. Don’t you love a shiny kitchen?

The sanctuary is the heart of the church where we worship, pray, and encounter God. Keeping it clean and beautiful is a sacred responsibility. That might mean vacuuming carpets, dusting pews, arranging hymnals, or even watering plants and changing out seasonal decorations. Each small act of care prepares the way for others to enter into worship more fully. Vacuuming the sanctuary can become a time for personal reflection.

HHH and I have found pleasure in caring for the church grounds. With Winterpast in tip-top shape, we’ve set aside 45 minutes every Friday to mow and edge. But, as we looked around, we noticed the meditation garden needed some trimming. There were marigolds to plant and leaves to rake. After daily watering, the meditation garden started to bloom. From red and pink hollyhocks to bronze daylilies, old plants are coming back to life. People notice these things. Even the neighbors have commented on how nice the church looks.

At our church, painting projects await us. Things break and need repair before the following Sunday. The major holidays need the direction of someone with a flair for entertainment. And those with OCD can help keep the closets, supply rooms, and classrooms tidy and functional. Everyone has gifts to share where needed.

Each act of service may go unnoticed, but it is never wasted. With everyone doing their part, the church will shine in the glory of God. Every mop stroke, scrubbed toilet, and shiny window shows love and reverence for God’s house.

Here’s the deal. You only need a willing heart to make a difference in your church. Next Sunday, if you see a mess, a scuffed floor, or an overgrown flower bed, consider stepping in and offering to help out. It’s a wonderful place to make new friends while saving the pastor some time for his own life.

And who knows? That mop might just be your ministry.

Something about July demands a pause. Maybe it’s the heat that makes everything move a little slower, or the long days that beg to be filled with something other than gardening. Either way, by the time the calendar flips to July 4, it’s not only about independence but about stepping back, soaking it in, and finally letting summer begin.

If you’re lucky enough to live in (or visit) a small town, there’s no better way to hit the reset button than a classic Fourth of July celebration. Ours starts early with the scent of syrup and sizzling sausage in the air as the Masons flip flapjacks at the 7:00 AM Pancake Breakfast. Don’t dare leave without a second helping.

Then, by 10:00, it’s time to head downtown for the Main Street parade. Not the fancy, big-city kind with floats sponsored by corporations, but a homegrown lineup of fire trucks, 4-H kids, big rigs polished to a shine, and a high school marching band playing “Stars and Stripes Forever” just a little off-key. You’ll see kids scrambling for candy, neighbors chatting from lawn chairs, and maybe even the street department soaking everyone with their water truck.

The heart of the day? That’s at 4:00 PM, when the crowd gathers for the greased pig contest. It’s a messy, hilarious tradition that HHH and his four brothers have won many times while truly bringing home the bacon. There’s just something about watching kids chase a squealing piglet around a coral that makes you forget your worries, even if just for two minutes at a time. HHH retired some years ago, this being a younger man’s game.

Of course, no small-town celebration is complete without food, fun, and fireworks at sundown. We’re talking corn dogs, lemonade, watermelon slices, and the unmistakable smell of homemade food drifting through the air. As the sun dips below the mountains, families will spread blankets in the back of pickup beds while waiting for the big show.

Then, when the sky finally turns black and the first tracer whistles upward, there’s an overwhelming sense of peace, gratitude, and pride for our beautiful country. Something you didn’t realize you needed until you’re in the middle of it.

Immersed in all the hoopla, I’ll be stepping away for a bit of much-needed relaxation while soaking in all that summer has to offer. I’ll return refreshed and recharged on July 14th. Until then, I hope your days are filled with sunshine, slow mornings, and sweet moments that remind you why summer is so special.

Here’s to fireworks, freedom, and finding a little time to breathe.

Certain days etch themselves into our souls becoming moments that time could never erase. July 14, 1979 my oldest son was born, bringing love, wonder, and excitement into my life. God blessed me with the perfect child.

July 13th, the morning was heavy with summer and the air felt thick, as if even the sky was holding its breath. We’d spent the day driving through the Sierra Nevada Mountains while singing “Blood on the Saddle” to lighten the mood. Every good country girl knows a bumpy ride in a pickup truck is a great way to start labor. As kids ourselves, we were terrified about the hours ahead that would turn us into parents.

When labor started late in the afternoon, we’d chosen to stay close to the hospital at the local Holiday Inn. In the middle of a very restless night, it was finally time to meet our new baby.

Checking into the hospital, things quickly became all too real. No longer just a class about labor and delivery, we were experiencing THE EVENT of our lives in real time. The sterile scent of the hospital, antiseptic and cold, mingled with something warmer. The faint aroma of coffee from a distant breakroom mixed with the fragrance of the bouquet of fresh flowers at the nurse’s station. Everything felt surreal while life was suspended in a kind of golden haze.

Time slowed in that room. The morning light filtered through the blinds in pale slats, tracing lines across the hospital walls and my hands. Every sound felt amplified. The rhythmic beep of monitors. The soft shuffle of nurses’ shoes. My own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Increased interest in Room 2 and the young woman about to give birth.

After more work than I knew was humanly possible, I finally heard that first raw, wild, and sacred screamy cry, ripping through the quiet like a thunderous gospel hymn. The sound of life itself announced his arrival. He was here. My son. My love. My little.

When they placed him in my arms, I felt the weight, not just his tiny body, swaddled tightly, but the magnitude of what had just happened. His skin was impossibly soft, like warm velvet, and he smelled like newness, clean cotton, powder, and something else I can only call innocence. A baby’s scent can’t be bottled or named. It’s the unique smell of beginnings.

His fingers curled in tight fists and his face was scrunched like he was still uncertain about this new world. I remember brushing the downy fuzz of his head, marveling at how something so small could make everything else disappear. I didn’t want to speak. I didn’t want to move. I only wanted to memorize him, imprinting every tiny sound and sensation.

There was a hush around us, even though the world carried on. A nurse said something, gently, but I didn’t really hear. The only voice that mattered was the one in my heart whispering, “He’s finally here. He’s everything”.

Hours later, when the room had quieted, we cuddled, he and I. Outside, life moved forward. Cars passed, people talked, but for me, the world shifted. That very day, I became a mom.

July 14, 1979, will forever be a sacred bookmark in the story of my life. Even decades later, if I close my eyes, I can feel the soft weight of him in my arms. I can hear that first cry, smell that indescribable baby scent, and feel the warmth of the sun dipping through the blinds.

Some memories don’t fade—they grow brighter with time.

Thank you, Jason, for becoming the man I dreamed you would 46 years ago as you grew next to my heart. I hope your day is beautiful.

Remember…. I love you forever, my baby you’ll be.

Happy Birthday! Love, Mom

Last weekend, we hosted a backyard bonfire party on the hottest day of the year. With desert temperatures soaring over 100 degrees well into the evening, it may not have been textbook bonfire weather… but somehow, it turned into one of the most memorable nights of the summer.

There’s nothing like sharing an evening around a fire pit with ten of your favorite people. Summer evenings are the best time for BBQs and Friday night parties. So, after such a wonderful engagement party for The Lovebirds just two weeks prior, we had a great idea to host a Friday Night Fire, inviting friends who wanted to join us. It seemed the perfect idea when the desert temps were still in the high 80s.

Living here in the desert for over five years now, this is the hottest summer yet. Monday, we topped 108. Of course, native desert dwellers like HHH will tell you it’s quite okay, as it’s a dry heat. Dry as the inside of my oven, you can cook an egg on the cement.

After announcing the idea on Sunday morning at church, many accepted the invitation, offering to help in any way they could. That’s normal for our beautiful church family. Everyone was excited to come and share time with us at Winterpast.

No matter how often we host parties, there is always a list of things to do. We went to work, preparing the backyard for another gathering. After replacing the solar lights around the lawn, and the lighting on each tree needed adjustment. Roses waited patiently for grooming while everything needed a heavy dose of water. Before we knew it, it was Friday.

In the afternoon, I pulled out the ice cream maker I bought during my first days as a desert gal in 2020. I made two batches of vanilla, one regular and one sugar-free using Splenda. Both recipes called for heavy whipping cream, sweetener, milk and vanilla extract and were delicious.

Despite the heat, Winterpast was filled with laughter, good conversation, and the delicious smell of roasting marshmallows and s’mores. Gathering around the fire pit after sunset, we enjoyed s’mores, fresh fruit, and, homemade ice cream, (saving us all from spontaneous combustion).

One of the highlights of the night was seeing Miss Buffy, HHH’s octogenarian mom, holding court from a shady corner of the patio. Thrilled to meet so many from our church community, she was charmed by their stories and quick wit.

As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, the air cooled just enough for us to pretend sitting around a fire was a good idea. Despite the heat, Winterpast was filled with laughter, good conversation, and the delicious smell of roasting marshmallows and s’mores. Guests gathered around in lawn chairs and folding camp stools, swapping stories, sharing snacks, and soaking in the fellowship. There were sticky fingers, full bellies, and lots of laughter which was exactly the kind of night we all needed.

One of our trees has been a mystery to me. Covered with small, bitter, seeded berries, our chokecherry tree has been great bird food. One guest saw them and immediately asked about our plans for the abundant crop. Plans??? We had none. Soon, he’ll be turning the berries into jelly. Expect a report back on the results.

In the end, despite the heat, everyone had a wonderful time. The fire was hot, the treats were cool, and the company couldn’t have been better.

Next time, we might wait for a forecast below “broil”, but until then, we’re grateful for the memories made, the friendships strengthened, and the joy of gathering under the hot desert sky on these high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

More tomorrow.

Not long ago, I ordered a small bundle of “Footprints in the Sand” bookmarks from Amazon. Intended for members of our GriefShare group, the story serves as a gentle and comforting reminder that even in life’s darkest moments, we’re not alone. Each bookmark carried the familiar line “When you saw only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.”

When the package arrived, tucked carefully inside was heartfelt information about the home business from the vendor, signed – With Love, Susan & Eric.

Something about that note stayed with me. Maybe it was the personal touch in such an impersonal age, or just that, amid the rush of life and loss, someone had taken a moment to include some kind words. E-mailing a quick thank-you message, I wanted Susan and Eric to know their small gesture was noticed and appreciated and that their bookmarks are absolutely beautiful.

To my surprise, Susan wrote back.

She thanked me for my message and shared a little bit about their life behind the scenes. Running a small business on Amazon can be, in her words, “brutal.” Every order packed and shipped isn’t just a transaction, but a matter of survival. But most of all, she shared something quietly beautiful. As a shut-in, her mom helps package their orders, giving her a sense of purpose and a way to contribute. She isn’t just packing orders, but rather participating in a chain of compassion beginning in a quiet home and stretching out into the world.

That revelation humbled me.

My small order wasn’t just a batch of bookmarks but part of something bigger. It helped keep a small business afloat while giving meaning to her mom’s day. Finally, it brought solace to people who are walking through grief.

Kindness has a way of traveling from one person to another, often unnoticed, but never without impact. What began as a simple Amazon order became a quiet circle of giving from Susan and Eric, to Susan’s mom, to me, to the members of our GriefShare group, and then back again.

We rarely get to see the full ripple of our actions. But every now and then, life gives us a glimpse.

Kindness. Share it. Receive it. And then, pass it on. Now THAT’s beautiful.

More tomorrow.

We lost our dear friend, Ray, recently, and while words can’t fill the space he leaves behind, I’ll write them anyway, hoping they help hold on to the pieces of him that meant so much to his friends and family.

Ray was never one to draw attention to himself. He wasn’t loud because he didn’t need to be. His presence, steady and familiar, was more powerful than a thousand speeches. Many of us knew him simply as the kindly old man who sat on the right side of the church, fourth row from the front, rain or shine. That seat might as well have had his name on it. Week after week, he’d be there nodding quietly, folding his hands while offering a warm but brief smile to those who passed him by. For some, he was a gentle fixture of their Sunday routine. For others, he was a source of silent comfort, his faith as solid and unwavering as the chairs on which we sit.

Ray and I had a deep love for South Dakota. Hearing about a planned trip to see the buffalo round-up outside of Custer, he told me that was one of the last trips he and his late wife had made. The next Sunday, he came with three DVD’s about the area. Those videos were so wonderful, it felt as if I’d taken a two-hour trip to one of my favorite places in the world. It brought him such pleasure to have shared something so dear to his heart.

Ray’s connection to the church ran far deeper than that fourth-row seat. Behind the scenes, he took it upon himself to keep the place looking its best. If you ever noticed the shiny floor or how not a single cobweb dared appear in the corners, you can thank Ray although he never asked for it. He found peace in doing, fixing, and maintaining what mattered to the people he cared about.

I’ve been told Ray had his rougher edges, too. Some remember him fondly as a bit of a grouch who’d grumble about the weather, the weeds, or the world. But even in those moments, there was a softness beneath. He was a widower, after all. A man who had loved and lost deeply. I would guess his growls were just his way of keeping the loneliness from growing too loud.

To his neighbors, he was a quiet guardian of the street. His yard was always neat, the bushes clipped, and the driveway swept. He set a quiet standard, and we noticed. He taught us, without words, what it means to take pride in what you’re given.

Ray was also a warrior. In these last months, he faced the daunting challenge of open-heart surgery with a kind of quiet courage that only those who have truly lived can muster. He fought hard to recover, and there were days when we believed he might just pull through it all. But in the end, it became too much for his tired body. Still, he gave it everything he had, just as he always did.

Lately, the challenges kept mounting. He was preparing for a major move closer to family, practical but not easy. Leaving the house he had shared with his wife was a lot to ask of someone who had just turned 80. Every room held memories. Every creak in the floorboard spoke of a life lived fully. Only weeks before, he’d lost his church mate, Miss Marion. Their quiet companionship was a comfort to both old friends sitting side by side, Sunday after Sunday. Losing her and the thought of leaving his home were heavy burdens for one heart to carry.

Now, in the stillness he leaves behind, we listen for him in new ways. The wind chimes that hang in the garden sway gently with the breeze, their soft tones dancing through the air. And in those gentle notes, steady, comforting, and familiar memories of those we’ve lost float by. A whisper of those loved ones that were always there keeping watch, order, and faith.

Ray’s legacy isn’t just in polished floors or a pristine fountain. It’s in the little things like the wave across the street or the stories he told if you happened to catch him in a talkative mood. It’s in the quiet spaces where kindness lives without needing to announce itself. He didn’t try to be everything to everyone. He was just Ray. And that was more than enough.

Thank you, Ray, for all the ways you were here. We miss you deeply. Every time the chimes sing, we’ll remember your spirit as it dances in the wind. Heaven has welcomed a beautiful new angel.

Here at Winterpast, days move at their own pace. Morning sunlight dapples through the trees, birds call from hidden branches, and the breeze carries with it the quiet reassurance of routine. Another pair of Robins busy themselves feeding the newest babies in plain sight on the patio. The bees are buzzing about, while Oliver continues on his hunt for anything edible, including grubs.

Oliver will never change. After he finds something delicious and nutritious, it’s off to his lair under the dining room table. Slowly, I’m being trained that if I offer him a BETTER treat than the one clamped between his jaws with the strength of a pit bull, he MIGHT consider a trade. So far, I’m up three rotten apples and a very disgusting grub that measured at least 2.5″. Well, at least some progress has been made.

The peaceful rhythm of Winterpast is one that invites reflection. Lately, HHH has found a new way to engage with that rhythm by simply changing his location. In various spots around the yard, he’s placed seating, some more comfortable than others. Each seat offers a different view of the same space. Some days, he faces the back fence and watches for the dreaded squirrel. Other days, he turns toward the house, letting memories and stillness settle in.

It’s the simple act of changing perspective, which changes everything because changing your seat changes your sight. What was once overlooked becomes the focal point. A path you’ve walked a hundred times becomes new again. From a different angle, a patch of weeds becomes a wildflower bed. That’s the power of perspective.

And what’s true in the yard is just as true in life. The way we choose to see the world shapes how we experience it. Optimism and pessimism face the same reality, but from two entirely different seats. One sees challenge as a possibility while the other sees it as a wall. One notices beauty in the overlooked corners while the other only notices what’s missing.

Choosing optimism doesn’t mean ignoring difficulty but looking at life from a place of hope. It means pausing, shifting your stance, and saying, “Maybe there’s more to this than I first thought”, or “What lessons can I learn from this?”

That’s what HHH has discovered here at Winterpast. Sometimes the most powerful change doesn’t come from going somewhere new but from seeing the same place with new eyes.

So, whether you’re in a backyard, a busy season of life, or just a quiet moment with yourself, try moving to a new vantage point. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and look again. You might be surprised by how the view changes.

More tomorrow.

Sometimes the best vacations are the ones closest to home. Traveling without an international boarding pass, hours in TSA lines, or an exhausting cross-country drive feels just right. As soon as the sun comes up, we’re off. With our destination only 40 minutes away, we’re going to turn a regular weeknight into a rejuvenating, soul-filling escape.

This isn’t your average staycation, but a quick jaunt from the front door to a place that feels like it’s a world away. With overnight bags and a feeling of freedom, I’m not looking back as the gardens of Winterpast fade in the rearview mirror. Even retirees need to take a break sometimes. The tomatoes. The plums. The zuchinni. It’s all just too much!!

Whether sipping wine on a terrace, hiking down to the pool, or sleeping in, we’ll be reminded that beauty and fun aren’t only found on the high seas. With our next oceanic adventure a little less than two months away, this is the next best thing.

Nestled where the high desert meets alpine peaks, resorts at the base of the Eastern Sierra Nevada’s offer an unforgettable blend of rugged beauty and sophisticated comfort. Not just pit stops for skiers or hikers, these are full-service retreats with hot tubs, farm-to-table dining, and coffee shops that take their espresso as seriously as we take our vine-ripened tomatoes. With dramatic mountain backdrops, we’re not just stepping out of our routine but into nature’s majesty.

Even the dogs need a break. Oliver and Wookie will go to puppy camp to visit their friends. Shhhhh… Don’t tell them. It’s a secret until the car starts. They won’t be moping at home but romping through fields, playing tug-of-war with new friends, getting belly rubs from people who call themselves “counselors,” and passing out in cozy kennels after full days of doggie adventures. We’ll get to recharge our batteries, and they’ll come home cleaner, happier, and somehow more socialized than when they left. It’s a win-win when the dogs get their own “camp story,” while we’ll enjoy an uninterrupted sunset soak in a mountain-view hot tub.

So here’s to the stay-cay, the underappreciated gem of vacationing. Just minutes from our little town of industry, we’ll find the kind of peace, beauty, and perspective that people fly thousands of miles trying to find. When we return, the dogs will greet us like we’ve been gone for years with wagging tails and sparkling eyes. What a great weekend for a reset.

Ill be back on Monday! Have a great weekend!

You know what really brings a yard together? Not solar lights, gnomes, or a fountain shaped like a fish spitting water. Nope. It’s big, chunky, beautiful, ground-covering redwood bark nuggets.

In 2020, when Winterpast was knew to me, the backyard needed some sprucing up. Each morning at 6 am, I’d drive to Lowe’s, where I would lift eight huge bags of bark onto my cart. Pay. Load. Drive home. Unload. Wheel-barrow them. Spread. This was repeated for weeks until all the beds were covered. Who needs a spa when you garden?

And so, five years later, it’s finally time for the front. HHH and me. Two people with a dream, a front yard in desperate need of mulching, and a whole lot of false hope.

At 6 am on a glorious desert morning, we headed to Lowe’s to get the bark. Seems in 5 years, not only prices have changed a bit. The bay where it used to be now held rubber bark in five, non-fading colors. Not choosing to cover our beds in rubber, we traveled to the east. Just a month before, we’d checked at our toney little nursery, which had the stuff for $90 a yard (27 cubic feet) with a delivery charge of $100. They’d been hoarding piles of glorious Redwood Bark just for us.

But, just a month later, they weren’t hoarding anymore. A large “We’ve Retired” Sign hung on the gate. The place was an empty yard where we’d just bought the cutest pot and our 2025 Portulaca, along with ladybugs and praying mantises.

All wasn’t lost because their next-door competitors were thriving. Surely, they’d have the same thing. But again, we hit a brick wall. It seems there’s a shortage at the moment, and no one is delivering Redwood Bark. They hadn’t seen any for quite some time, but assured us they’d call us when it came in.

We waited weeks. Phones remained silent and emails were unanswered. HHH even began talking to the answering machines in a hopeful tone, like they might eventually respond if we were polite enough. We made calls to the very best nurseries just to the west. Some associates didn’t even know what we meant by redwood nuggets. We might need to drop the dream and come up with a new plan.

And then—defeated, barkless, emotionally mulched—we decided to take a break. A “StayCayAway.” No bark talk or landscaping drama for 24 hours. Just us, cold drinks, and an evening at our favorite resort. But one minute we were relaxing, and the next minute we were saying, “Let’s just go check out that huge landscaping and rock store to the West. No big deal. It’ll take an hour.”

We pulled in, walked up to the counter, and casually asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have RedWood Bark Nuggets, would you?”

The guy didn’t blink. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t ask us to spell it.

Instead, he said, “Yes. Bin #82. $62 a yard. How many do you want? By the way, it’s $27 a yard cheaper than those jokers to the east.”

I looked at HHH. He looked at me. We high-fived in that slow-motion, movie-ending kind of way. Cue music. Cue sunset. Cue the brother with a borrowable trailer. Fer-get-about-delivery-fees. Just 48 hours later, the front yard looks like it just came back from a spa weekend at the redwoods.

Neighbors have been walking by while nodding in admiration. One lady whispered, “Where did you get that bark?” as if we’d mulched with shredded Benjamin Franklins.

HHH and I just smile, sip our ice water. Sometimes, the bark you’re looking for isn’t across the state or hidden in a secret mulch vault to the east. Sometimes, it sits just down the road from a StayCayAway to the West.

July is that magical time when the sun shines a little hotter, the air smells vaguely like sunblock, and gardeners everywhere are living their most generous lives. These days, our kitchen is overflowing with fresh produce, while we’ve been actively trying to offload our bounty onto anyone with opposable thumbs and a heartbeat. Now, at the end of July, few takers to be found.
In June, zucchini was cute. HHH and I whispered sweet nothings to our first little green squash as we lovingly sliced it into a sauté pan. We boasted about the flavor while posting pics on Facebook. It was all about that first zucchini.

But now it’s reproducing faster than a pair of rabbits in a vegetable patch, and the one “forgotten zucchini behind a leaf” accidentally grew into a club big enough to fend off a wild mustang.

There comes a point in every gardener’s life when walking into church with a brown paper bag full of tomatoes is met with sidelong glances and polite excuses.
“Oh, I would, but… I just picked up some at the farmers market.”
“No thanks, Janice gave me six yesterday. I’ve been making sauce for the last week.”
“I’m allergic to… freshness. Yeah. Sorry.”

And, it’s not just tomatoes. The last few plums are falling from trees like fruity meteors, staining paths and attracting ants. Last week, we stealthily secreted them in church like a fruity Santa Claus.

“Oh, weird, who left 44 plums on the table?”

Hmmmmm. Must be the Produce Fairy.

Zucchini bread. Zucchini muffins. Zucchini lasagna. Zucchini noodles. After awhile, everything begins to look and taste like zucchini. Enough already.

We could start leaving them in unlocked cars in parking lots or “google”crafts made from zucchini. We briefly consider drying and stringing them into a Christmas garland. No inventive ideas will be rejected if it means we can offload the zucchini.

Meanwhile, at the garden center to the east, roses are on sale for 60% off. Nothing says “fall is coming” quite like a rack of half-wilted tea roses in pots that say “hope” but smell like “we tried.” Just as we are trying to push produce, the nursery is dumping the last of its plants before fall arrives. We’re planning to hit the August sale starting Friday, with our front yard to finish.

Here at Winterpast, the sad, crunchy remnants of early spring flowers sit in flower pots awaiting removal. Once full of marigold ambition they’re now reduced to brittle botanical fossils. It’s time to dump them out, hose them off, and stack them in the greenhouse with lots of hope for a better crop next year.

These days, my imagination plays tricks on me as I wish for a hint of cool in the morning air. Sunday’s thunderstorms brought much-needed rain, making everything feel like we managed to skip August altogether. Fall will be here in just a few more weeks and then the zucchini will freeze, the tomatoes will give up, and the garden will finally sleep.

Until then, we’ll keep the faith and our stack of paper bags ready. We’ll just leave them at home next Sunday.

Little in this world can match New York Cheesecake. While Oreo’s may come close, they don’t match the cream deliciousness of a slice of this fabulous dessert.

Growing up in a German household, cheesecake wasn’t on the menu. With five little women all watching our waistlines, it’s best this was never introduced. I first tried the dessert in my 30’s and ran to buy my first spring-form pan. Only made for special occasions, it was a treat I managed to perfect.

Every July 30th, dessert lovers across the country celebrate National Cheesecake Day! Whether you love baked or no-bake and topped with fruit or chocolate, cheesecake works great with any meal.

My most beloved variety is the rich and velvety New York-style Cheesecake. Known for it’s dense, creamy texture and tangy flavor, it’s the perfect way to celebrate this indulgent holiday. Unlike other cheesecake varieties, New York-style Cheesecake is baked and ultra-creamy thanks to a generous amount of cream cheese, eggs, and often sour cream. Typically made with a graham cracker crust, it’s baked slowly for a firm, yet silky finish.

If you have a little time today to create a mouth-watering dessert, try this. Lately, I’ve noticed that AI has given me some really good recipes. This is an unexpected benefit in our technological world.

🥄 Classic New York Cheesecake Recipe

Ingredients:

For the crust:

• 1½ cups graham cracker crumbs
• ¼ cup granulated sugar
• ½ cup unsalted butter, melted

For the filling:

• 4 (8 oz) packages cream cheese, room temperature
• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 1 cup sour cream
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 4 large eggs
• 2 tbsp all-purpose flour
• Zest of 1 lemon (optional)

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 325°F (163°C). Grease a 9-inch springform pan and wrap the bottom with foil to prevent leaks.
2. Make the crust: Combine graham cracker crumbs, sugar, and melted butter in a bowl. Press the mixture into the bottom of the pan. Bake for 10 minutes. Let cool.
3. Prepare the filling: In a large mixing bowl, beat the cream cheese until smooth. Add sugar and beat until fluffy. Mix in sour cream, vanilla, flour, and lemon zest (if using). Add eggs one at a time, mixing just until blended.
4. Assemble: Pour the filling over the cooled crust. Smooth the top.
5. Bake for 55–70 minutes, or until the center is almost set but still slightly jiggly.
6. Cool: Turn off the oven, crack the door, and let the cheesecake cool for 1 hour. Then chill in the refrigerator for at least 4 hours or overnight.
7. Serve with fresh strawberries, berry compote, or simply as is!

💡 Tips for the Perfect Cheesecake

• Always use room temperature ingredients to avoid lumps.
• Don’t overmix after adding eggs to prevent cracking.
• Bake in a water bath for the smoothest texture. (thank you AI)

Whether you’re hosting a summer dinner party or just treating yourself, National Cheesecake Day is the perfect excuse to indulge in one of the most wonderful desserts ever created. This New York-style cheesecake is rich, tangy, and worth every bite. Of course, if you are not in the mood to heat up your kitchen, the local Walmart often has mini-cheesecakes with slices of four different flavors.

Enjoy today and celebrate!!! It isn’t often desserts have their own day!! Especially desserts as wonderful as this! Enjoy!

More tomorrow.

Front yard beautification sounds so innocent, doesn’t it? So hopeful and Pinterest-y. A vision of artfully arranged succulents, a charming gravel path, and maybe a tasteful birdbath where small desert creatures can sip daintily and ponder their life choices.But, in reality, not so much.

Reality showed up at 7 a.m. in the form of a dump truck named “The Widowmaker.” Rumbling up the driveway like a caffeinated buffalo, it offloaded ten tons of river rock onto what was, moments before, a perfectly empty spot near the garage. If you’ve never heard ten tons of rock hitting the ground before breakfast, it sounds exactly like optimism being crushed beneath the wheels of ambition.

Just minutes before, HHH (Hubba-Hubba-Hubbie or Hero-Hauler-Human) was in the kitchen, cheerfully flipping pancakes, eggs, and bacon like the super cook he is. The smell was glorious, and the mood relaxed. The coffee was hot. Birds chirped. Somewhere in the distance, our neighbor’s chicken screeched as she laid her morning egg. And then, everything changed.

After that truck dropped its load, we were in full-on high desert plains emergency mode. HHH glanced up from his spatula with the haunted look of a man who just realized he’s going to spend the next week doing things his back hasn’t done for years.

After gobbling down our breakfast, we stood at the edge of the rock pile, sipping coffee and contemplating our life choices. It looked innocent enough at first. Pretty, even. Dusty round stones catching the morning light were whispering “just a few wheelbarrow loads…” like sirens in a landscaping-themed tragedy.

Just thirty minutes after breakfast, the work gloves were on. Forget metaphors—WE had become the mules. Only instead of carrying provisions across the desert, we were hauling loads of river rock in a very wobbly wheelbarrow and one small galvanized bucket, down the driveway, while trying not to sprain a hip or start an argument over rock distribution strategy.

You learn a lot about yourself when moving river rock:

• You learn that shovels are both best friend and mortal enemy.
• You learn that “just one more load” is a lie told by the optimistic side of your brain.
• You learn that your neighbors will absolutely come out to “supervise” while holding iced drinks.
• You learn that if you hear one more rock clink, you may commit a minor felony.

But you also learn how good it feels to see progress. Slowly, inch by inch, the front yard has taken shape. That once-barren stretch of hard-packed desert dirt? Now a shimmering riverbed of effort and sore muscles. That formerly nasty slope? Now a landscaped wonderland that says, “We showed up to win. After a few hours, we conquered.”

Plenty of chilled water can make anything a little better. Let me tell you, it tastes even more amazing at 10 a.m. when your shirt’s soaked with sweat and your hands look like you just auditioned for a gravel-themed action film.

So, beautification continues. We’re a little sunburned, sore, and occasionally swearing at inanimate objects—but the front yard is becoming something special. Something wild, yet managed. Natural, yet clearly influenced by two stubborn seniors with shovels and a dream.

And a LOT of river rock.

Pictures tomorrow.

If we could eliminate one month of the year, August might be the best choice. Here in the desert, it is hot beyond hot. The spring flowers have finally given up the ghost. Sadly, the last of our mustangs are struggling with their new foals. Every August, they come down from the high country in search of food and water. It’s in our neighborhoods that they get in trouble.

It’s been hot this summer with the kind of days where the sun personally roasts you for your life choices. Our horses have returned to the neighborhood, bringing happiness to the local poo hunter and his trusty dog, Rex. Strangely enough, this man canvases the neighborhood in his little ATV, cleaning up after the horses. I’m not sure what use he has for the road apples, but he does collect them.

Our horses were missing for over 8 months, but have somehow found their way back to us. They not only eat most new plants, but can destroy a complete sprinkler system while looking for water, learning very quickly how to break lines. This is all be very expensive damage.

We had talked about putting up a fence long ago, but with a quote of $15,000, we decided there must be a cheaper way. Turning to Amazon, I started looking for deer and hog deterrents. If something works on deer and wild pigs, it just might work on horses.

There it was — “Wild Hogs Deterrent”. Now, if you know anything about wild hogs, you must know it’s hard to deter them when they move in. The advertisement read as follows: “Our wild hog repellent is made of the freshest mountain lion urine, peppermint oil and Citrus Essential Oils, emitting a strong scent, making pigs afraid and causing them to run away. Please replace the product after rain.” If these make wild hogs run away, these little balls of mountain lion pee might do the same for our skittish horses.

I’m outside, glistening while sweating like a cheese wheel in a sauna and armed with a box of “WILD HOG DETERRENT” that I bought off the internet during a sleep-deprived gardening spiral. Now ready for deployment, I must remind you that we’re not plagued by wild hogs. We have wild Mustangs.

I’ve been told there ARE lions in the hills above us, so these horses should know the scent and be afraid. Very afraid. Between that and the incessent barking of Wookie and Oliver, we might just have a chance to grow some pretty flowers after all. Apparently, the smell of lion pee tricks animals into thinking they’re about to be eaten. Terrified, they flee. Genius, right?

So there I was, crouched like a weird suburban hunter. These golf-ball-sized scented balls covered in lion pee were placed into little lace bags and then were placed around our “Rose of Sharon” plants. The instructions were very clear: “In the heat of the afternoon, place one pellet 3′-6′ apart.”

HHH and I obeyed and placed them with reverence, like sacred meatballs of fear.

And then we waited.

The outcome? Let’s just say… mixed reviews.

The Mustangs have shown up like clockwork. But this time, instead of grazing gracefully, they walked on by while one mare gave me the side-eye. The kind that says, “Ma’am, RUN!!! Mountain Lion!” while our plants remain untouched. That says something!! All I can hope is that they keep walking on by.

If any of the neighbors ask about the strange stench coming from our front yard, I’ll answer, “Just warding off the horses with predator pee,” casually, as one does when their yard smells like a safari.

In case you are wondering, the rock work is coming along. After many bruises, I’ve decided to take a little break while HHH continues on. It looks amazing. Now, let’s hope the hogs don’t decide to come for a visit.

Have a wonderful weekend!

There’s something strangely beautiful about summer thunderstorms here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. The sky shifts from blue to steel gray as clouds pile up like the work we still have ahead. Out here, storms don’t just sneak in but arrive with drama. Thunder rumbles across the vast open skies like an old engine coming to life, and if you’re lucky, there’s rain. And if you’re extremely lucky on a hot summer day, you can feel the relief as big drops fall.

But luck wasn’t on our side Saturday morning.

It was the kind of day where the sun doesn’t just shine, it burns. With five tons of river rock to be moved, the work area was a sun-blasted concrete driveway. No shade. Very little breeze. Just heat radiating up from the ground and reflecting off every surface, turning the whole space into a slow-cook oven.

HHH and I headed out to begin our day of work after enjoying a hearty breakfast. I’d picked up my metal bucket with bruised arms and began to fill it with rocks. It was then I felt the familiar lightning bolt in my back. Without argument, I was out for this job. There’d be other things I could do inside, but moving rocks was off my To-Do list. HHH would need to finish the job alone.

Throughout the morning, he drank bottles of water like there was no tomorrow. His shirt was soaked, his arms ached from moving the wheelbarrow, and his legs were turning into jelly with every trip. His muscles passed sore and were now screaming. You know the kind of ache that tells you you’ve gone too far, but you’re not done yet? HHH was there.

Throughout the day, his stubborn German side never hit the wall. Periodically, he’d stand for a long second, shovel in hand, sweat pouring off his chin, thinking: I can’t go on. He wasn’t even sure if he could lift one more scoop, but lift he did. Load by load, rock by rock, HHH kept going. There’s something incredibly satisfying about seeing a landscape transform under your own effort.

All that stone and sweat, placed like a quiet promise that something beautiful was coming. Over and over, he ferried rock until completely lining the entire driveway with five tons of it. (The remaining five ton will wait for a backyard refresh at a later date.)

By that time, I’d come out to marvel at his gorgeous job. Sitting on the tailgate of the truck like teenagers, we didn’t say much. It was a thing of beauty sitting along a mustang-poop-less street, thanks to the “Wild Hog Away” nuggets.

All of a sudden, the thunder cracked. That deep, rolling kind that makes your ribs vibrate and your eyes scan the horizon. The storm wasn’t overhead, but it was coming. The wind kicked up a little, just enough to stir the dust and lift our spirits. Somewhere inside us, something shifted. Maybe it was the promise of cool rain. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was madness. What it was, we became giddy with delight as the first huge drops fell as thunder and lightning danced overhead.

Fat raindrops sizzled on the driveway. The smell of wet desert earth rose up like a reward. We leaned back, let it fall on our faces, and laughed. The ache in HHH’s muscles remained, but the storm had washed the weight of the work. Satisfaction remained over a job done well and the deep, sweet calm that only a desert summer storm brings.

After enjoying a day of rest, today brings a new project. Painting the trim on the house. The transformation has begun and we can’t drop the ball now.

Stay tuned!

Dear Dad,

Happy 105th Birthday.

It’s hard to find words big enough for a milestone like this. 105 years ago, you started out on a journey of life, love, work, faith, and quiet strength. As I sit down to write you this letter, I can’t help but think about everything you witnessed throughout your lifetime.

Since your passing in 2018, the world has changed in so many ways. You nailed it by living in the best of times and leaving just before things started to go south. Through your 95 1/2 years on this earth, your character remained steady and constant.

You were just a little boy when you started driving a tractor for your father, not out of privilege or comfort, but out of necessity and grit. The depression hit and there were no shortcuts, handouts, or easy paths, Just long days, hard work, and a determination that somehow became part of your bones. Growing up, times were tough, but you always had enough love, responsibility, and backbone to build the kind of life others could lean on.

And we did lean on you, Dad. All of us. You raised five daughters with caring hands and a loving heart. Teaching by example, you showed us how to work, endure, and stay kind in a world that isn’t always so. As we grew, I cannot remember a single curse word coming from your mouth, and yet your presence commanded more respect than a hundred loud voices ever could.

Thank you for showing my boys how a God-fearing man lives his best life. You were a wonderful example of son, father-in-law, brother-in-law, brother, husband, and Dad. Teaching them how to work on the family farm, you found ways to make chores fun. Whether collecting aluminum cans along a dusty road or selling baby rabbits, you helped them earn pocket money, when you could have easily given them $20 and told them to go watch TV.

You lived your grace-filled life quietly, humbly, and with deep, unwavering integrity. You showed us that being a good man doesn’t require noise or drama but requires consistency, patience, and the courage to do what’s right, even when no one is watching. That was one thing we could always count on. You always chose to do the right thing.

The world today is a far cry from the one into which you were born. Cars have changed, technology has invaded farming, and even the way we talk to each other has changed. Thank goodness your values remained steady throughout your life. In a huge way, your lessons have been my North Star when I lost my way.

So here on earth, I’m celebrating more than just your years. I honor your legacy and the Christian life you lived, shaping lives with quiet dignity while loving us freely without conditions or complaint.

Happy birthday, Dad. I hope heaven is absolutely fabulous with lots of roses to water and fruit to pick and share. Save some for me when I get there. I miss you. Thank you for showing us what it means to live a full and wonderful life.

With all my love,
You Daughter,

Joy

When you think of ports, you probably picture bustling docks, towering cranes, sea spray, salty air, and massive cargo ships rolling in from Shanghai or Singapore. You probably don’t picture the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada, 500 miles from the nearest tide pool and roughly one million nautical miles from anything remotely resembling a coastline. But that hasn’t stopped local visionaries from opening the next BIG port, which is dry, dusty, and entirely devoid of boats.

The Port of Oakland has long been a West Coast shipping giant, but it’s got problems including congestion, union disputes, rent prices that require a second mortgage on your first mortgage, and seagulls that judge you.

Nevada, on the other hand, offers ample space to store over 14,000 shipping containers, with room to spare. With affordable rent, good-paying jobs, and the possibility of owning a real home, in your spare time, you can fish Pyramid Lake, a landlocked lake with water 1/6 the salinity of seawater. If fishing in a salty lake isn’t your thing, freshwater Lake Tahoe is a short drive away, where hiking, water sports, or winter activities await.

Landlocked, the Port of Nevada lacks an ocean, lake, or even a respectable puddle. As it turns out, water isn’t always necessary. On our northern and southern borders, there are almost 170 existing land ports.

After arriving by ship in Oakland, containers will be moved by train over Donner Pass and the Sierra Nevadas, through a large city within feet of a major interstate. Now, what could possibly go wrong with that plan???

Here’s how it working:

1. Containers arrives in Oakland by sea.
2. They’re immediately transferred onto train cars.
3. Those trains travel 5.5 hours inland.
4. Someone at the Port of Nevada yells, “Ship it!” to feel important.
5. The cargo goes back on trucks or trains.
6. It continues to its final destination.

Efficiency? Pretty low.
Public Safety? Could be threatened.
Is it already up and running? Absolutely. Just drove by the place yesterday.

Currently, the Port of Nevada staff is working to flatten mountains of sand undisturbed since before the days of covered wagons. Expanding daily, rail traffic has, indeed, increased. New fencing borders our fine port, and now there’s even talk of a new airport on the edge of town. All this excitement builds while colorful containers are stacked up in neat rows, like at a real port. Let’s hope the contents can withstand extreme desert temperatures while waiting to leave for their final destinations.

Anyone who lives in our town knows the seagulls and white pelicans have been planning this for some time. With breeding grounds at Lake Pyramid, all we need is some salt-air breezes and we’ll be set.

Never seeing an actual ship, the Port of Nevada represents something more powerful than global trade. There is at least one person in this world who person thinking out of the box to come up with new solutions to age-old problems. Why not truck the materials to a state where union membership is a personal choice? Why not ship containers by rail to an inland port on the other side of the Sierras? After all, does every port need to sit next to the ocean?

So, the next time you order something online and it arrives six weeks late with some sand on the box, just smile. It probably passed through The Port of Nevada, the premier ocean-less port.

Ahoy, desert sailors, Ahoy.

Driving along the loneliest highway in America, the sight of the “V” on the side of Mt. Davidson makes me remember another time and place. Virginia City, Nevada, is a quirky, wonderful, haunted little place perched at 6,200 ft., where the sidewalks are still wooden, the Bucket of Blood is a real saloon, and at any given moment, someone in a cowboy hat might be playing a banjo under a brilliant blue sky. During the day, it’s not exactly quiet, but when the tourists leave for the evening, it’s peaceful.

And then, Hot August Nights rolls in.

Once a year, this peaceful little mining town transforms into a chrome-covered, motor-oil-scented carnival. It’s like a meteor shower of classic cars crash-lands here, and instead of fleeing in terror, thousands of people show up to watch and cheer. I didn’t know I’d be signing up for this when it became my home in 2014.

Virginia City is famous for many events. The white line down the state highway is painted green for St. Patrick’s Day. The pets dress up for an old-fashioned pet parade for Easter. There are dirt bike races that last all day with close to 1,000 entries. And then, there’s one of the most famous classic car shows in the United States. Hot August Nights.

Of course, the neighbors couldn’t have explained what life would be like. But, I knew it was happening the moment I heard the first engine echo through Six Mile Canyon. That deep, rumbling sound of a ’68 GTO struggling up the hill like it was auditioning for Fast & Furious: Retirement Edition.

By noon, “C” Street was no longer a street but a mostly sun-burned parade route. People in camp chairs popped up overnight like mushrooms. Not many people parked on “A” Street, a bit more up the hill than most would like to walk. Of course, tourists were gawking at the old houses. One of them asked when they closed the gates at night. Not many believed anyone would CHOOSE to live on the side of the mountain in a haunted, old mining town.

Going to the store when you live in VC isn’t a quick trip. In fact, in any one of three directions, you need to travel eleven miles to get to flat ground and civilization. After three years of life on the mountain, a store finally opened that carried fresh milk. But when an event like Hot August Nights rolls into town, make sure your fridge is full and your car locked safely in the garage.

There’s something uniquely humbling about being woken up at 6:45 a.m. by the sound of a steady stream of vintage engines echoing across the canyon. Not roosters. Not church bells. Just raw V8 engines screaming into the morning sky like angry mechanical pterodactyls.

During those days, I gave up trying to live like a normal person. The driveway would be blocked and the roads jammed. Even the mustangs left town for higher ground during this event.

Perched on the deck, 16 feet above “A” Street, I enjoyed an ice-cold Diet Coke while sitting on the porch like the cranky prospector I am at heart. If you can’t beat ‘em, might as well yell “Nice paint job!” every few minutes and make the best of it. A guy in a candy-apple red El Camino waved at me. I waved back. He revved his engine so loud my windows rattled. By that time, I didn’t even flinch.

Here’s the deal. The cars are beautiful. The music is fun. People love this stuff. And if you’re into it, Virginia City during Hot August Nights is probably your idea of heaven.

But if you live there, it’s like suddenly sharing your living room with a thousand people and 400 Camaros for a week straight. A wild, noisy, tire-squealing, leather-jacket-wearing invasion.

Will the party ever come East to my little town? Probably.

Will I complain the whole time if it does? Absolutely.

Will I secretly kind of love it? …Youbetcha. I just might surprise HHH and get into it.

I’ll be back Monday.

With only three more weeks of GriefShare classes, HHH and I have learned more amazing things about grief. Each week, as we share a little meal, we’re getting to know each other better. Friendships have bloomed, even though grief is a deeply personal and often lonely journey. Whether someone has lost a loved one, a relationship, a pet, a dream, or a sense of stability, the stages of grief can feel overwhelming. For those walking alongside someone who is grieving, it’s sometimes hard to know what to say, or even if saying anything helps at all.

Encouragement in grief isn’t always loud or wordy. Often, it’s showing up, sitting in silence, offering a tissue, or sharing a warm meal. It’s listening without trying to explain the loss away and acknowledging their pain without insisting they move past it.

A sweet woman I knew long ago was grieving the loss of her father. He’d been everything to her. A dad. A mentor. A confidante. He was her personal encyclopedia about facts on farming and nature, having lived through 99 years. A year later, she joined a grief group even though relatives told her she should get over IT. They couldn’t understand that what she needed was the support of others who understood a tiny bit of her pain. Her relatives didn’t need that in their grief journey, but she did.

Grieving hearts need reminders that they’re not alone but that someone sees them, acknowledging their loss. Most importantly, God is there, helping them carry more of the load than they realize.

In our daily routines, it’s easy to forget those that quietly mourn. A coworker still grieving a parent years later. A neighbor who lost a spouse. A young person grappling with the death of a friend. Grief doesn’t follow a calendar. Encouragement means continuing to check in even when the casseroles are gone and the services are over.

Encouraging others through grief is sacred work, bringing a glimpse of God’s comfort to them. In grief support, members are seen, heard, and loved while learning about the normal stages of grief. Offering comfort to others reflects His heart.

There is a quiet joy in offering someone a safe place to land. While carrying peace into someone’s storm, our faith has deepened. Compassion grows and hearts expand. We begin to see people not for their pain, but as precious children of God who need tenderness, not solutions. Just being present, without pressure, can be more comforting than words.

God of all comfort, help us to be encouragers to those who grieve. Teach us to listen well, love deeply, and reflect Your compassion in quiet, faithful ways. Use us to remind the hurting that they are never alone.

I’ll be back tomorrow.

There comes a time in every homeowner’s life when, while squinting at the peeling edges of your trim, you say, “Yes, it’s time.” Not “time for a professional,” because obviously, HHH and I are weekend warriors with paint buckets and ladders. The time for these top-notch DIY-ers to spring to action had come, and we decided to paint it ourselves.

This is how HHH found himself, paintbrush in hand, balancing like a caffeinated mountain goat on the second rung of a ladder, gazing lovingly at our white house. Built in 2004 with raised trim around the doors, windows, both the trim and body of the house were the same color. A color we now know Lowe’s offers under the name “Nice White”.

Planning this project all summer, the games began a week ago. Windows and screens needed cleaning, which dovetailed with washing the entire house before painting. HHH started with the back windows, leaving the front for last.

While painting window trim in the front, HHH noticed some movement down the road. Three troublemaking mustangs sauntered right in front of Winterpast, but continued to walk on by. Of course, not before leaving us a present. The best thing of all was that they ignored the new landscaping, which means that the lion-pee-laced-hog-deterring-nuggets are working!! A win for us.

Naturally, once you start painting trim, you discover all kinds of secrets your house has been hiding. Small portions of railing have transformed into “wood-colored sponge cake” thanks to years of moisture and wood rot. It’s important to check your house every few years.

After quickly emptying the first gallon can of Elastomeric paint, it was time to return to the paint counter at Lowe’s. We approached with our carefully chosen color swatch, “Zanzibar Spice”. And there, we waited. It’s not good to keep your customers waiting so long, they learn the “Help” button cycle. Across the entire store, people everywhere could hear that customers were waiting at the paint department. After quite some time, the Queen of Paint arrived.

Ordering five gallons, we left her to do the mixing, but not before HHH witnessed her wiping away 1/2 the tint that should’ve gone into the paint. Yes. Stray drops fell on the lid, only to be whisked away by Little Miss Helpful.

When we got home and opened the paint, the color was wrong. Quite a bit lighter than that already painted on the trim. Back to Lowe’s, we got another associate to mix up a new five-gallon bucket, which was a correct match. It seems many situations end up like that these days. Very sad.

Over the last eight days, HHH has painted trim in the heat and wind. Slowly and surely, Winterpast is glowing. The fresh paint made the windows pop. The boring, nice white has been replaced with clean, “Zanzibar Spice”. The house looks like it’s just come home from a spa weekend after a great facial. In the end, it’s been worth it. Long delays at the paint desk have all paid off.

Winterpast, you look fine. Not just “okay” fine, but fantastically fine. Your trim gleams, your blemishes are fixed, your windows are gleaming, and your curb appeal is almost flirty.

As for HHH? He’s earned a victory lap, sore shoulders, and a secret dream of hiring professionals next time.

Maybe.

Life is a lot of things, but stagnant it isn’t. All the pieces of life’s puzzle have fallen into place. Happy laughter is the music of the day. But, in a matter of hours, catastrophic glacial flooding could arrive, burying lives in copious amounts of mud, like the poor souls in Sitka, Alaska. Or, it could be something as commonplace as losing your spouse of 32 years. When that mud comes, it may be too deep to navigate, bringing with it confusion, denial, anger, and regret.

Slow down for just a minute, and you can become stuck in life’s mud. It’s a human condition that hits everyone at one time or another. At those times, it’s helpful to remember the following Bible verse.

The dancing time is lovely, the laughing time divine. But that weeping, mourning, stuck-in-the-mud time? Not so much. That’s the season we pray will pass faster than a Friday afternoon root canal at the dentist. Unfortunately, it’s up to us to free ourselves from the mud of the situation.

Muddy seasons are part of life, and everyone gets stuck from time to time. Whether it’s grief, loss, regret, or just the slow, sneaky weight of daily discouragement, sometimes we find ourselves sinking, spinning our wheels, and not going anywhere. It’s possible to become emotionally, spiritually, and physically stuck.

If you’re like most, the first instinct is to curse the mud. Be careful because negative thinking is quicksand. You start with one gloomy thought, like, “I’ll never get out of this”, and before you know it, you’re building a mental house in the swamp, complete with matching curtains made of cynicism and regret. Not helpful at all.

The longer the negative thinking sticks around, the heavier the mud gets. Stuckness becomes becomes your label, story, atmosphere, and identity. The only thing that remains is more mud. Not solutions, healing, or hope. The heavier your heart, the harder it becomes to get out.

While stuck, the worst thing of all is that life goes on. Don’t you dare let it carry on without you. There are those things we’d all like to forget for a bit. Bills and chores will always be there, no matter how low we get. But, right outside your door, the seasons are changing. New babies are born. People are falling in love, starting new jobs, or even learning to salsa. Don’t let life get ahead of you while the mud holds you back.

After the rain stops, the mud WILL dry up and that heavy, stuck feeling will lift. Shake off that sludge and keep moving forward, one foot at a time.

Call a friend.
Go for a walk.
Talk to God (He’s fluent in muddy prayers).
Refuse one negative thought today, and trade it for a positive.

Bit by bit, step by mucky step, you’ll find your way out

If you’re stuck today, you’re not broken, just human. There’s a time for everything under heaven. But there’s also a time to get up, wash off the mud, and rejoin the dance floor of life, awkward moves and all.

Life hasn’t forgotten you. Just don’t let it leave without you.

More tomorrow.

Life on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada has been changing. These days, a 30-minute drive to the city west of us can take an hour or more, depending on the number and severity of crashes on the interstate. Once a modest, artsy alternative to California life, the area is rapidly transforming.

As I’ve been painting outside, the added noise is hard to ignore. With the Port of Nevada up and running, trains run day and night. The interstate is bumper-to-bumper many times a day. And then, there are the apartments. With construction surging and a steady stream of citizens fleeing Cali, daily life in our area is feeling the ripple effects of urban growth.

Just yesterday, HHH and I decided we needed a few things at Costco. We haven’t visited the store for months, as it’s easier to order online and have things delivered. Costco used to be one of my favorite shopping stops. Offering everything from Coach bags to dog food, there was something for everyone. It was also a place to visit with fellow farmers who were taking a break from the summer heat to shop.

Before we left, I kiddingly made a bet with HHH that Christmas items would be on sale. We both laughed, agreeing that mid-August and Christmas don’t go together. Of course, there wouldn’t be Christmas items yet. But, of course, there they were right next to Halloween goods.

Yesterday may have been the last time I will ever willingly go to a Costco again. The last time I visited that particular store, a person had been run over in the parking lot. Indeed, it could have been repeated yesterday. People on a mission to make their purchases and get out are unaware. One woman did hit me with her basket as we tried to navigate the aisles. It’s only August. No big weekend ahead. A Wednesday morning at 10:30. What will it be like week before Christmas?

The huge influx of transplants has come with consequences. Although housing markets in some states are a bit sluggish at the moment, homes are selling like hotcakes here amid the great migration. Each week in our town, another new family is putting down roots. Comical at times, their eccentric ways make them easily identifiable.

One such family down the road has just installed a six foot fence around their acre of desert sand. Looking like penitentiary grounds, we aren’t sure exactly who or what they are trying to keep in or out. After installing the very expensive wrought iron fencing, ($20,000?) they installed cheap mesh wire and at ground level along the entire fence. Why??? Protection from rattlesnakes? (Never seen one here.) Rabbit control??? (Their entire property is rock.)

As for locals, limited housing, services, and rising rent costs weigh heavily. The infrastructure is at a breaking point with crowded roads, stretched schools as the race to build even more apartments continues. These are multi-story, unsightly, and extremely expensive to rent. A tiny 2-bedroom apartment in our little town rents for $1700/month (and the usual first, last, and hefty deposit). That’s over $5,000 to enter a rental agreement for an apartment.

For the time being, it’s best we avoid traveling west. After all, there isn’t anything we really need that can’t be found at the local Walmart. There’s always the city to the east, which isn’t experiencing such extreme growth. YET.

Whatever you do, when shopping, keep your head on a swivel. Don’t get confused. It’s still August, even if Christmas music is playing as you shop..

More tomorrow.

Out in the front yard, early in the morning

See the neighbors walking dogs all in a row

Some folks go to work, some go on vacation

But I took a paintbrush, and off to paint I go……

Soooooo……….

We’ve been painting on the railing,
All the live-long day,
Trim and doors and window framing,
Brushing dirt away!

Can’t you hear the rock pile calling,
“Move us, don’t delay!”
Spreading bark and mulch ’til evening,
Yard’s gonna shine today!

Someone’s in the yard with a shovel,
Someone’s laying lines just right,
Someone’s by the fence with a paint can,
Freshening the view in sight!

Yard work, don’t you go slow—
Weeds don’t take a break, you know!
Trim it, rake it, roll that stone,
Make our yard a beauty zone!

We’ve been hauling bags of topper,
Mulch is smelling fine,
Rocks are placed and lights are gleaming,
Edges all in line!

Neighbors wave and say it’s stunning,
Drinks are on the tray—
Time to sit and watch the sunset,
After this display! _{Thank you to Johnnie Cash– I’ve been working on the railroad.}

Undergoing a huge transformation, Winterpast seems like our NEW home. A huge, THANK YOU to HHH and his vision. Without his tireless efforts, none of this wouldn’t have been possible.

This weekend, we’re off to work our magic on the Meditation Garden at the church. When it’s all done, expect some pics.

I hope your weekend is as fun-filled as ours.

I’ll be back Monday to fill you in on the latest.

We had other plans for Saturday night. Astronomers from the Biggest Little City to the West had planned an evening at a local lake to stargaze. This has been on my bucket list since the day I moved to Winterpast 5.5 years ago. With no white light allowed (to avoid light pollution), it would’ve been the perfect night to enjoy the stars. I’ve been told you can even see the Milky Way after dark. What a lovely thing to do.

Well, Mother Nature had some other ideas for us. A monsoonal rainstorm struck on a night when there was a 10% chance of rain. That’s the desert for you. If you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes and it will change. So different from the boring Central Valley of California, where I spent decades gazing at grey skies without wind or puffy white clouds. How I wish I had known the secrets of the desert in the 70s. I would’ve moved here then.

There’s something unforgettable about rain in the desert, especially when it doesn’t just whisper through but roars in with all the force of a monsoon. At around 7 PM on Saturday night, the skies over our quiet desert neighborhood cracked open. What started as a soft breeze quickly escalated into 45 mph gusts that rattled our windows. Within minutes, the clouds unleashed a downpour so heavy and relentless that it was hard to believe we were still on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

Gutters overflowed almost instantly. The rainfall was too much, too fast, as it cascaded over the edges like small waterfalls. Water rushed down the streets through the main neighborhood drainage system, never designed for anything close to this. Clogged with debris, it began to back up. Within fifteen minutes, the end of the block looked more like a shallow lake than a road.

And then there was the lightning. For thirty full minutes, bolts lit up the sky like a light show, with some arcing horizontally while others slammed straight into the nearby mountains with bone-shaking thunder. The dogs, usually so brave, huddled under the patio chair, ears back and eyes wide, waiting for it to end. I dashed to the garage to shut off the still-running sprinklers, completely unnecessary in this kind of rain.

Although beautiful, it was also a bit terrifying. The kind of storm that makes you stand in the doorway in awe, even as the wind tries to push it shut. The air smelled of dust, ozone, and something ancient, as the land remembered what it felt like to be soaked.

In the aftermath, the desert will come alive with green. It’s amazing how quickly the colors change with the growth of new life. That’s great news for the bands of mustangs, numbering around 30. With two new foals that we know of, water is a welcome relief in the middle of August. Hopefully, they’ll walk on by Winterpast, and stay in the desert where they belong.

I’m pretty sure those working on the Playa while preparing for Burning Man suffered some setbacks. Mud Fest 2025 may be in the works after such a downpour. Just wait for the fun to begin.

By 7:30, the show was over. The only things left were puddles, a few broken branches, and a night sky so quiet it seemed like nothing had happened at all. Not sure that people danced under the Cosmos after that. Desert mud is pretty nasty and with no white light allowed, I’m glad we weren’t there to experience it. If you were here, you know exactly what happened and you’ll never forget it.

More tomorrow.

There’s something deeply satisfying about turning a handful of dusty coins into hundreds of dollars. In large numbers, pennies are far from useless. If you’ve saved a lot of them, like HHH and me, turn them into cold hard cash. That saved coin can add up to more cash than you ever dreamed!

Deep into early fall cleaning, we recently decided to cash in our coin jars. I’d already turned in the pennies weeks before, totally more than $100. Sadly, I’d wasted the time rolling them and then found out most banks won’t accept them. Unwrapping them in a flash, I went to Coin Star at the local Walmart. After fighting with an aging machine for longer than it should have taken, I was delighted with the outcome. The rolled coins I’d been hanging onto forever needed to be the next to go.

The next time we went together. At that time, HHH mentioned that our Credit Union had a Coin Star machine we could use for free. In no time, we were the Coin Stars! It was rather like winning a jackpot without the risk of gambling. We were both shocked at the results. Saving big money doesn’t need to be about giant sacrifices, but more about being sneakily consistent.

There is something strange about those of us who save coins. I’d often dreamt of sitting through the winter looking for that one valuable coin. In reality, the chance of that happening is very small. Besides, my winters now are busy having fun with HHH.

Amazon offers something called the 100 Envelope Savings Challenge book. With this inexpensive little system, you can try a challenge that’s right for you. $500 in 30 days. $1,000. $5050. $10,000 in 52 weeks. Each book comes with 100 numbered pockets in which you put a certain amount of money each day, week, or month, depending on your goal.

In 2007, my girlfriend really wanted a flat-screen television, so her budget-conscious husband told her to save for it. She decided to save $5 bills. Anytime she found one in her purse, it went into the TV fund. She even began to sneak $5’s from her hubby. She was driven. It took a while, but she finally had a brand new flat screen on her wall after months of being mindful and consistent. In the end, she fessed up to her husband. It turned out he knew it all along and thought it was cute. He’d even added a few $5’s to her jar when she wasn’t looking. It’s not about the amount but about consistency, patience, and a laser-like focus on the goal.

Here’s the beautiful truth: you can save any amount once aware of your spending habits. That’s it. No magic tricks. No 7-step financial bootcamp. Just awareness.

It’s easy to spend in the moment while grabbing lunch out because it’s easier, buying that $12 candle that smells like “coastal dreams” (whatever that means), or subscribing to a streaming service we forgot we had. But when you pause and put that $10 aside instead? It quickly adds up.

Saving shouldn’t feel like punishment. Turn it into a game, like choosing which envelope to fill today. Do a little victory dance when you find $3 in your jeans pocket and toss it into the coin jar. It’s about stacking up small wins until they turn into big changes.

So, whether you’re rolling quarters, labeling envelopes, or channeling your inner $5 hoarder, just know that every little bit counts. It only takes a goal and action to accomplish something big! However you begin, make it fun.

More tomorrow.

Grief is a journey that passes only through time, but through the raw and shifting landscape of the heart. When a loved one is gone, it can feel as though the world has cracked open, leaving unfamiliar, trembling ground.

A mother who recently lost her 30-year-old daughter said through tears, “But you’re all going home tomorrow, and I’ll be left alone without my baby-girl.” Anyone who has loved deeply and lost can feel the weight behind those words. A reflection of sorrow and ache that needs no explanation.

At least someone who loses a spouse has a name — widow or widower. A person who loses their child is still a mom or dad suffering unimaginable pain. Their world has changed forever, and while others can return to their lives, this mom must find a way to live in a world her daughter no longer inhabits.

There’s no easy roadmap through grief. It’s not a straight line or a checklist. Grief is a winding journey that unfolds at its own pace, sometimes moving slowly, crashing, or pausing in silence. Unbearable, especially in the early days, when each breath or sunrise feels like a betrayal to the one you lost.

The first month is often the most brutal. The shock is still fresh with everything being a reminder. It’s a haze of disbelief and raw, overwhelming pain. But slowly things will begin to shift. The sharp edges of sorrow smooth, not because the loss is any less devastating, but because our hearts start learning how to hold it.

Similar to childbirth, where excruciating pain fills the moment, with time, the body and the spirit begin to heal. Grief never disappears entirely, but evolves. It becomes less of a wound and more of a scar that is permanent, visible, and part of who we are.

As the months and years pass, the best memories begin to percolate to the surface. The sound of their voice, the sparkle in their eye, their quirks, the things they loved. These moments will eventually shine brighter than the pain. In remembering, we begin to feel them again in a way that still connects us.

Grief teaches us to live one day at a time. Some days will be heavier than others. Some may feel impossible. But mornings will come when the sun rises and you notice its warmth again. There will be laughter that sneaks in when you least expect it. There will be moments when you feel your loved one close, not in body, but in spirit, memory, and in the legacy of love they left behind.

If you’re grieving, be gentle with yourself. Don’t rush the process. Don’t compare your journey to others’. And don’t lose hope.

Because even in the darkest valleys, hope persists, not in denying the pain, but in honoring it. Not in forgetting, but in remembering with love. Not in being the same as before, but in discovering strength you never knew you had.

You’re not alone. While nothing will ever replace what was lost, life in its slow, quiet, and stubborn way, will find a way to bloom around the absence.

One day at a time. One breath at a time. Keep going.

More tomorrow.

For years, we’ve tolerated their nonsense. The midnight zoomies. The 2 a.m. bed invasions. The mysterious puddles that magically appeared right in our pathway first thing in the morning. We reminded each other, “They’re just dogs!” and “They’ll settle down with age!“ But Oliver and the Wookie, at 7 and 3, have other plans.

Oliver is a 30-pound con-artist with the recall of a gnat and the subtlety of a wrecking ball. The Wookie is a shaggy gremlin whose hobbies include the occasional snack of undies and puddles.

Together, they formed a chaotic duo that made every night feel like a sleepover in a haunted house. Between the cold noses nudging us awake, the wrestling matches on our legs, and the occasional mystery moisture event , we hadn’t slept through the night in weeks. We just didn’t know how bad it was.

This all became very tiresome, and finally, something had to change. And fast. These dogs needed a place of their own. A Doggie Crib. A Canine Cabana. And we just happened to have the perfect place.

Okay, it’s the laundry room. But it has four walls, a door, and a sink. That’s better than some college dorms. We’ve added a rug and their own comfy bed. Honestly, it’s nicer than my college apartment.

You know that feeling when you check into a hotel and everything smells like lavender with nobody breathing on your neck while you sleep? That’s our life now! We are sleeping through the night, soundly, without disturbances. The mystery puddles have disappeared, so perhaps the puddler wasn’t any happier with the sleeping arrangement than we were!

Meanwhile, how are Oliver and the Wookie? THRIVING.

They have their own bedtime routine now. There’s a little pre-bedtime sniff around the dryer, some dramatic sighing, and then they curl up in their luxurious orthopedic bed like the spoiled fluffballs they are. They don’t even look longingly at the master bedroom door anymore. I’m pretty sure The Wookie locked their door last night so we wouldn’t disturb them.

Sometimes, love means boundaries like giving your dogs their own one-bedroom apartment so everyone can sleep, stay dry, and not wake up with a tail in their mouth.

Would I recommend this to other dog owners? Only if they like sleep, sanity, and dry socks.

So here we are. The dogs have their space. We have ours. And peace reigns across Winterpast.

Now if I could just get them to stop changing the dryer settings…

Well, friends, it’s that time of year again when the smell of charcoal, sunscreen, and slightly overripe watermelon fills the air. Yes, it’s the Annual Church BBQ, and let me tell you, the anticipation in the congregation is palpable. Even Mr. and Mrs. Lovebird are a-twitter about something other than their upcoming nuptials. After weeks of meticulous planning and countless group texts, the event has finally arrived. And oh, it is a sight to behold!

The church BBQ grill has been lovingly scrubbed with more elbow grease than a green ’69 GTO at a car show. It’s squeaky clean and ready to go. I mean, you could perform minor surgery on that grill if needed.

An invitation slipped out on Facebook, so there may be a need to return to Walmart for more food. HHH will be making his famous shrimp macaroni salad, and I’m making sugar-free ice cream from scratch.

Speaking of the kids, our littlest saints will be there in full, sugar-fueled force. The slip and slide will be deployed on the HHHHHH Lawn (HHHHHH = Hands of Humble Horticulturist, Hubba-Hubba-Hubby), which was sprouted, and maintained with tender care since March. He still twitches when people walk across the new spots.

Of course, there will be watermelon and macaroni salad. But the real star of the show will be the homemade ice cream. Hand-churned by a church brother who insists on using “the old-fashioned way”, we’ll be roping unsuspecting teens to turn the crank. But let’s be honest, it’ll be worth it. That Cookie and Cream recipe? Divine intervention in dessert form.

The burgers and hot dogs will flip faster than Bible pages during a particularly fiery sermon. Smoke will waft across the lawn like incense on Christmas Eve, except instead of frankincense, it will be mesquite with a dash of hickory.

But perhaps the most unexpected (and highly entertaining) twist this year? Watching the Burning Man pilgrims drive up Main Street towards the Walmart.

We live in that magical town located squarely between “middle of nowhere” and “gateway to the Playa.” Once a year, our little slice of wholesome Americana becomes a pit stop for 80,000 tie-dye tanks, LED hula hoops, and RVs held together with duct tape, glitter, and sheer will. As it’s always been, the townspeople welcome them with open arms.

Not sure if any will drop by our BBQ, but if they do, they’ll have a great time with the rest of us. It turns out the Kingdom of Heaven is big enough for everyone, whether you’re in church clothes or a feather boa. Besides, Jesus did say, “Feed the hungry” and who are we to argue with divine BBQ logic?

As the sun dips below the horizon and the last scoop of ice cream is scooped, we’ll all sit back, full and a little sunburned, watching kids play in the water while adults swap stories. For a split second, we’ll forget how fast the summer is slipping away.

We’ll come together as believers, burners, barefoot toddlers, and one burger-flipping pastor, to celebrate community, faith, and the sacred art of not overcooking a hot dog.

Until next year, Church BBQ, you’ll bless us once again.

Have a wonderful weekend. Amen — and pass the mustard.

There’s something peaceful about being up at 5 am while the world is still groggy and full of early morning optimism about how the day will go. Until he realized the fridge was bare. HHH’s one goal was to grab a few breakfast items while easing into the morning like a responsible adult. On the way, he stumbled headfirst into Burning-Man-Mania, the pre-playa pandemonium turning every store, street, and gas station into a glittered, post-apocalyptic staging area.

The first hint that something was off was the traffic. Not normal “late-for-work” traffic, but a slow-moving, psychedelic parade of RVs, converted school buses, and dusty sedans dragging trailers that still had dealer tags. License plates from every state. Roof racks stacked with bikes. All windows covered with painter’s tape. All this at 5 AM on a Sunday.

With patience and effort, he finally arrived at the parking lot of the grocery store. Every spot was full, most with people sleeping in U-Haul vans (yes, rentable U-Haul vans), doors cracked open, solar panels on the roof, folks visiting in the lot like as if it was a KOA campground.

Inside the store? Polite chaos. Blue painter’s tape flew off the shelves, as Burner’s grabbed it by the armful to seal up their RV windows from the inevitable onslaught of alkali dust. Shopping carts stacked high with ramen, Cliff bars, gallons of water, and boxed wine rolled out the door. It was Mad Max meets Trader Joe’s.

And yet, amid the mania, kindness reigned. Two elderly locals stood behind a group of Burners with a cart that looked like it could support a small army. The old couple held nothing but two avocados and a jug of water. The Burners glanced back, smiled, and waved them ahead. “You guys go first.” Kindness never looked so sweet.

Our town has a population of about 25,000 souls on a busy day. This week? We’re the portal to the play for an influx of 85,000 people armed with radical self-reliance, disco balls, and apparently zero hotel reservations. No vacancies at our motels. Every fast food line is longer than the wait at the DMV.

The gas station looked like a techno refugee camp. Every pump was occupied, RVs and electric trucks trying to top off before hitting the void. People lounged under shade tents in the parking lot. At Reds’, people waited hours for EV chargers. There are NO charging stations where they are headed. Zero.

You see every kind of person during this week. Every color of hair. Neon dreads, metallic green buzz cuts, one man with a cherry-red mohawk tall enough to get Wi-Fi. One gentleman was wearing a vintage prom dress and moon boots while carrying a feathered purse, all in pink. And somehow, it all worked.

HHH did come back with the groceries (no thanks to whoever hoarded all the milk) and crawled home through a gridlocked mass of creativity on wheels. Of course, I was so disappointed that I didn’t get to go, we made a second trip through the mayhem. By then, the migration was gone, headed north toward the playa.

Sadly, 50 mph winds and rain have rearranged tents and belongings. The gates have been closed for a time, with forecasts for monsoonal rain all week. Not good anywhere, but especially on the playa. Stay tuned. Things could get messy.

Next year? I’m doing all my shopping in July. I’ll tape my windows shut just for solidarity. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll grab a tutu so I can blend in at Walmart. We’ll see.

More tomorrow.

It’s not every day your best friend turns 70. And it’s certainly not every day you get to say, “I’ve known this woman for 68 of those years.” That’s right, sixty-eight years. We’ve been best friends longer than some countries have existed. Honestly, I’m not saying we’re old… but if we were a bottle of wine, we’d be very expensive and require a special corkscrew.

Let me tell you about this woman I’ve had the honor of calling my dear friend. My sidekick, co-conspirator, and Maid of Honor (more than once, but let’s not get into the details ) she’s been there through it all. At times, she’s been the only person who knew what I was thinking before I even said it. I have four biological sisters, but it’s this sister of two brothers that I chose as my heart friend.

We met in the dawn of time when poodle skirts were fashionable and nobody had heard of gluten-free anything. Somehow, through childhood chaos, teenage angst, marriages, moves, careers, families, heartbreak, and more laughter than I can measure, we stayed hand in hand.

One of my favorite chapters of our lives together was set among the vineyards of our youth. There we were, two teenage girls, riding our bikes down dusty country roads, hair in the wind, pedal-powered freedom in our hearts, sharing secrets like they were currency. If someone had stopped us and asked what we were talking about so intently, we probably would’ve said something deep and poetic like, “Do you think Glen Campbell would marry either of us if we could play guitar really well?”

Playing the guitar really well (or any other instrument) is her God-given talent. Never depending on sheet music, she can pick up any instrument and play it. For decades, she sang. She danced. Eventually, she had a following on Friday and Saturday night as she crooned Anne Murray songs with her backup band. The band members were all adults and had added her as their singer. It was SHE everyone in town came to see at Fresno’s own Hacienda Inn.

Which brings me to another treasured memory — the guitar lessons. Not in a classroom. No sheet music. Just two girls, a lot of determination, sore fingertips, and a well-worn LP of Glen Campbell songs. She taught me how to strum, to laugh at wrong notes, and to believe that music could stitch up the parts of your heart that life occasionally scuffs up.

We’ve been through it all, from weddings (did I mention she’s really good at delivering Maid of Honor speeches?), to labor, delivery, and child-rearing, ridiculous fashion phases like hot pants (there are photos, and yes, they’re safe for now), and now this wild, wonderful phase of life they call “golden.” Which, let’s be honest, is a lovely euphemism for we can say whatever we want, and people find it charming.

At 70, she’s still the same fierce, funny, big-hearted, slightly stubborn, always-wiser-than-me woman I’ve known forever. And even though we stopped riding bikes decades ago, the conversations are still deep, silly, and full of love.

To my girlfriend of nearly seven decades, thank you for being my REAL sister. Thank you for the memories, the music, the laughter, the honesty, and the endless support. Here’s to the next chapter. May it include more Glen Campbell sing-alongs, soft sunsets, spontaneous giggle fits, and maybe a few bike rides… even if they’re three-wheelers now.

Happy 70th, my beautiful friend. You’re aging like the finest grapes we passed on our bikes, only with better stories and much better taste. When rocks foil your plans, you’ll figure out a way to get free, just as in the children’s book you wrote. Have the best day ever!!!!

Love always,
Your lifelong partner-in-crime,

Joy

Loss is a language everyone speaks, yet no one wants to learn. Slowly or suddenly, softly or with a thunderclap, it leaves its mark in ways both seen and unseen. Whether it’s the loss of a spouse, a dear friend, a beloved pet, a parent, a job, a home, or even a dream, each of us knows what it means to ache for what once was.

Grief wears many faces. For some, it’s quiet tears behind closed doors. For others, it’s loud and angry, raw and desperate. Sometimes, it shows up not in sadness, but in numbness, fatigue, or confusion. There’s no “right” way to grieve, just as there’s no single path through it. But wherever you are in that journey, hope is something greater that can help you along your way.

Hope, in the Christian sense, is not wishful thinking. It isn’t a vague longing for things to get better. It’s deeper, stronger, and more certain than that. Hope is the confident expectation that God is who He says He is, with promises that won’t ever fail.

It’s hard to believe that tonight, HHH and I host our last 13-week Grief Share class. It’s been an amazing time to revisit our own grief journeys while helping others work through theirs. HHH is preparing his fabulous Chicken Cordon Bleu for our group dinner, and that never disappoints. Then, it will be time to consider what’s next. As a Christian, the next thing involves hope.

The Bible calls hope “an anchor for the soul, firm and secure” (Hebrews 6:19). When everything around us is shifting and we feel like we’re adrift in sorrow and uncertainty, hope is what keeps us grounded. It doesn’t remove the pain of loss, but it promises that pain is not the end of the story.

Hope tells us that brokenness isn’t forever.

• God is near to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18).
• Joy comes in the morning, even if the night feels endless (Psalm 30:5).

That’s not just poetry, but a trustworthy promise.

To move on after loss doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean rushing past grief or pretending everything is okay. It means allowing God to gently walk with us through the valley and trusting Him to bring beauty out of ashes in His time.

Laughing again may feel quite strange at first. Do it anyway. Reaching out to someone when you’re drowning in silence may seem like a weakness. It’s the opposite, as you allow others to care for you. In no time at all, you’ll be able to return the favor.

Loss shapes us, but it doesn’t define us. What defines us is the love that remains, the precious memories we carry, and the hope that sustains us.

If you’re reading this and feeling the weight of grief pressing down on you, know that you’re not alone. God sees you and hears every unsaid word, tear, and sleepless night. He doesn’t expect you to “have it all together.” He only asks you to lean on Him when your strength is gone.

Grief may change with time, but it won’t disappear. And that’s okay. Because in Christ, we don’t move on alone, but forward with Him, holding tightly to the anchor of hope. And that kind of hope doesn’t disappoint.

Wherever you are, whatever you may do, consider finding a Grief Share group in your area if you’re in need. There can never be enough tools in the tool belt when trouble comes knocking.

More tomorrow.

It’s hard to believe that it’s been three years since life took a wild and crazy turn. How could anyone prepare for something that ends up being even better than their wildest dreams? Meeting HHH (Hubba-Hubba-Hubby) changed everything for one healing widow living on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. And, it pretty much rocked the world of one healing widower, as well.

Year one was a beautiful surprise. It was full of late-night conversations, long walks, dating, and simple happiness in getting to know one another. Discovering a man who just “got” me was a game-changer. We found ourselves laughing at the silliest things. HHH listened wholeheartedly with patience, curiosity, and kindness. As our love story unfolded, it was like watching a favorite Rom Com in real time. Every day felt like a new chapter, and that first year was magical.

After one full year of dating, HHH proposed. The details will remain sealed forever, but most of the day, I thought he was going to tell me things weren’t working out. Silly, because the previous 365 days couldn’t have been better. He was one ball of nerves, not knowing what my reply would be. Looking back, it makes the memories all the sweeter.

Over the past three years, I’ve known two girlfriends who had no intention of re-marrying. NEVER, NOT EVER. Widowed, they couldn’t imagine moving forward with someone else. However, both found the RIGHT Mr. Someone. As I help Miss Love Bird prepare her wedding, it takes me back to the excitement of our own wedding in October, 2023.

Oh, the beauty of our wedding! Planning it together wasn’t just about the event itself, but about all the little decisions that reflected who we are and what we love. The church (our favorite place) was the starting point, and from there, everything blossomed. There was laughter, mini-disasters that somehow became inside jokes, and details debated over breakfast. It was joyful chaos, but above all, it was ours. The Ring of Fire Solar Eclipse started the day off right and was something that’ll stay in my memory forever.

Family and friends arrived, dropping in to enjoy pictures before the big event. With hair curled and a bouquet that looked like it was picked from an English garden, we headed for the church. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, I walked down the aisle to my forever. Exchanging vows in that sacred space, surrounded by love, it felt like the world stopped spinning just for a moment.

Over time, we’ve become closer as our lives have intertwined. New friendships have entered our lives like unexpected flowers in our ever-growing garden. Literally and figuratively, our gardens have grown. Patches of earth have become our shared canvas as each plant has become a metaphor of our life together. Marriage in our golden years has been nurturing, patient, sometimes messy, and overflowing with hope.

There’s something quietly magical about waking up every day with someone who turns even the most ordinary moments into an adventure. Whether it’s a spontaneous trip to Lowe’s, Sunday morning with pancakes, or just deadheading in the garden, everything we’ve experienced is a gift. We have a life of joy stitched together with the little things that, in the end, turn out to be BIG. These past three years have been, without a doubt, the best years I could’ve ever asked for.

So now, with hearts full and hands held tight, we’re going to celebrate! Not just anniversaries or milestones, but us and this wild, beautiful, ever-evolving journey we’re on together.

To HHH: Thank you for being my person, my partner, my home, my love. Here’s to everything we’ve shared and everything that’s still to come. ❤️Now, get in the car! We’ve got some celebrating to do!

As for the rest of you, have a wonderful weekend. I’ll be back Monday.

As Burning Man winds down and our streets fill with muddy vehicles, art cars on trailers, and people wearing everything from fur coats to… not much at all, our town will take a breath.

Yes, it’s that week. Traffic gets weird, coffee shops get crowded, and someone might ask you where to buy glitter or goat milk soap at 7 am, and it’s easy to get annoyed. But this year, we’ll try something different by leading with kindness. We’ll let them go ahead in line this time. Waving to them into traffic, we’ll smile, even if they’re blocking the gas pump while tying a mattress to the roof.

Remember that this is temporary. Actually, we probably seem just as odd to them. I’m sure they question how anyone could live here year-round without Wi-Fi made from solar-powered crystal pyramids. To them, it’s a puzzlement.

We’ll do our best to find humor in the inconvenience. After all, how often do you get to see a man in a tutu politely buying brake fluid?

It’s not every week that one survives 50 mph winds blowing clouds of dust, a torrential downpour, choking smoke from a raging wildfire, an electrocution with life flight involved, and a cold, dead body in a pool of blood. That’s a lot to experience in seven days.

These folks are tired, dusty, and probably still processing whatever happened out there on the playa. We’ll send them off with love until next year, while our little town will be the calm in their reentry storm. Maybe we could all throw in a collective prayer that they find a real shower soon.

Kindness and patience cost nothing, while sending ripples of goodness far beyond this moment in time.

So let’s show them how good it feels to come back to the “default world.” Be the peace, the grace, and the kindly neighbor they’ll never forget.

With that, here’s a small prayer as they pass through:

May we slow our pace as the world rushes by.
Soften our hearts, even when dust clouds our view.
As we embrace the strange,
Let us temper our impatience with understanding.
Grant us tolerance for others,
And let kindness be the gift we offer freely this very day. Amen

If there’s one thing desert life teaches you, it’s to expect the unexpected. A lizard in your shoe? Sure. Your car taken over a flash flood? Why not. But the most recent addition to the growing list of “What Fresh Nonsense Is This?” arrived during last week’s second biblical-level monsoonal downpour. Our archenemy, the dastardly squirrel, came begging for cover like a wet, twitchy refugee.

Yes, that squirrel. The one who’s been treating our porch like a warzone for the past year. The one who chews through bird feeders, mockingly stares me down while I drink coffee, and once ate 150 brand new seedlings I’d just grown from seed. He’s not just a nuisance. He’s a fuzzy little menace with boundary issues. And then? He squatted on our porch like we’re old college buddies huddling out a storm together.

But let’s rewind.

The desert, in its infinite irony, decided to turn into a swamp last week. Not once, but twice. Rain came in sheets, sideways, upways, probably down from space. Burners were camped out all over town, their RVs shimmering under the weight of soaked hopes and soggy costumes. The roads turned to pudding. People with “low” houses found out just how literal “flood zone” really is. The sage plants didn’t know what to do. The dogs were confused. It was chaos.

In the middle of this monsoon madness, up scampered Sir Drenched Nibbles, aka the squirrel, eyes wide, tail limp, soaked to the bone like a rejected extra from a wildlife disaster film. He looked up at HHH, rain dripping from his whiskers, and I swear he mouthed, “Truce?”

For a split second, HHH didn’t know what to do. Do you close the door in the face of your enemy? Or do you let him huddle under the eaves while nature gives him the same cosmic wedgie it gave the rest of us?

HHH did the right thing. He chased that little bugger back out into the storm while I sat inside, sipping a Diet Coke. As he ran away, glaring at the rain I’m pretty sure he was planning where he’ll bury peanuts in revenge.

We haven’t seen him since.

Meanwhile, out here in the desert, the sun has returned with enough humidity to make our Oreos go limp. The puddles are slowly retreating. But we’ll never forget the day our furry nemesis came looking for mercy during the strange desert monsoon that left Burners questioning their life choices. As for us? The chance of storms continues this week. Bring it on!!! We’re ready.

Have a Terrific Tuesday!

Something as innocent as painting the trim on the house can lead to a cascade of home beautification projects. As promised, here are some pics of the projects! Enjoy.

If you give your wife some painted trim,
She might notice that the front yard looks a little bare.

If she notices the front looks a little bare,
She’ll probably want some plants.

The new flower beds across the drive are beautiful!

Once you install six yards of new bark for her,
She may notice you need ten ton of river rock for the border.

Once the new rock is installed,
She’ll picture redwood garden boxes, perfectly placed.

Once the garden boxes are moved from garden to front yard,
She’ll definitely want them freshly stained.

Once they’re painted,
She’ll need them filled with fresh dirt.

And, what are handcrafted redwood garden boxes without custom drip irrigation?

Once the new dirt is installed,
It’ll be back to the landscaping store to buy five more yards of bark.

And to finish the job, she’ll mention that you have some left over rock for a 12″ border next to the front walk..

After six long weeks, once the front yard is in order,
You’ll step outside together with morning coffee to enjoy the back yard.

Looking at each other, you begin the new list together……

If only the back yard had new bark and neat rock borders around the beds……..

Deep sighs can be heard throughout Winterpast.

And so it goes………

Have a great Wednesday!!

The first signs of change have come quietly. The kids have returned to school, our mornings marked by the rustle of backpacks and the hum of yellow school buses. The tempo of life has shifted, not with fanfare, but with the return of routine. Out here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, a five-minute cross-town trip to Walmart can now take 15 minutes, intensifying traffic as parents drop off their children while releasing a collective sigh of relief.

Even in our small town, the reality of life in 2025 is harsh. On the first day of high school, a false report of a school shooting came before the first bell. Thankfully, it was a nasty prank played out on social media. Since then, everything has been smooth, except for the additional yellow buses on our roadways.

Another monsoonal system brushed across the desert, sprinkling the sage and sand with just enough rain to release that familiar, earthy fragrance. It’s a gift that comes sparingly in our area, after which the desert seems to pause and breathe deeply. The mountainsides around here are a nice shade of green.

The wild mustangs have drifted down from the high country, their coats sleek against the late summer sunshine. They move with a knowing grace, as though answering an ancient call carried on the wind. Their presence near the valley floor is a reminder that the season is changing, that even in wide, open spaces, life follows its own rhythms of retreat and return.

In the garden, the peonies have laid themselves to rest with blooms spent, their beauty folded back into the earth. They’ve “turned up their toes” for another year, making way for the subtler colors of autumn. Overhead, hummingbirds sip at feeders one last time, their wings a blur of urgency. Soon, they’ll migrate south, chasing warmth and blossoms yet to come.

Even among people, migration begins. The snowbirds are leaving on their own journeys, packing up campers and steering toward milder climates. Slowly, driveways empty, and RV’s are on the move. Don’t think for one moment that the week after Labor Day is a great time to visit the National Parks. Parks are clogged with retired Seniors this week, who waited until the kids are back in school. Been there, done that. It’s a different kind of unpleasant.

Here, fall arrives not in a rush of color, but in whispers with cooler mornings, longer shadows, and the hush of wings in flight. It’s a season that asks us to notice the small shifts, settle into the comfort of change, and to honor the steady turning of time. On the high desert plains, where the sky feels endless and the land holds its secrets well, fall is less an arrival than a gentle unfolding.

During this unfolding, I feel gratitude for the mustangs that remind me of resilience, for the fleeting blooms that teach me about rest, for the birds that carry on with certainty, and for the desert itself, which, even in its sparseness, offers abundance in rhythm and grace. I’m grateful to be a part of such beauty.

Whispers in the Breeze

The wind takes hold of silver strings,
And softly, through the garden sings.
Each note a memory, light and true,
A song of love from me to you.

Though hands are stilled and voices gone,
Their spirit lingers, living on.
In every chime, a tender call—
They are not lost; they are with us all.

This morning, the meditation garden will be filled with activity. The new windchimes, hung with care, catch the late-summer breeze and carry their music into every corner of the church property. On Sunday, we’ll dedicate them, not only as decoration, but as a remembrance to those we’ve lost.

Each chime is a voice of memory, and together, they play a concert that will go on forever. For Marian, whose love of golf and fast cars brought energy and laughter wherever she went. For Ike, whose devotion to the Bible and his family grounded him with strength and grace. For Ray, who chose to move to heaven instead of California, leaving us with a smile and a story only he could tell. For these and the others that have gone before us, we’ll dedicate these beautiful chimes.

After our Bible breakfast this morning, we’ll tend the garden as we spruce up the new roses and spread mulch to keep the beds fresh and pretty. There’s plenty of raking, for the storms have brought down more pine needles. The fountains need water, and we might even put out a little seed for those birds that struggle this time of year. Church gardening always feels like an offering and a way to honor those we miss so dearly. When we’re done, all we’ll need to do is wait for Sunday.

The garden is more than a place of quiet reflection. It is a living memory, growing and blooming with every season. As the chimes sing in the wind, we’re reminded that though we’ve lost Marian, Ike, and Ray in this life, their love still whispers among us—gentle, steady, and everlasting.

Lord, we thank You for the gift of memory,
for the lives of Marian, Ike, and Ray,
and for the ways they touched our hearts.
May these windchimes sing as reminders
of joy, of faith, and of love.
Bless this garden as a place of peace,
where those who enter find comfort,
and where the voices of our loved ones
echo gently in every breeze.
Amen.

Have a wonderful weekend. I’ll be back Monday!!!

There’s a kind of heartbreak that comes quietly when the soft hum of wings no longer fills the air. Again, it appears our bees are failing. We’ve given them a brand-new hive, time, care, water, food, and love, yet something is missing, and something is very wrong. A new honey super sits empty on top of the two main boxes. After months, not even a bit of work was done in an area that should have been full.

We wish they could tell us what we’ve missed. We’ve tried to listen, understand, and do better. We’ve tried different approaches throughout the season, and yet, they are again, failing. It’s not for trying. For goodness sakes, we’ve even got a bee expert on our side coaching our every move. The results have been the same.

Last week, we very carefully opened the hive hoping to see a little something in the honey super. It sat, pristine and quite empty, while the majority of the bees were still trying to figure out how to make wax in the two boxes below. They’ve never found their true home here in the high desert plains.

Bees forage in a two mile radius. Our desert doesn’t provide much in the way of blooms for them to enjoy. Most people in the desert don’t have a wildlife refuge like Winterpast has become. Most people around here buy a house, move in, close the windows, and let the backyard harden into a baked expanse of sand with water at a premium. Time is even more precious. Gardening is a lost art here in our little town.

Xeriscaping has overtaken common sense. Humans need gardens as much as the gardens need us. But, few people appreciate that anymore and the bees around here pay a heavy price.

Beekeeping used to be simpler. Back in the 80s, swarms were caught, and the bees went to work. A few stings were the price of honey, pollen, and a living rhythm that tied us to the earth. The bees were our resilient, buzzing, tireless partners. Perhaps after years of being raided, medicated, and disturbed week after week, they’re tired of it all. Here, they’ve just given up.

Today, mites and diseases strike with merciless persistence. Hives collapse for reasons that no one fully understands. I do mean NO ONE. Universities have their brightest minds working on the problem, which is massive. Last year, 70% of the hives in the US collapsed. We can treat, feed, and tend, but the end often comes the same. And it’s not just here but across the world that hives are dying off, one by one.

A friend of mine was quite distraught about the demise of the bees, predicting the collapse of all human food sources without pollination. No doubt, farmers desperately need bees. Thank goodness there are brilliant minds that propagate bees every year. New resistant varieties show a promising future. We all need to take a breath and remember that bees are not the only pollinators, just the domesticated ones.

There will always be bees, somewhere, just not in our backyard. Not in the new wooden boxes, not under the smoke’s gentle haze, and not in the gardens we hoped they’d roam and thrive. The silence feels heavy and final.

We’ll finish out the year. Their house has been reduced. We’ll check on them a couple more times before winter comes. Then, it’s up to them. If they can make it through months of cold, we’ll give them a glorious “Hello” in the spring. It’s all up to them now.

So, with a quiet kind of grief, we are hanging up our smoker and suits. Our hope hasn’t died, but it feels bruised, tired, and a little bit heartsick. Perhaps someday the hum will return. But for now, we’ll savor a few golden jars of honey, summer’s sweetness, and the lessons our bees have taught us. Even the smallest creatures carry the weight of the world.

The light lingers for less time each day, folding itself away in softer hues. Nights arrive cooler now, carrying the fragrance of late summer and the quiet promise of autumn. September rain has polished the air, leaving a stillness that feels both new and familiar, like a long-forgotten lullaby. HHH and I love fall here in our little town.

City workers have been clearing drains and culverts to prepare our neighborhood for whatever lies ahead. These late summer storms are storybook perfect. The last one gave us a 30-minute lightning show, as huge bolts crashed across the sky.

On the edge of town, the mustangs’ presence is unwavering, a reminder of strength that endures through every season.

Here at Winterpast, the shift is tender. The crab apple is loosening its grip on summer, releasing leaves one by one, each a soft farewell. The apricot tree follows, as if reluctant but willing, surrendering to the rhythm of rest. The garden beds, once alive with color and harvest, stand quiet now, empty, yet dignified in their pause. Everything is ready for a trim.

Even the creatures adjust with grace. The squirrel has left its damp shelter for higher ground, and the hummingbirds, jeweled sparks in the cooling air, drink deeply in preparation for their long southern flight. Every small gesture seems to carry a message: it is time to let go, time to trust the turning.

Summer has been generous. It leaves behind memories of warmth, color, and life abundant. And now, Winterpast begins to undress, preparing itself for the long, healing sleep of winter. The earth reminds us that rest is not the ending, but the beginning of renewal.

In the midst of these comings and goings, there is this promise from God: “As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night shall not cease.” (Genesis 8:22)

Fall reminds us that nothing is wasted, nothing is forgotten. Every ending folds into a beginning, and every pause is held in God’s steady hands. With the temperature below 80 today, we can be found in our other office……

Some people think running a church is about Sunday sermons, potluck dinners, and choir practice. Sweet souls. They’ve clearly never tried to calculate the sheer number of man-hours it takes to keep the building and grounds in good working order.

First, we’ve got the maid and her daughter. They sweep, scrub, and polish every other week. While doing so, they’re on the lookout for a broken this or that. They find new things that need fixing each visit. Without them, we’d be holding services in a sea of crumbs, coffee stains, and smears on every flat surface. That’s at least ten hours a month right there.

Next, there’s the small army of handymen. And by “army,” I mean the pastor with a toolbox, his trusty hammer, and a willingness to crawl under and over things most sane people wouldn’t. Add in the ever-present “consulting crew” of church elders who lean on the doorframe and offer advice, such as, “Get the level, that’s not straight.” We’ll call that infinite hours, because the repairs never end. A chip here, a ding there, and mysterious stains that appear out of thin air.

Then there are the volunteers. Bless them as they’re out there watering grass that resists being green, coaxing ancient roses to bloom again, and working to make the little house in the back livable again. They spend hours, even days, kneeling in flower beds, trying to keep weeds from achieving sainthood through sheer persistence.

And don’t forget the parishioners. They’re wonderful at quietly pointing out what’s broken. “Did you notice that spot on the carpet? Also, the toilet handle is loose. And by the way, the picture over the Keurig looks like it’s tilting to the left.” Sometimes they even fix things themselves! But most times, they just add to the list. Either way, they’re a huge part of the equation.

The pastor’s wife handles everything else. All the banking, bills, and communications when needed. She is the face and voice of our church. Gracious and lovely in every way, she’s the first to offer a welcoming hug and words of encouragement. Married decades, she supports our Pastor when he needs encouragement, as all pastors do. Together, they run a tight ship.

Of course, there’s also Ray. Or at least the ghost of Ray, who lives on in our hearts and occasionally seems to rattle around the building, reminding us how much he used to fix, tighten, patch, and mend. He set the bar high, and now in his absence, we hear him whispering, “The Keurig needs water and the fridge is a big smudged.” Thanks, Ray. We miss you.

So, when you add it all up, how many man hours does it take to maintain a church?
Answer: all of them. Every single one. From sunrise to sunset, and probably a few after midnight, someone is sweeping, hammering, pruning, fertilizing, watering, or tightening a bolt.

But you know what? It’s a labor of love. Because while things may get chipped, dinged, stained, squeaky, and occasionally over-watered, it’s the very hands of the maid, pastor, volunteer, parishioner (and yes, Ray) that keep the place standing tall and ready for another Sunday.

Besides, where else can you get a free workout plan that includes scrubbing, hammering, hauling mulch, and climbing ladders while laughing with friends? We call it The Church Challenge, available at a sanctuary near you!

More tomorrow!

I’d been a grandmother for less than a month when the world shifted beneath our feet. A second grandchild was on the way. My two boys and daughter-in-law were all serving in the United States Air Force. I was teaching third grade and farming the same land my great-grandfather, grandparents, and aunt had worked during World War II. The morning of September 11, 2001 felt like every other day, and then, in an instant, what we thought we knew about tomorrow was gone.

At my usual morning stop at Klein’s Truck Stop, the cashier said a small plane had hit the World Trade Center in New York City. Wow. There was always something crazy in New York. By the time the sun finished rising over the Sierra Nevada Mountains, we’d find out just how much we didn’t know.

As school began, I remember walking into my classroom after being with adults who couldn’t stop crying. The principal, teachers, secretary, and even parents who had come in for a conference were in shock. My littles were small enough to think grownup tears were the most important thing to notice. They asked, quietly and with blunt child logic, “What happened?” I gave them the simplest truth I could. Somewhere, very far away from our little school, something terrible caused lots of people pain. We couldn’t fix it with answers I didn’t have, but we could hold one another, breathe, and keep the room safe while the rest of the world tried to understand.

My kiddos rose to the occasion in the sweetest, most honest way. While the adults tried to make sense of the news, my class drew pictures and wrote letters to NYPD fire and police, doctors, nurses, and strangers who were working, helping, and grieving. They packed those small envelopes with hope and faith that their words would matter. After all, writing is life. At the end of the day, we mailed those letters to the New York City Fire Department, a testament that even the littlest hands can reach out and try to mend something far bigger than themselves.

Years later, on September 11, 2014, at a town service during my last year teaching with the district, a young woman stopped me. She was one of those third graders. She remembered our day together and how we wrote and colored while comforting one another. She told me my words had helped her then. For a moment, we were transported back in time to that classroom table in 2001. Those are the moments that keep the memory alive, showing how small acts of kindness matter decades later.

Life did not — and will not — return to what it was on September 10, 2001. Things large and small, political and personal, changed forever that day. In some places, schools choose not to dwell on it because it is too painful for young children. How silly. I remember the brave, simple compassion of my students who wanted to do something meaningful to help on that horrible day. Remembering does not have to be only about the horror, but can also include the kindness that helped that day.

Today, take a breath and think back to where you were that day. What were you doing to make a difference? Were you small and confused, like my third graders, or grown and scrambling to understand? Twenty-four years later, think about the lives that changed in an instant. Let that memory lead you to a small act of kindness, either by donating, volunteering an hour, or calling someone who would appreciate being remembered.

Tunnel to Towers has become my go-to. As with any charity, it’s wise to learn about its leadership and finances. For inspiration from ordinary people stepping up when called upon, watch Come From Away, the tale of Gander and the small town that opened its heart to strangers.

We can never forget. Not for one blink of an eye. Not for one quiet morning when the sun rises as it always has. Remembering is not merely an obligation but a way to teach the next generation how to be human in the face of heartbreak: to mourn, to help, and to keep showing up for each other. Everyday.

Do something kind today.

Headlines on any given day bombard us with disturbing headlines, tragedies, and voices pulling. The noise of social media scrolls on endlessly, the news cycle never pauses, and opinions often clash louder than they connect. Weary, stretched thin, and struggling to find clarity, we find ourselves in the middle of a digital storm.

Taking time isn’t a luxury but a necessity. In quiet moments, away from the constant hum of information, breathe, think, and begin to process what’s truly important. When tragedy strikes, like the sudden loss of Charlie Kirk or Iryna Zarutka, we’re reminded that life is fragile, unpredictable, and too often filled with pain. Grief, loss, and the weight of events like these require space to sit with our feelings, reflect, and simply be.

During that pause, powerful things can happen. We begin to hear not only the noise of the world, but also different perspectives and voices we may not have noticed before. Listening deeply does not mean abandoning belief. It means expanding our understanding, letting compassion and patience guide us instead of fear or anger.

In the same breath, we must lean on deeply held values. In a world where misinformation can spread faster than truth, it’s more important than ever to rely on scientific facts and wisdom that is tested and true. When we pair careful listening with careful reasoning, we move closer to decisions that honor both humanity and reality.

At this time, I’m taking a few days of peace as I watch the quiet dance of falling leaves. I’ll be back September 25. In the meantime, please take time to enjoy moments of stillness and quiet reflection. Offer a smile to a stranger, a helping hand to a neighbor, or a word of encouragement to someone who needs it. Small, random acts of kindness have a greater effect on this old world than we can ever imagine.

Tragedy teaches us not only about loss, but about the importance of faith, hope, presence, compassion, clarity, and love. Taking one step at a time, move forward with grace, wisdom, and deeper love for one another.

After an exciting ocean adventure on the Pacific, it’s wonderful to be back home on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Home, where there are family and friends to hug during these crazy times. Home with our sweet dogs. Home, where leaves are quietly falling as the rest of the world is going insane. Home at Winterpast.

Months ago, HHH won a cruise to Alaska, and September fit our plans. Avoiding the summer-break kids, it would surely be quieter after they were all back in school. And so, we booked our autumn adventure.

It seemed like an eternity as we waited for embarkation day. For six months, we counted off each day until the Sail-Away party. Throughout the summer, thoughts of lumberjacks and glaciers filled our minds. What would it be like? How vast would the wilderness be? Would we see bald eagles or grizzly bears? Whales? The Northern Lights? The answers to all those questions would wait until mid-September.

Packing was an adventure all on its own. Planning for Mexico is quite different than filling suitcases for Alaska. Two fifty-pound bags overflowed into three, with the addition of heavy boots, parkas, gloves, hats, and rain gear. We didn’t forget a thing, even packing mosquito repellent and sunscreen. There’d be no sunburning, swatting, or shivering once atop Mendenhall Glacier! We were prepared for any situation.

Our trip started out like every other cruise we’ve been on. Sailing away on the 17th floor of our cruise ship, things were grand under a soft Seattle mist. The dancers magically appeared from nowhere to entertain the new guests. We were on our way to an adventure that turned out a little different from what we’d hoped.

The first full day at sea was glorious. On the first formal night, everyone was excited to strut their finery throughout the ship. You would’ve never known we were headed to the rugged north. Fedora atop his head, HHH wore his new suit, with an even newer pink shirt and black tie. I’d been to the salon earlier in the day to have waist-length hair braided around a cobalt blue hair comb. Up-do-ed and shiny shoe-d, we enjoyed a night great memories are made of.

But, things were about to change…….

On Wednesday, the captain announced that the dangerous weather would force us inland. Six ships, including a sister ship to us, would wait together while 70 mph winds would blow through the open seas. It was simply too dangerous to continue towards the glaciers and Endicott Arm. With sadness, any hope of seeing glaciers was gone. Just like that.\

The rest of the trip was quite rough. Gone were any hopes of brilliant blue skies or postcard-perfect pictures. There were no grizzlies, or whales, or northern lights. We were lucky to avoid sea-sickness, even though we did manage to pick up a virus along the way.

While our ship rocked and rolled in the high seas, the mainland met its own turning point. Tumultuous seas with 15-foot swells were nothing compared to the sadness that swept over America. Sadness for a young wife and mom as she found the strength and courage to comfort us during HER time of loss. A turning point caused Christians throughout the country to find their collective voice while inviting others to know Christ.

Through very grey skies, this cruise wasn’t the most beautiful or adventure-filled. It started out promising to show us the beauty of our last great wilderness, but ended up being a time for reflection and acceptance of God’s plan.

How have the last two weeks affected you? Have you taken time for reflection? If life’s seas are rough for you right now, have you opened your heart to Jesus? Now is a great time to talk to Him. It will be the adventure of your lifetime.

More tomorrow.

It’s hard to believe how quickly this year has slipped through our fingers. One minute we were planting seeds, and the next we’re preparing the gardens for winter. High desert mornings have taken on an unmistakable crispness, carrying with them the scents of damp earth as the leaves begin to fall.

Autumn is here, as October is peeking around the corner. We’ve traded t-shirts, shorts, and ice water for cozy sweaters and steaming cups of coffee. As September ends, whispers of the first snow of the season loom. It’s another reminder of how quickly one season gives way to the next.

After just putting away last winter’s mousetraps, it’s time to start the process of mouse extermination again. As God’s creatures, we all need food and shelter. However, Winterpast is full, and disease-ridden furballs need to move along or meet their end.

As for the birds, the hummingbirds have left on their migration south. Thank goodness we can still enjoy the quail and dove. We’re doing our part to feed the winged wildlife as the days are shorter and the nights colder. As soon as we put seed out, it’s gone, and so it goes in the gardens of Winterpast.

Yesterday, the arborist arrived to remove three more trees. Since 2020, an apple tree has been more work than it’s worth. That first year, I had high hopes for wonderful pies and applesauce. Unfortunately, these apples weren’t a variety suitable for cooking. Attracting disease and worms, hundreds of rotten apples littered the ground. To add to the unpleasantness, they became Oliver’s favorite “under-the-dining-room-table” snack. Work on top of work, with no benefit to the humans of the house.

Yesterday, that tree was removed to make way for a new pond. All that remained were remnants of the 2025 crop, which are now gone. Along with that tree, a scrawny ornamental plum and the JuJube tree are now history. Sometimes, you need to clear the slate, and yesterday was the day. So long and farewell.

With the yard demanding so many hours of love and care, “spring cleaning” has quietly been renamed “fall cleaning”. It’s time to tackle a long list of projects put off for “later” as we prepare our home for the season of gathering, slowing down, and tucking in. With cooler weather, the garage needs attention, while the man cave needs a good cleaning. Inside, dust bunnies will meet their end. As we keep up with the falling leaves, we’ll keep moving forward as we keep pace with the changing seasons. But, we’ll also take time to enjoy the quiet show of falling leaves and changing skies.

Autumn teaches us to notice the swiftness of time, not with regret, but with gratitude. Each season has its own beauty, rhythm, chores, and joys to savor. As this year winds down, there’s still a season of rain-soaked mornings, colorful leaves, and autumn light to enjoy. Take time to pause and be thankful.

Have a wonderful weekend. I’ll be back on Monday.

Five years. 1,825 days. A lifetime, yet only a breath. It cannot be overlooked that on September 24, 2020, the first word of my story was written for all to read. What a crazy story it’s been!

Everything began with a word whispered in sorrow and written through tears. In those early days, when grief was fresh and heavy, words became the thread that stitched my world back together. Journals, prayers, and stories carried me through heavy fog. All while God surrounded me with His love and encouragement.

Five years ago, I stood outside a life I no longer recognized. As a widow, I learned how to breathe again and live as a single adult for the very first time in my life. Every day was a lesson (some were harsh, some gentle) in how to stand, laugh, and find purpose when life had changed in ways I never wanted.

As a Grieving Gardener, I found comfort within the walls of my precious Winterpast. She became my world for a time, making sure that I had a soft place to heal. She provided the perfect pace to watch the seasons roll by, while I realized I could survive and thrive in the new place that would become my forever home.

God, in His tender mercy, didn’t leave me there. Step by step, He led me. Through words, through tears, through prayers, through the ordinary days that somehow become extraordinary now that I look back on them. Slowly, I found more than just survival. I found myself. I found Him. And with Him, I found peace.

Day after day, writing gave meaning to my new life. Grievinggardener.com became the friend and ear that listened to my words as I explored and grew. As a brilliant 5th grader once reminded me, “Writing is life.”

My journey did not stop there. For in this season of rebuilding, love found me once again. My beloved life mate now walks beside me. HHH came at the perfect time to share our golden year. Such a beautiful gift I never imagined, but now treasure so deeply. From a widow, I have emerged a wife again. And so, the circle of life continues.

Looking back over these last five years, I see so much more than grief. I see transformation. I see faithfulness. I see the hand of God guiding out of darkness into the light.

Five years. 1,825 days. Such a journey. Such a milestone.

And, it all began with a word.

More tomorrow.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. Turns out, it also takes a congregation of forty slightly feverish saints to pull off a wedding when half of them are coughing their way down the aisle. In our small town, we share everything, including hacking coughs and Covid.

In less than two short weeks, the Love Birds will marry despite the uninvited guest of COVID. The bride has a supply of tissues along with her delicate hankie, the groom has the thermometer, and the attendants will have enough hand sanitizer to bathe in. Somehow, this will work because this ball is rolling.

As a church family, there was no need for a professional wedding planner. HHH and I stepped up to the plate. As with many things, I stepped up and included him. As the days have gone by, he’s enjoying himself, (but don’t tell anyone). With our entire church membership ready to leap into action even while sniffling and sneezing, this wedding is going to be splendid.

The small but mighty ring-bearer promised not to swallow the rings before delivery. Just in case there is any misunderstanding, the maid of honor will guard the real rings with her life. The flower girl will scatter petals like a germ-free fairy princess.

The bride and groom will walk down the aisle to harp music played by our own personal harpist. While the overflow crowd will watch the nuptials on the jumbotron in the second seating area. It will be an incentive to arrive early for the best seats in the house. Being on a Sunday afternoon, I would assume half the guests will stay after the last “Amen” to help.

After the first-look, photographs, ceremony, and reception line, the bride and groom will lead their adoring guest to the second venue, just up the road, for a scrumptious meal and wedding cake. There, the fellowship ladies will have assembled the reception feast with gloves, Lysol, and prayers for a happy life. Everyone has a role, even if their biggest contribution is bringing their own box of Kleenex.

What could be better than one pastor officiating a wedding? Two pastors. Together, they’ll make sure the “I do’s” happen before anyone has to excuse themselves for a coughing fit.

Through it all, our brave bride and groom will shine with their own happy glow. COVID might have taken away the sound of clear voices and replaced them with sniffles, but it can’t steal the joy of two hearts finally saying “YES”. Because, at the end of the day, love is not measured in centerpieces or flawless ceremonies. It’s measured in determination, laughter, and maybe a few negative test results.

In less than two weeks, forty church members, two pastors, one heroic ring bearer, and a handful of cough drops will make the impossible possible. The Love Birds will tie the knot. And we’ll help them do it in true small-church fashion—together.

More tomorrow.

Somehow, I’ve started receiving a morning email with the word of the day. These words aren’t those used in everyday language. Each day, I’m excited to learn about a new word and the meaning. I’m especially fond of the timely word that arrived two days ago. As news grows more dim, it seems I’ve been experiencing the feeling of WELTSCHMERZ.

Some mornings it feels like the world wakes up with a bruise. A shooting here, a murderous church burning there, these headlines accumulate like tombstones. The German word “Weltschmerz” aptly captures this sentiment, defined as a sorrow that comes from the realization that the world isn’t what it could and should be. Lately, it seems to wash over me daily, like waves against a weary shore.

The devil is having himself a field day. He’s busy planting fear in headlines, fanning the flames of hate, and distracting us with despair. That ache in your chest when you scroll through the news? That heaviness when you hear of another tragedy? That’s the weight of Weltschmerz. Pressing down on us, it suffocates joy while trying to convince us all is lost, while the devil delights in his handiwork.

But the truth is, we can’t allow Weltschmerz to rule our days.

Yes, evil is loud, but so is love when it speaks. For every act of destruction, there are countless random acts of kindness that never make the news like a neighbor carrying in groceries, a nurse holding a trembling hand, or a teacher speaking hope into a tired child. God has always been in the business of turning ashes into beauty, and He still is.

Weltschmerz finds us stuck in despair, but faith calls us to lift our eyes. Weep for the brokenness, but don’t let it poison the hours we’ve been given. Instead, plant joy in the middle of sorrow. Laugh, pray, sing, and love so defiantly that the devil’s so-called field day is cut short.

So, when that wave of Weltschmerz comes, let it wash past you without stealing your faith and hope. Anchor yourself in God’s goodness, look for the sparks of kindness all around, and remember that our world doesn’t belong to the devil. It belongs to the Lord.

More tomorrow.

They say “two are better than one.” I wholeheartedly agree, especially when one of those two is HHH and the other is me. Somehow, though, I keep signing him up as if he’s a four-armed, four-legged superhero instead of a normal human being while assuming he’ll be thrilled to help.

It all started innocently enough: “Honey, wouldn’t it be nice to take a gardening class?” Next thing you know, HHH was knee-deep in mulch, spending afternoons reading up on the subject about which he’s already an expert. After graduating to the Master Gardener portion, we turned from hours of volunteer requirements to more meaningful work.

HHH had offered to mow the church lawn once a week. That mysteriously morphed into taking care of the community and meditation garden through the growing season. What began as “let’s pull a few weeds” has turned us into full-time caretakers. HHH has become intimately acquainted with every rose bush, sprinkler, and windchime in the place. I think the squirrel even recognizes him now. This was added to the heavy demands of the gardens of Winterpast, which he kept blooming and thriving all summer long.

Then came “Grief Share”. A beautiful ministry, yes, but apparently I failed to mention to HHH that “we” were doing it. (Surprise, sweetheart!) He showed up, bless him, and now people think he’s the resident comforter-in-chief along with the most amazing cook ever.

Me –“Chicken Cordon Bleu for ten, pretty please?”

And just when he thought it couldn’t possibly get worse, it did. Yesterday, the pastor needed help little moving furniture from the shed into the bedroom. Naturally, we volunteered. After 90 minutes, the heavy mattress and furniture were safe from mice and winter weather, making our pastor very happy. (Translation: HHH has been doing more heavy lifting than a moving company on discount day.)

So yes, two are better than one. But only if one of them remembers that the other is not an octopus. I really must stop volunteering HHH as if he has extra limbs and a hidden superhero cape in the closet.

I’m sorry, HHH.

Really.

And, I TRULY appreciate your willingness to help with everything I manage to volunteer for. After the upcoming Love Bird wedding, I’ll do better and the next time someone asks for help, I’ll keep my mouth shut. (Well… maybe.)

Have a super weekend. I’ll be back Monday.

Sometimes in life, God places someone in our path as if to remind us that kindness, thoughtfulness, and gentleness still exist in the world. Last week, I met one of those rare souls, a man named Bruce.

After Friday Bible Study, we decided to follow The Love Birds next door to their wedding reception hall at the Lutheran Church. It was the first day of their annual yard sale, and we were some of the first customers. It was there I met the octogenarian, Bruce.

At first glance, it was the wooden cross around his neck that caught my attention. Simple. Beautiful. A cross lovingly worn and polished smooth by the years. As I complimented him on the cross, Bruce quietly slipped it off and placed it in my hands. “I make them,” he said, his voice soft, carrying no pride, only generosity.

But that wasn’t the end of it. He walked to his car, rummaged around for a moment, and returned holding a small hand-carved church. It was humble, yet exquisite, every detail carefully shaped. Tied to its steeple with a pink ribbon was a handwritten poem, words strung together with the same care as the wood itself. The little church wasn’t just a gift but was a piece of Bruce’s heart.

The Church of Love

Here is a little church of love

To help you through the day.

So when your feeling down and out,

Just grab the church and pray.

You might just keep it handy

On a shelf or bedside stand

Just pray and God will help you out

With his ever loving hand.

The church will always be a sign

God’s love is everywhere.

Remember God is listening

And waiting for your prayer — Bruce

After we left, I found myself wondering just how many “Bruce”-s there are out there in this world, quietly living their days? Sweet. Kind. Quiet. Thoughtful. Talented. Lonely. How many do we pass by without noticing? How many are offering up their gifts and talents, waiting for someone to see?

Meeting Bruce was more than just a pleasant encounter. It was a holy reminder of the beauty that still exists in people. It’s the kind of beauty you can’t buy, polish, or mass produce. The kind that lives in hearts and hands, in faith and in simple acts of giving.

So here’s to the “Bruce”-s of the world. Please notice them, appreciate them, and never forget the quiet blessings they bring.

More tomorrow.

It had been years since everyone was under the same roof. Sisters, brothers, cousins, and the next generation or two all made the effort to come. The oldest living child, now a spry 87, was the guest of honor, keeping the family stories, recipes, and a sharp sense of humor that somehow survived eight decades and an entire brood of siblings. Everyone gathered with hearts full and expectations simple, bringing plenty of laughter, food, and perhaps a little bit of family mischief.

I won’t mention the name of the oldest cousin, but I will say I know him quite well. All the guests knew me very well, having enjoyed our wedding two years ago. That day remains a bit of a blur in my mind, which can happen to the best of brides. As each guest arrived, I could remember them celebrating with us, but some names remained elusive, and I needed to be reminded.

One cousin brought a smokeless fire pit which is the modern miracle that promised warmth without the eye-watering haze. Within five minutes, the air was filled with the unmistakable sound of coughing. “It’s smokeless,” someone said, waving a paper plate through the air, “but it forgot to tell the smoke!” If you’re considering such a contraption, plan to try one out first.

Everyone gathered around in spite of the smoke, swapping stories of barefoot summers and cousins who could run faster, climb higher, and stay outside longer than any of them could now. The laughter bubbled up like it used to, back when knees didn’t creak and adulthood meant dessert whenever you wanted.

And then came the cabinet.

It had been sitting there for decades. A relic from Grandma’s kitchen or maybe someone’s “temporary” storage project that had lasted half a century. Uncle T, a bit too full of energy, declared, “It’s time for that cabinet to disappear. Tonight, it burns!”

Before you knew it, there was a family engineering project underway. Chairs were moved, doors ripped off, and thrown into the fit pit. Quicker than “Burning Man”, we experienced “Burning Cabinet 2025”.

As the sun was replaced by moonlight, hugs replaced handshakes. The air was thick with “I love you”, “Remember when,” and “Let’s do this again soon”, even though everyone knew “soon” might mean a year or two.

This time, HHH volunteered ME for something. Next September, the family reunion will be at Winterpast! I’m already envisioning which piece of furniture we can offer to the bonfire gods. Thank goodness we have plenty of time to plan!

More tomorrow!

Wedding preparations for Mr. and Mrs. Lovebird are in full swing and, as with every great love story, the details are what will make it magical.

It all began at the Lutheran yard sale last Saturday, where Mrs. Lovebird spotted a slightly weathered but perfectly charming “Mr. & Mrs.” plaque. Plain wood in cute script, she clutched it like buried treasure, declaring it perfect for the head table. Even the cashier smiled, knowing that little sign that had been waiting all year for the right couple.

Quickly delivered to the Flower Wizard, it will be transformed into something truly lovely for the big day. How in the world did THE DAY sneak up on us??? What was I thinking volunteering to be the CO-ORDINATOR???

Mrs. Lovebird proudly wears her “Bride” badge wherever she goes, whether the grocery store, Bible study, or even the post office. It sparkles against her sweater like a tiny proclamation of joy. As friends grin and ask about the big day, the newly engaged glow has dimmed ever so slightly by “Less-Than-A-Week Jitters”. “Almost ready,” she says, though everyone knows she’s been ready in her heart for a long time.

Her list is checked twice: bouquets completed, dress ready, and even a delicate lace handkerchief tucked away for happy tears, because everyone knows there will be tears. The good kind. The kind that say, “I’ve found my forever.”

Mr. Lovebird, on the other hand, gets a little more nervous with each sunrise. He straightens his tie for practice, rehearses his vows under his breath, and wonders if his shoes are too shiny. Yet, when the music begins, the one they chose together, slow and full of promise, he’ll see her walking down the aisle, and everything else will fade away.

Meanwhile, the all-female attendants are in a delightful flurry of final outfit decisions. Shoes, jewelry, and the perfect shade of lipstick are being debated with equal parts laughter and excitement. Texts fly back and forth, photos are shared, and the air is filled with that unmistakable mix of nerves and joy that only a wedding can bring.

And somewhere in the mix of all the excitement, there’s a sweet touch of nostalgia. The wedding cake, three tiers of pure love, is being made by one of Mr. Lovebird’s former sixth-grade students, now 55, who insisted on the honor. On Sunday morning, the cake will be frosted right at Winterpast, filling the air with the scent of buttercream and memories.

But even the most well-planned wedding has one last-minute quest. The search continues for folding chairs, enough to seat all the well-wishers ready to celebrate the Lovebirds’ big day. If you have a few to spare, please bring them to the Lutheran Church at 8 a.m. Saturday morning. Every chair has a story, and each one will help make this day even more special.

The “Mr. & Mrs.” plaque will stand proudly at their table, a small reminder of how love finds beauty in simple places. When Mrs. Lovebird dabs her eyes with that pretty handkerchief, all will be as it should be — two hearts, one promise, and a future already humming its very own wedding song.

More tomorrow

This morning, the temperature outside is a nippy 44 degrees, and the coffee tastes yummy next to our roaring fire. Across the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, homeowners perform the autumn ritual of turning off the sprinkler system. It’s not glamorous or festive, but part of survival in snow country. A frozen pipe in January is a bomb waiting to ruin a wonderful spring day in 2026.

The thing that makes this ritual go smoothly is that our tools have a specific resting place. If anyone asked either of us at any point, “Where is the sprinkler key?”, we’d know what to retrieve and where it sits. That’s important information to remember, because around here, disaster can strike at any moment. We’re ready!

Before beginning, we’ll assemble our sacred gear. One special 4′ sprinkler key, a flathead screwdriver, a piece of rebar for leverage, and courage. We also need a flashlight for peering into dark corners where, inevitably, a Black Widow spider the size of a walnut has taken up residence. Gloves are necessary, although they provide minimal emotional protection from the sudden appearance of a startled arachnid.

Our main valve is under a freshly painted little house. Located underneath are drains for this and that. As a new widow in 2020, I avoided this area like the plague. Mr. B’s Garden Service would come and take care of it for only $75. These days, we take a deep breath, remove the house, and prepare to do battle with cobwebs and debris from six months of irrigation glory. For all this, I am so grateful to HHH.

After finding the shut-off valve, and with the finesse of a surgeon and the patience of a saint, he’ll turn it until the hissing stops. There’s always that one moment when I’m not sure if it’s the right valve, and then, there’s the faint gurgle in the distance. That’s the signal the drains are working and the job is almost done.

At this point, the October air reminds us that we’re just in time for the first frost. After draining completely, we’ll have avoided any unwanted plumbing bills for another year. Every valve in sight will be closed, while I hope we remember the ones we opened last spring. The sprinkler system is my favorite thing to forget about.

This morning, as the sun rises over the sagebrush and the chill lifts, the water shut off marks the true change of seasons. The sprinklers are silent, the trees are shedding, and the desert prepares for winter’s quiet. The Great Sprinkler Shut-Off is complete! Come on winter, we’re ready any time you are.

More tomorrow.

The symbol for the second wedding anniversary is soft, woven, practical cotton that’s strong enough to stretch without tearing. Hmmmmm, sounds just like marriage to me. Even though life tries to find ways to test the seams, HHH and I keep stitching our way through.

Two years! It feels like we just blinked. Between projects, commitments, and the endless “busy” of daily life, we’ve been running on love. Next week, we’re slowing down, trading the to-do lists for open roads and quiet moments. Packed, with coffee in hand, we’ll roll out into the morning sunshine like a couple of newlyweds chasing adventure.

Our days have been full as we’ve tended to the Meditation Garden at church and mowed the lawn at Winterpast, all while keeping everything blooming and beautiful. Our calendar has been full with things like wedding coordinator duties, helping hearts heal through Grief Share, or capturing Oliver and Tanner after an escape. HHH and I have woven our lives together through service, purpose, and a deep love of God. Now, it’s time to hit the pause button.

We’re heading back to our favorite spots filled with memories, laughter, and the occasional “shortcut” that wasn’t. No, HHH, the reservations are for Twin Falls, NOT Idaho Falls. And, there’ll be no wild goose chase looking for an illusive Walmart just down the road. I promise.

HHH, I am so blessed to be your wife. You are the calm in the chaos, humor on hard days, and my favorite co-pilot through life’s winding roads. The cotton anniversary reminds me that the best things in life are both sturdy, soft, and worn with time and grace.

So we’re off where the four winds blow, Baby. If not now, when? The open road is calling, the sunshine is waiting, and we’ve got snacks, because love might make the journey beautiful, but snacks make it possible.

I’ll be back on Thursday, October 23rd to share stories, laughter, and maybe a few pictures from our anniversary adventure. Until then, take time to celebrate love in all its simple, cotton-soft forms.

After exactly ONE wedding, my career as a wedding planner has come to an abrupt and triumphant end. Mr. and Mrs. Lovebird made it official. The deed is done, and with vows exchanged, I’m hanging up my clipboard before anyone can book me for a sequel. And, yes, there have been inquiries.

Months ago, it began with endless lists, color palettes, and frantic “what-if” conversations. Finally, the big weekend arrived. Once a humble multipurpose room, the hall was transformed into a wedding wonderland of flowers, ribbon, and magic. It became the thing nervous brides dream of and WE made it happen.

On a crisp and cloudy Saturday morning, HHH became my rockstar co-conspirator. Lifting, hauling, and smiling through it all, he kept his cool even when “we” discovered there were many possible placements for a heavy oak table.

On the wedding day, he helped with food delivery, setup, and prevented me from hyperventilating. Throughout the day, his gaze across the room said, “You got this. It’s great. Now, keep serving the food!”

On three long tables, the food sat in a glorious array. Along with everything else, HHH had prepared his world-famous Shrimp Macaroni salad, our go-to recipe for any family function. I must say, the Bible story about five loaves and two fish came to mind many times. Standing behind the buffet table as the multitude of guests filed by, I worried many times that the food wouldn’t last. As it turned out, we had the perfect amount. Not too much, not too little.

The food was amazing. The florist was a genius. The bride was radiant and exquisite, and the groom, handsome, teary-eyed, with just the right amount of nerves.

And then there were the attendants. Twenty-eight of them. Yes, you read that right. Twenty-eight! Bridesmaids, groomsmen, flower girls, and ring bearers were perfectly coordinated in a chapel designed for 100, now holding 200 people and one frantic wedding planner whispering prayers.

But somehow, by the grace of God and sheer determination, it all came together. The music played, the bride made it down the aisle to her waiting groom, the candles glowed, and two beautiful souls became one.

It was a beautiful day, and perfect wedding for the loveliest couple.

And those are the very reasons it’s my last.

Satisfied, exhausted, and forever grateful, I’m a retired wedding planner, thankful that everything went right just once. Why tempt fate? I’m ending my career at the top of my game.

More tomorrow.

There are vacations, and then there are adventures. Our anniversary trip to Yellowstone fell squarely in the latter category. Think big skies (occasionally angry), wild animals stuffing their faces for winter, and an apartment so new the shine hadn’t worn off. The Airbnb apartment was a spotless, cozy, and modern nest, perfect for two seasoned travelers capable of making our own delicious meals.

We celebrated our anniversary in style with a homemade steak and lobster dinner. There’s something wonderfully rebellious about creating fine dining in a rental kitchen surrounded by pine trees instead of waiters. The sizzle of filet mignon and the buttery aroma of lobster tails may not be traditional park cuisine, but then, we aren’t your average campers.

Of course, no celebratory vacation would be complete without a pilgrimage to the “Million Dollar Cowboy Bar”. After a very long drive, the bar was just as we remembered. Filled with stories, antiques, and more saddle-seated stools than common sense, there was a lot to take in. We toasted our marriage and mileage with a laugh, both aware that this might be the last time we drive 1,800 miles in a single week.

Thanks to the government shutdown, there were no park fees, which was both a blessing and a bit surreal. Despite the circumstances, visitors were respectful, leaving no trash, awe-struck by the beauty surrounding us. It was a rare, beautiful harmony between humans and nature. Majestic buffalo lumbered across the roads with an ancient calm that said, “I was here before you, so get out of the way.” Elk posed out of harm’s way, unconcerned by our gawking.

The Grand Canyon of Yellowstone was its usual mystery of light and shadow, forever majestic, moody, and humbling. Standing there, watching water plunge into endlessness, I thought: God really outdid Himself here. It’s impossible not to feel small and grateful all at once. And then, the sleet began. Rushing back to the parking lot, it didn’t take long for my hair to be drenched.

Of course, our trip to Yellowstone wouldn’t be complete without visiting “Yellowstone Bear World”. Little “Captain,” the cub I bottle-fed last year, was in the “big kids’ enclosure”. Looking proud, strong, and just a touch mischievous, he’s proof that love (and formula) can go a long way. Everything at the gift shop was half off, including the best fudge on the planet. We may have stocked up for emergencies, of course.

Packing up to head home, we had to admit this may be the last time we tackle 1,800 miles in 7 days. That being said, it certainly won’t be our last celebration. Yellowstone reminded us how vast and wondrous the world still is and how lucky we are to wander it together.

Here’s to big skies, buffalo crossings, and the sweet, chocolatey taste of adventure.

I’ll be back next week! Have a wonderful weekend!

It all started on an ordinary Tuesday when I learned our favorite puppy camp is closing. CLOSING! Just like that. No warning. No goodbye treats. No farewell paw-tea. After years of tail-wagging vacations and joyful reunions, Tanner and Oliver’s beloved home-away-from-home will vanish December 31st, never to return.

With my heart racing, the frantic search began for a replacement. How could we possibly trust anyone else with our two “spirited” kids? They’d been regulars of the old camp for years!

After much scrolling, calling, and a few tears, a miracle appeared in the form of a brand-new kennel charging half the price, with discounts for long stays. I practically heard angelic barking from the heavens. Half the price meant more biscuits for everyone. And, since an extended stay was looming on the horizon, this seemed heaven-sent.

Fast forward to drop-off day. Tanner strutted in, confident as ever, ready to charm the staff. Oliver, however, had other plans, bulldozing ahead while sticking his nose through every available hole in the chain link. From that point, we really don’t know everything that happened. It’s better that way…….

By the time we picked them up, his snout had that “I might have tried to tunnel out” look. Tanner, meanwhile, had apparently joined the kennel’s fitness program. Let’s just say they came home looking trim, which is a polite way of acknowledging there was just too much going on to worry about food.

When the staff handed over dogs, Tanner grinned from ear to ear with a “we survived” kind of smile. “They were QUITE a handful,” the attendant told us, as she figured out the our final bill.

With tearful eyes and fretful hearts, we stopped and looked deep into her eyes.

With a nervous laugh and a very important question, I asked, “Oh really? Can they come back?”

“Of course,” came the reply from a seasoned, lovely, and very tired camp counselor.

OF COURSE!!!!

OF COURSE!!!!

Did you hear that HHH????

She said, OF COURSE!!!

Two of the most beautiful words in the English language. I let out the biggest sigh of relief since the time I discovered Oliver had only eaten $40 out of HHH’s wallet.

On the way home, Tanner had to vocalize everything Oliver had done to embarrass her while Oliver slept peacefully at my feet, dreaming of fences, freedom, and future adventures. I smiled. The kennel crisis had been averted. While our dogs might be a handful, they’re our handful, perfectly imperfect, endlessly entertaining, and worth every nose scrape and half-chewed leash.

More tomorrow.

This fall, some trees here at Winterpast said “Goodbye”. The Chinese Apple tree couldn’t produce a cookable apple. For six years, we cared for this troublesome tree while Oliver took rotten fruit to his lair under the dining room table. Heck, we even pampered her roots with beneficial nematodes. This year, I hit the wall and had enough. It was the tree or me. The tree is gone.

The next tree to go was the Jujube tree (Chinese Date Tree), which did have a playful name. Covered with thorns, it produced flavorless brown fruit similar to dried-up apples. It didn’t take much persuading by our neighbors to add that to the list of trees that had to go.

There is one more tree that should have hit the chopping block, except that she’s the diva of Winterpast. Every Mother’s Day, she outdoes herself — putting on a show of soft pink blooms that melt the hearts of mothers everywhere. She’s like the overachieving child who brings you breakfast in bed and vacuums the house. Visitors swoon and for about two weeks, she’s the star of the yard. ,

After enjoying her moment, she releases her delicate, pink-no-more petals. Swirling in the breeze, thousands of floral bits land anywhere and everywhere. The porch, lawn, flower beds, spa, dog’s water bowl … not one square inch of Winterpast escapes her confetti farewell. Each dried flower leaves behind the beginning of a tiny fruit.

As spring turns into summer, the dense canopy of leaves blocks the view from my desk. If the tree wasn’t there, I could gaze over the lovely garden, the blue sky, or watch HHH working in the garden. But, no. All I see is her. Green, leafy, and smug, I’m pretty sure she’s whispering, “Admire me, or else.”

October’s show was fabulous. Her leaves have turned the most brilliant colors, ranging from deep yellow to vibrant orange. Two days ago, her autumn costume was swept away by ferocious Zephyr winds, along with hundreds of tiny inedible apples that’ve now scattered across the garden paths. Walking has become an extreme sport, as the garden paths are now transformed into a marble pit of doom. Oliver carries them around, the mower chokes on them, and I slip on them like I’m auditioning for a cartoon.

Next spring, when she blushes pink again, I’ll forgive and forget. Completely. Despite the shedding and slippery fruit, she’s THE Queen of Winterpast, our Crabby Apple Tree. A little messy, a little high-maintenance, but oh-so-beautiful in her season.

Just like life, she’s full of moments that frustrate, surprise, and delight, sometimes all in the same day. Maybe that’s the secret lesson she’s been teaching all along? Have patience through the mess, gratitude for the beauty, and grace for every season in between. After all, love, whether for people, pets, or one stubbornly spectacular tree, is never perfect. But it sure makes life beautiful.

More tomorrow.

There’s something a little unsettling about watching a plastic skeleton and an inflatable Santa Claus staring each other down across the street. One jingles, the other rattles. And so it goes here at Winterpast.

Directly across the street, our competitive neighbor ( the one who can’t wait to start the season) has his entire house draped in Christmas lights. Not just a few twinkling strands either, but on every eve. His lights even go up the roof to frame his dormer windows. He’s done.

Meanwhile, his next-door neighbor is holding strong for Team Halloween with tombstones, spider webs, and glowing ghosts. The two houses look like they’re having a seasonal identity crisis. One side says boo, while the other says ho-ho-ho.

Driving by feels like flipping channels between The Nightmare Before Christmas and It’s a Wonderful Life.

After watching the competition, we decided to embrace Team Halloween this year. We managed to find a new family member that we named Walter. The coolest guy on the block, he even has a top hat and sunglasses, stealing the show. When he was in place, there was no choice but to get down the two Halloween boxes and complete the scene.

We now have billowy ghosts, a spider witch, headstones with rocky graves, and lots and lots of spiders. The dogs haven’t noticed yet, or they would be telling us we have company. All dressed up for formal night, we’d both like to invite him to join us on our next cruise. By the way, we named him Walter.

While the neighborhood drama continues, Walmart is always one holiday ahead of human emotion. The Halloween aisle looks like it’s survived a zombie apocalypse with half-empty shelves, one lonely bag of pumpkin-shaped marshmallows, and a single witch hat hanging on for dear life. The Christmas aisle, however, is fully operational and ready for battle. Wrapping paper, candy canes, fake snow — all in abundance. And if you look closely, I swear there’s a box of pink conversation hearts lurking in the corner, just waiting for February.

Honestly, what’s the rush? Can’t we just enjoy one holiday at a time? Maybe take a moment to appreciate pumpkins before we’re buried in peppermint?

Still… I can’t complain too loudly. This year, due to a fantastic December adventure, we’ll begin decking our own halls the day after Halloween. I’ll be out there, my wreath while the neighbor’s fog machine is still smoking. Maybe I’ll even toss a Santa hat on Walter just to bridge the gap.

So, if you drive by and see a jack-o’-lantern next to a nativity scene, don’t judge. Just know that somewhere between the candy corn and the candy canes, we’re trying our best to celebrate it all, one twinkling light at a time.

Happy Hallo-Thanks-Mas, everyone.

More tomorrow.

The beauty of autumn at Winterpast can’t be denied. The air is crisp, the crab apple has dropped her last fruit, and suddenly, cars in town have started blinking mysterious dashboard lights. It’s as if they all got together and decided, “Let’s make them guess what this means.”Before you end up in a game of “Name That Warning Light,” consider giving your car a little love as the seasons change.

Just like us, tires go a little flat when the temperature drops. The air inside them contracts, leaving your car a bit flat-footed. So, grab your gauge and check the tire pressure. The right numbers for pressure and tire size are usually posted on a sticker in the driver’s door jamb.

While you’re down there, examine the tread.

1. Grab a penny and turn the side with Lincoln’s silhouette toward you, so his head is visible..

2. Insert the penny between the treads with Lincoln’s head pointing into the tire.

3. Can you see the top of Lincoln’s head? If you can, it means your tire tread has worn down to an unsafe level, and it’s likely time to buy new tires.

Now, if your tires are as smooth as a baby’s cheek, no need to do the test, it’s time for new tires. Bald tires and icy roads don’t make a cute couple.

Your car runs on fluids like you run on coffee. Check the radiator, oil, brake fluid, transmission fluid, and windshield washer fluid levels and replenish with fluids made for winter temperatures in your area. A dirty frozen windshield is a recipe for disaster. If you pop the hood and don’t know what you’re looking at, your friendly mechanic lives for this stuff. And, don’t forget YouTube.

If you hear squeaks, squeals, or that awful metal-on-metal screech when you slow down, that’s your car’s way of politely begging for attention. Don’t ignore it. Brakes are not an optional accessory. They’re what stand between you and the rear bumper of that guy who forgot to scrape his windshield this morning.

Antifreeze isn’t just a cute name—it’s what keeps your engine from freezing when temperatures plummet. Make sure it’s the right mix for your area. (What works in sunny Las Vegas may not help much in a Reno cold snap!)

Once a year, change your windshield wipers. Be sure you have a first-aid kit stowed for emergencies. If the weather in your area includes snow, ice, and high winds, carry a blanket, water, and snacks just in case.

When’s the last time you treated your car to a professional once-over? A seasonal inspection can catch small issues before they turn into big, expensive surprises. Your car braves wind, rain, sleet, snow, and the occasional tumbleweed while keeping you safe. As the seasons change, give it the attention it deserves. Top off the fluids, check the brakes, and fill those tires.

Nothing says “prepared” quite like a car that starts, stops, and stays safely between the lines, especially when you need more Christmas lights to outshine the neighbor across the street.

More tomorrow.

Only in Nevada can we mix state pride, spooky skeletons, and sugar highs into one gloriously chaotic weekend. This year, Nevada Day falls on Halloween Friday and that combination might just blow the top off the pumpkin!

First, Nevada Day celebrates our state’s admission to the Union on October 31, 1864. YES! Nevada was born on Halloween! Every year, Nevadans proudly take the day off to honor our Silver State with parades, pancake breakfasts, marching bands, and a hearty “Battle Born” spirit. Government offices, banks, and schools? Closed. Entirely. It’s the one day you can’t get your driver’s license renewed, but you can wave at the Shriners in tiny cars.

So, with everything in Nevada shut down today, HHH and I have a glorious, guilt-free day to prepare for the little ghouls and goblins who will soon descend upon our front porch demanding fun-sized bribes. We can sort candy, get some dry ice for fog, and find that one strand of twinkly lights that isn’t half-dead. (Note to self: buy new purple and orange twinkly lights next year.)

Meanwhile, teachers everywhere are breathing a collective sigh of relief. For once, the sugar storm will hit on a Friday night at home, not in the classroom. No bouncing-off-the-walls kindergartners or chocolate-smeared math tests. The candy high is officially on the parents this year, folks. Enjoy your wild weekend of costume glue, sticky fingers, and bedtime chaos.

By Monday, the kids will be staggering back to school in a mild state of post-caramel detox, and the teachers will greet them with cautious optimism and perhaps, their own secret stash of candy.

Before we can even sweep up the candy wrappers, Thanksgiving is peeking around the corner, asking if we’ve defrosted the turkey yet. Nevada Day, Halloween, and Thanksgiving all occur in one joyful seasonal tumble.

So here’s to you, fellow Nevadans — may your pumpkins glow, your costumes fit, your candy bowls overflow, and your Battle Born pride shine as bright as the Nevada desert moon.

Happy Nevada Day! Happy Halloween!

Double the reason to celebrate… and maybe double the chocolate, too. 🍫👻

It’s that special time of year again when we collectively pretend that changing the clocks by one hour is no big deal, even though our bodies clearly disagree.

Two weeks ago, I finally reset the clock in the bathroom to the correct time. When HHH saw the clock, he asked where it hung. On the bathroom wall above the mirror from the day I moved into Winterpast in 2020, the clock has been right only 1/2 the year ever since. To avoid ladder time, it was easier that way. This year I decided to fix the time. Silly, because now I need to get out the ladder and change it again.

This morning, we awoke at what felt like a very reasonable 5 am. But no, according to the clock, it was 4 am. The dogs are confused, and HHH is a little grumpy about the entire situation. I’m so awake, I’m considering some yard work.

Yesterday, we were dressed and ready for church by 9:30. I repeat: Ready. For. Church. At 9:30, a full hour before our usual arrival time. The pastor probably thought we were trying to get extra credit.

Last night, as I sat watching the clock crawl toward bedtime, I had plenty of time to reflect on life’s big questions, such as…

• Why do we still do this?
• Who decided humans need to “save daylight”?
• Why does my body think it’s midnight when it’s only lunchtime?

Change is never easy — especially the two times a year when we have to convince ourselves that 4 am is the new 5 am and that this somehow “saves” something. Personally, I’d like to file a formal complaint with whoever’s in charge of time itself.

Please.

Make.

It.

Stop.

Until then, I’ll sip my steaming coffee and pretend I’m well-rested. My internal clock will eventually reset to the new normal.

Happy Fall Back!!! May your coffee be strong and your clocks set to the correct time, … until next spring.

There’s something wonderfully indulgent about a midweek escape to our favorite resort spa. After all, retirement has its perks such as freedom from the calendar and the ability to say, “Why not today?”, doesn’t it?

Mrs. Lovebird and I had planned the spa getaway the week before her wedding. COVID derailed those plans, which needed to be postponed until after the nuptials. With the girls at the spa, the boys were free to try out the local Escape Room. Everyone was happy with the plans.

Our indulgent day began with a small delay in the women’s locker room. It seems the spa had a deadly buildup of spa scum around the water line. Scum and men are two words that shouldn’t be uttered in a luxury spa.

You haven’t truly lived until you’ve tried to tiptoe around workmen in blue overalls while clutching your robe and dignity. But we survived with a few giggles and only minor embarrassment, giving us something to laugh about before we even reached the tranquility zone.

Once inside the waiting area, the world softened. In a very dark room, water trickled gently down a glass wall, creating the perfect soundtrack for our deep, spiritual reflection or, at least, reflection on whether we preferred almonds or pretzels from the snack bar. The orange-lemon water sparkled like a promise, and we were tempted by the bowl of cucumber slices “for the eyes”, almost mistaken for a side dish.

Our sugar scrub treatments were divine with just the right mix of exfoliation, after which we glowed like polished apples. Then came the hotel’s famed “state-of-the-art showers,” which, rumor has it, cost $15,000 apiece. They didn’t disappoint with water coming from all directions to wash away the scrub.

After the rinse came lavender moisturizing cream with the scent of serenity itself followed by a massage where our therapists kneaded us like bread dough destined for greatness. By the end, we were thoroughly destressed.

Then came “the relaxation room.” Ah yes, the room that had once been my favorite spot for post-massage bliss. Unfortunately, the hotel decided to “improve” it. Let’s just say they should have asked a few paying customers before ruining it. It seems the “Changer in Charge” never used the spa to see what worked and what didn’t. This room is now a new and improved fail. So sad.

Lunch was served on the veranda beneath cobalt-blue November skies. Somehow, the desert air felt like spring, and we basked in the golden warmth of 70 degrees, laughing about our day and wondering whether we should take up spa reviewing as a second career.

When we met the menfolk a few hours later, they’d just been “blown up” at the local “escape room” experience. Looking slightly singed, with egos a bit deflated, they were grinning from ear to ear. It seems that while we were being kneaded into relaxation, they were being blown up by imaginary explosives. Sadly, they didn’t make it out of the room during the sixty minutes they were given.

Retirement really is the loveliest time of life, especially when you’ve learned how to work it. And between you and me? I think we’ve got it down to a fine art.

There comes a day in every newly married couple’s life when they look around their kitchen and realize it’s less of a functional workspace and more of a museum, curated by generations of indecision. That day, my friends, arrived yesterday.

It began innocently enough with a sponge and good intentions. But before I knew it, I was elbow-deep in The Great Kitchen Purge of 2025.

Let’s start with the elephant in the cupboard, Grammie’s dishes. These weren’t museum quality or one of a kind. They are mid-1900s adorable, and I’ve cared for them most of my adult life. For 50 years, not one plate has been used, not one saucer chipped. Every time I open that cupboard, I can practically hear her whisper, “You might need those for company, Honey.”

Keeping a set for four, because I just couldn’t let them go, I packed the rest, lovingly wrapped, but finally released. Grammie will approve of them finding a new home where they’ll see a Thanksgiving dinner once again again.

Then came the utensil drawer. I found three ceramic knives in a variety of colors, two rusted paintbrushes that had seen their last rack of baby-backs, and a John Wayne coffee cup. Add to that a variety of this and that, taking up valuable shelf space.

Into the spring yard sale box they went, a small moment of victory for functionality. I even matched my lids to my plastic containers. That alone felt like solving a great domestic mystery.

Today, I’ll face The Fridge that hasn’t moved in six years, which, in “kitchen time” is roughly a century. It’ll take bravery, leverage, and possibly a prayer to slide it away from the wall. Behind it? I’m expecting to find generations of dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds, one petrified green bean, a button from a long-lost sweater, and what may have once been a Cheerio.

Once cleaned, I’ll stand back and admire the glistening floor as if it’s a truly historic moment.

As the afternoon rolled on, boxes filled with duplicates, odds and ends, and memories. There’s something surprisingly freeing about saying, “No, I do not need two juicers or a Lake Tahoe coffee cup, never used.” Everything with life left in it was boxed and labeled for the spring yard sale, our future “Winterpast clearance event.”

By sunset, our cupboards were organized, drawers closed easily, and the countertops gleamed. The kitchen looked lighter, somehow, as if it, too, could breathe again. This morning, sipping steaming coffee in a mug I actually love, I feel a little proud, a little nostalgic, and a lot more ready to cook something yummy.

Sometimes, the best way to freshen up your life isn’t by buying something new — it’s by finally letting go of what no longer serves you.

And so…….

Old dishes rest, their duty done,
Held through decades, every one.
Utensils chipped and gadgets bent,
Each a relic of good intent.

I bless them all and set them free,
To kitchens yet to come, not me.
For in the space now clean and wide,
I find a little peace inside.

Less clutter, more calm, the lesson is clear —
It’s amazing what shines when the old disappears.

Today, it’s been 85 years since my parents, Elmer and Esther, said “I do.” Can you imagine? Eight and a half decades has passed since that shy young couple met during their high school play, Mummy and the Mumps. It was the kind of country school performance where the costumes were homemade, the lights flickered a bit, and everyone’s parents sat in the front row with big grins. Somewhere between the curtain rising and the applause at the end, the young mummy and his leading lady fell in love, and the rest, became our family history.

After graduation came the real work. Elmer and Esther traded school books for farm tools, building a life together on the land. They worked from sunrise to sunset, side by side, with laughter, patience, and a quiet faith that carried them through every season. When their first daughter arrived on Elmer’s birthday, their hands were already full with more than chores.

During the war years, they ran a Japanese neighbor’s pig farm while his family was sent to Manzanar. This was a selfless act of compassion that said everything about who they were.

Two years later, Daughter #2 was born, followed by Daughter #3 six years later. In 1955, along I came. As Daughter #4, I was quite the disappointment to those holding out hope for a son to carry on the family name. Two and a half years later, Daughter #5 completed the lineup, and our home was officially overflowing with pink dresses, hair ribbons, and shiny patent-leather shoes. How my parents survived 68 years of marriage surrounded by all that girlhood chaos is still a mystery. A lifetime of stories with plenty of drama, comedy, and love!

But they didn’t just survive — they flourished. Their marriage was full of laughter, hard work, and adventure. Once retired from full-time farming, they became world travelers, exploring every continent they desired. From dusty back roads to foreign cities, they saw the world hand-in-hand, proving that love, when nurtured, only grows stronger with time.

Today, I picture them together on their heavenly stage, chuckling over their old lines from Mummy and the Mumps. Elmer still the jokester in his bandages, Esther still rolling her eyes in that affectionate way that said everything. Still performing their greatest role, together.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad! We’ll see you on the other side.

It’s that magical season again when the trees at Winterpast release their leafy bounty like ticker tape in a parade, and the desert winds take center stage. Every year, we’re convinced its the year we’ll finally need to hire a professional clean-up crew. Luckily, the winds haven’t let us down yet.

Last week, HHH and I were in the back yard with rakes and brooms in hand, while sighing at the sea of gold, brown, and orange carpeting the garden paths. And then, with one fierce howling windstorm, a miracle occurred.

The next morning?

Ground — bare.

Leaves — gone.

So, just where do they go, these thousands of dried leaves???

Not all of them vanish without a trace. A respectable number end up trapped in the greenhouse and shed, while many pile together along the fences, forming mounds. But, this isn’t every leaf grown this year. It seemed as if there were millions of them at the beginning of the season.

They’re not in the gutters thanks to our “Leaf Filter” system. They aren’t clogging the roof valleys or sneaking under the garage door. They’ve simply disappeared, riding the desert thermals like autumn butterflies, never to be seen again.

Wherever they land, we’re sorry. The ferocious winds of fall have done us a favor while redistributing the abundance and sharing a little piece of Winterpast with the neighbors.

So, as we wait for the next wind storm to sweep across the high desert plains, I lift my face to the sky and whisper a heartfelt prayer of gratitude. With a beautiful weekend of warm weather ahead, plenty of autumn chores wait.

Whatever you do this weekend, get out and about. Fill your lungs with the fresh, crisp air and enjoy the colors. Autumn is such a beautiful time of year. The great weather can’t hold forever, so don’t waste a second. As my dad would say, “It’ll be good for what ails you.”

There must be something in the crisp autumn air that whispers, “It’s haircut season.” Everywhere you look, people and dogs are getting snipped and styled. The trees shed their leaves for free while the rest of us pay dearly to do the same.

It started innocently enough. Oliver, our sweet, shaggy little dog, is in need of a serious fall cleanup. His fur has grown so long that he’s beginning to resemble a dust mop. So, we’ll travel through the desert to the groomer. After a few hours, he’ll return looking handsome in his tiny little tie… along with a bill for $80. Eighty dollars! It’s all part of the cost of owning a dog these days.

This time of year, I question my own judgment. Why do dog owners everywhere cut off a dog’s natural winter coat right before freezing winds howl across the desert? His hair was doing exactly what nature intended, providing fuzzy insulation against the November chill. Yet, he was matting faster than a tumbleweed in a windstorm, and his “natural look” had started leaning more toward “neglected drifter” than “beloved pet.” Don’t worry. Oliver spends 99% of time sleeping inside these days.

This evening, he’ll be a smooth-coated dachshund instead of his wire-haired self. Once I felt so sorry for him that I knitted him a sweater. lovingly made just for him. He kept it on just long enough to get a picture while glaring like I’d insulted his manhood.

Last week, I decided it was time for my own seasonal tune-up with a minor trim of my own. Nothing fancy. Just the ends and bangs. In and out, right? Wrong. Tomorrow, I’ll create my own $85 bill, leaving with my hair smelling vaguely of lavender mist, and bangs that will likely drive me nuts for the next two weeks.

When did this happen? When did the cost of human and canine beauty become interchangeable? Somewhere out there, an economist is shaking their head and muttering about inflation, while a hairstylist and dog groomer are toasting to early retirement.

Still experiencing a little shock, I can’t help remember 35 years of $40 haircuts with Sweet Deb, who pampered me beyond the norm. She’d make me tea, ask about the kids, and somehow send me out the door feeling like a movie star instead of a mop head. Oh, how I miss those days, when a haircut didn’t require a small loan, and you left with more gossip than guilt.

Now, let’s be fair. Both stylists deserve credit. My hair will be sleek and shiny and Oliver will look like a show dog. We’ll both leave with complimentary treats, his a biscuit and mine a peppermint. Still, I can’t help but think I could’ve bought a small leaf blower for the same price while trimming both of us at home.

Here’s to the groomers, stylists, and brave souls everywhere who hold the scissors that keep us and our dogs looking civilized. May your tips be generous, your blow dryers quiet, and your fall haircuts worth every penny.

No buzz, no hum, no golden air,
just silence, thick and deep.
The flowers bow, the wind stands bare,
and even angels weep……..

Yesterday was a still afternoon at Winterpast, the kind where the sun shines brightly and the air feels unusually empty. HHH had decided to check the bees once more before winter, expecting to hear the familiar hum as he approached the hive. We’d planned to spend today insulating the hive for winter but silence met him first. Heavy, hollow silence.

At first, he thought maybe the frosty nights had slowed them. The desert nights freeze now, and even the most determined creatures take their time waking. But lifting the lid, he could see frames littered with the dead. Little golden bodies, soft and motionless, piled as though the hive had simply gone to sleep and never woke up. Some died right where they were working.

Only nature can stir that peculiar mix of sadness and reverence. Examining the hive more closely, there wasn’t scattered comb or broken wax. Just a quiet end. Every cell now sealed spring memories in a bit of honey . It was all that was left.

We formed a strong connection with these little beings. All summer, they’d been our constant companions. We’d watch as they dove headlong into the apricot blossoms, tumbled joyfully among the crab-apple blooms, and drifted through the greenhouse with a hum that blended perfectly with the wind chimes. The bees were tiny, every day beautifully ordinary miracles.

And now, they’re gone.

The greenhouse feels emptier, the lavender lonelier. Even the desert wind seems unsure which way to blow without their song to follow. I keep thinking of all they gave. They stitched together the wild and tended parts of Winterpast. Their life was an example of quiet perfection.

It took HHH and me the rest of the afternoon to harvest what little honey they’d collected. With no sign of stored pollen, their fate was sealed, as is our future as keepers. Next year, our plan is to pray for a swarm to choose us. No more California bees. Just some wild bees that decide Winterpast is the place they want to hang out for more than a season.

And so, today, we miss our little friends as we move towards winter. The desert has its own way of renewing what’s been lost. But today, the garden grieves, and so do we.

More tomorrow.

There’s something downright magical about finding The One. No, not a soulmate like my Hubba-Hubba-Hubby (HHH), but the perfect beauty salon. You know, the kind where you walk in feeling a bit frazzled, and walk out shiny, smooth, and sassy. I’ve found just such an adorable salon right across the street from our church.

It started innocently enough with a recommendation from my mother-in-law, Miss B. I knew of the shop, because it’s where we found an owner for a lost duck swimming in the church fountain. The kindest woman had come after work to rangle the duck and take it home, giving it the appropriate name, Lucky Duck.

Wandering into the little shop, I wasn’t sure if it would be a hit or a hair-raising disaster. But the moment I met the sweet owner, I knew I was in great hands. She greeted me with the kind of warmth usually reserved for long-lost friends and, as it turns out, she’s a long-time family friend of HHH’s clan. What are the odds of that? In small-town Nevada, quite good.

From there, it was pampering perfection. She listened to my long list of hopes and fears for my waist-length hair. You can’t just go hacking away at locks that take years to grow. One wrong snip, and I’d be hiding under a hat until Christmas. But she was confidently handled every strand as if it were spun gold.

Then came the curl. Oh, the curl! She made me feel like I was doing her a favor by letting her use her curling iron on my hair. I almost didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. I tipped her and gave her a big hug. I think we’re going to be friends for a very long time because when someone makes you feel that special, you don’t let them go.

So, with a trim and a twirl, I’m good to go until next spring. Long, thick, straight hair may be a bit of work, but it’s a gift from God. Today, I was reminded that a little attention, kindness, and a perfect curl can lift a spirit as easily as it lifts a bang.

Whatever you do today, think about a little pampering. And, never, ever underestimate the power of a great stylist and a relaxing scalp massage.

In pages worn and softly read,
We seek the truth our Savior said.
Each line a light, each verse a guide,
To draw us ever to His side.

Through questions asked and hearts laid bare,
We find His presence waiting there.
In study, prayer, and friendship’s chord—
We learn to live the Living Word.

Every Thursday evening, as the day quiets, a familiar scene unfolds. A bowl of freshly popped popcorn sits on the table, sharing space with a plate of Mrs. Lovebird’s homemade, always delicious. By 6:30 pm, the faithful begin to gather, one by one, with Bibles tucked under their arms and greetings that speak of friendship and the daily news. This is Bible Study night, a weekly pause from the rush of life and a precious time to focus on The Word of God.

It’s a comforting ritual. Some come early to catch up on the week’s events concerning grandchildren, garden updates, and the latest recipe gone right or wrong. Others slip in right at 7, ready to listen and learn. Around the table sits a beautiful mix of believers with well-worn Bibles that are filled with years of highlights, notes, and underlines, and those whose pages are still crisp, unmarked, and waiting for the first stroke of yellow. Each voice adds something unique. The longtime believers bring wisdom and context, while the newcomers bring fresh eyes and open hearts. Together, they create a rich, living conversation with everyone learning from everyone else.

Some nights, the pace moves slowly. A single verse can spark a dozen questions or open a doorway to deep discussion. “What did Jesus really mean here?” “How does this apply to our lives today?” There are pauses for thought, moments of laughter, and sometimes a gentle hush when truth settles into the room. It’s not about getting through the chapter but about letting the Word get through to us.

Over time, something wonderful has taken root. Faces that once gathered as acquaintances have grown into true friends. We’ve become prayer partners, encouragers, and someone to lean on when life gets heavy. Laughter is a regular visitor as the popcorn disappears quickly and the cookies even faster. The warmth lingers long after the lights are turned out.

If you’ve never joined a study group, it may seem strange at first. You might wonder if you’ll fit in or if you know “enough.” The truth is, you don’t need to know a thing except that you’re welcome. Bring your curiosity and a few questions. God meets us exactly where we are, using these gatherings to bring us closer through The Word.

If you’ve ever felt the nudge to grow closer to God or to find deeper friendships rooted in faith, take that step. Find a group. Sit at the table. Listen, learn, laugh, and share. You’ll find that the Bible isn’t just a dusty old book, but full of life and wonder. Try it. You’ll be amazed at what God can do with an evening of popcorn, cookies, and open hearts.

There’s nothing quite like the moment the first winter storm arrives on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. One minute, Winterpast was basking in a golden November glow; the next, dramatic clouds gathered like they meant business. The desert paused, waiting for the season to shift, and suddenly the unmistakable whisper of winter settled in.

This morning, as the dark skies cover Winterpast, the crisp bite in the air is exhilarating. Yesterday, the sky turned a moody gray as the sagebrush awaited the first snowflakes of the season. Nothing says “It’s here!” like a good old-fashioned winter storm rolling across the high plains. Sadly, this winter storm is a warm one, so we may need to wait a little longer.

Our single white mustang mare has been hanging close to civilization these days. It’s as if she knows she’ll fare better in our neighborhood. Since 2020, she’s been a guardian, many nights bedding down outside my bedroom window.

With colder weather, HHH and I plan to enjoy a cozy weekend at home. While the storm blows through, we’ll nest indoors with our scrapbooking table set up for two. Over the past three years, we’ve gathered pictures that’ve captured road trips, gardening projects, hikes, laughter, Yellowstone skies, and the sweet, ordinary days that turned into extraordinary memories.

Printing our photos, each one is a tiny reminder of how blessed we’ve been these past few years. Page by page, we’ll stitch together the story of our adventures, our love, and the joy we’ve found in this wonderful chapter of life.

Once this storm passes, we’ll be heading off to enjoy some peaceful days at that beautiful spa retreat to the west. With a little pampering, we’ll rest while breathing deeply before the holiday whirlwind arrives. Lavender lotions, warm robes, and waterfalls call us. Embracing the stillness it brings, we’ll enjoy a fresh beginning to the new season.

I’ll return on November 20th, refreshed and renewed with a few more lovely memories ready to be tucked into future scrapbook pages.

Stay warm. Stay cozy. And enjoy the magic that winter’s first whisper brings. ❄️

Some people think they hit the jackpot when they find a lucky penny and get a free cup of coffee. At the very beginning of our Staycation on Monday, HHH found such a lucky penny as we did some final errands before we left for the Biggest Little City to the West. I will be searching the ground after he managed to unlock a cosmic bonus round!

It all started innocently enough. During a simple stroll across the driveway at the local gas station, HHH bent down, picked up a crusty little copper coin, and announced, “Well now… this must be my lucky day.” I smiled because HHH is the most positive person I know. He always sees the silver lining in every cloud.

If only he knew what was about to happen. Because, from that single bent penny, Lady Luck apparently looked down from whatever cloud she lounges on, spotted HHH, and said, “Let’s have some fun with this one.”

So, HHH tucked that penny in his pocket without lightning strikes or an angelic choir humming “How Great Thou Art.” But something shifted ever so slightly with a subtle wink from the universe.

We spent two days in the lap of luxury at our favorite spa retreat. But along with lotions and Zen music, the allure of acres of slot machines put us in a wee bit of a trance. HHH COULD NOT lose. Lady Luck was shining so intensely in his direction that she missed me altogether. Wherever he played, he won. On those two days, it mattered not the direction he walked; he won.

Fast forward to yesterday. With the Maytag repairman arriving today at 11, I needed to come home to do a little cleanup in the laundry room. It’d been some time since dust bunny elimination, and I needed some help moving the washing machine out. As my heroic handyman wrestled a broken washing machine out of its dusty corner, he suddenly spied a prize.

“What’s THAT?” he asked, staring at the floor beneath the washer.

There, lounging casually on the tile like it owned the place, was a deformed dime.
Not just any dime. A dime valued at somewhere between $200 and $1200.There it was, minding its own business while waiting for a man with a lucky penny in his pocket to come fetch it.

Who finds treasures under their very own washing machine? Apparently HHH. I clean under things all the time and have found nothing more valuable than a rogue dog biscuit and a missing sock.

So here we are. A penny? A rare dime? Luck at the slots? What comes next?Will he stroll outside and find a gold nugget? A stray winning lottery ticket? A lost treasure map tucked behind the couch cushions? A buffalo wandering by wearing a sign that says, “You win free steaks for life”?

At this point, I wouldn’t bet against it.

Life on the high-desert plains is always interesting, but watching HHH ride this lucky streak has been downright entertaining. He’s walking around with a lucky glow about him.

As for me? I’m keeping an eye out today. If he suddenly comes home with a grin and a story, I won’t be surprised. Lady Luck clearly has him on speed dial.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to check under the rest of our appliances…. just in case.

More tomorrow.

Every week, our Bible Study group gathers with popcorn, cookies, and enough coffee to keep even the sleepiest disciple wide-eyed. We’ve slowly been making our way through the Book of Matthew. At our current pace, we’ll finish around Easter of 2032, asking many questions while sharing important discussions. Of course, we can still be sidetracked over the meaning of a single word.

So this morning, while searching for a topic, it came to me that Matthew has plenty to say. Maybe I should let him take the wheel.

Since focusing on Matthew, our Bible Study discussions have taken us on quite a journey through details. Matthew is a master storyteller, painting pictures of fishermen-turned-followers and miracles. The Gospel of Matthew is a great read whether you’re wearing sandals on the Sea of Galilee or UGG’s in northwestern Nevada.

Some nights, our conversation flows like living water. Other nights, we nibble on cookies while collectively staring at text as if it’s written in ancient Hebrew. From those who could teach the class to those who are new and thirsty for more, we’re a merry band of scholars. Blended together, we unpack treasures in passages read a hundred times, now seen in a new light. The more we understand, the closer we are to the Truth.

Reading Matthew reminds me that sometimes the best stories come from the simplest moments as we sit together, sharing questions, passing the popcorn, and laughing as someone says, “Wait… we covered that last week?”

I’m reminded that learning about Jesus is not a race. Walking slowly through scripture is one way to make sure the message actually sinks into that stubborn part of the heart that needs it most. Most importantly, we show up not just for the study, but for each other.

So here’s to Matthew, our guide and teacher. And to Bible Study, where even on the weeks when we don’t know the answers, we know we’re in the right place.

Have a beautiful weekend. I’ll be back on Monday.

As November settles softly over the high-desert plains, I find myself looking back on a year stitched together with quiet blessings. Not the big fireworks moments, although we had a few of those, but the soft, everyday goodness that fills the spaces of life here at Winterpast.

The start of 2025 was a bit rocky as I battled Influenza A. Hoping not to have a repeat performance of that this year, I was so lucky to have HHH by my side during three weeks of fevers, incessant coughing, and mounds of cold medicine. I’ve always said January was one of the two months that could be scrapped, but, in 2026, I hope to enjoy every minute, taking nothing for granted.

February and March were months for tending to seedlings that would become squirrel salad in April. This winter, our selection of garden plants will be limited to less tasty varieties.

I think of the crab-apple tree and her stunning performance in May, her pink tulle dress catching every breeze like she was flirting with the whole neighborhood. The apricot blossoms promised a fruitful summer as the bees hummed happily until their sad farewell later in the season.

With trips to California, Mexico, Alaska, and Yellowstone, our minds were blown with the beauty of our world. From Hearst Castle on that enchanted hill to 75 mph winds off the coast of Alaska, we shared adventure at every turn as we made more memories of us.

There were days we searched for the missing mustangs, wondering if they’d been captured and sold at auction, and then on to those that we wished they’d find another neighborhood in which to feed. There were notes made about plants that survived their destructive ways and trials with Wild Hog Deterrent made from Mountain Lion Urine. All things we plan to continue investigating after a restful winter.

There were early morning sunrises that prompted us to get moving and those glorious breathtaking, stop-what-you’re-doing sunsets when God decides to repaint the sky just to remind us He can. Most evenings, I stood at the window, coffee cup cooling in my hand, feeling grateful for a place that still makes me pause.

Then, there is the blessing of our wonderful groomers that keep Oliver and Tanner safe. Last week, Tanner’s groom discovered a lump in her breast. Today, we’ll make the long trip to our vet to investigate the cause. All prayers are welcome for a good outcome.

Looking back, this year was as close to perfect as it gets. Full of laughter with HHH, projects were either completed or abandoned. Spring winds tried to rearrange the property while Oliver and Tanner’s daily routines kept us grounded.

As Thanksgiving approaches, I’m reminded once again that blessings don’t always arrive loudly. Sometimes they whisper. And if we’re quiet enough, we’ll hear them.

There’s one thing that HHH and I agree on. Long miles across the North American continent have nourished our souls and marriage. In 2025, we’ve enjoyed adventures through life by land, sea, and air.

Travel season begins each year with a traditional visit to the Central Coast of California. Of all the trips, traveling by car through California requires the most stamina due to heavy traffic and the sheer number of miles covered in one day. A 10-hour ordeal each way, twice we travel the same path as the Donner Party took in 1846. Thank goodness for heated seats and a turbo engine.

Once there, it’s been our pleasure to spend time with the best Godmother in the entire world, as well as a true Coastal Goddess. There must be magic in the ocean air that keeps these two women in tip-top shape. With trips to one of the only TRUE castles in the United States, as well as time at the beach, late winter is the best time to enjoy California sunshine.

In March, we chose the high seas, switching to a voyage on the Discovery Princess. Our favorite so far, we were both impressed by what a grand ship she is. If one doesn’t have a good time aboard this ship, one doesn’t know how to have fun. Cabo San Lucas and Puerto Vallarta will never be the same after HHH’s birthday celebration.

After a long summer, including caring for lawns and gardens, we hopped on the Discovery Princess again, this time heading north to Alaska. Drama on the high seas changed the itinerary, but it didn’t matter. Nothing is as special as dreaming at sea while serenaded by the waves. Alaska didn’t disappoint.

Autumn clean-up was followed by the wedding of the Love Birds, and then, we were off by land to celebrate our own anniversary. Dressed in autumn colors, Yellowstone greeted us with her grand skies, sometimes moody, sometimes glorious. The buffalo couldn’t care less about our schedule, while the waterfalls put on their dance just for us. Little towns along the way gifted us with memories we didn’t plan but now cherish.

Travel felt different this year. Softer. More appreciated. Maybe because the world is still shaking off old worries, or maybe because sitting beside HHH on those long highways and cruises feels like being wrapped in safety and hope at the same time.

Before the close of 2025, there’s one more adventure that will consume most of December. For the latest news on that, you’ll need to tune in next year.

We’ve laughed, enjoyed great food, and seen wonders that reminded us how big and beautiful this earth is. Every evening, we agree that adventures are best when taken with the person you love the most. When you’re lucky enough to have that person by your side, you are lucky enough! More tomorrow.

So many beautiful people have come together to create tapestry of friendships in 2025. Some old friends and some new, came together through service and the gentle rhythms of community life. Our church has blessed us with treasured friends as each one of us share our own special gifts.

Last spring, while bringing the church gardens and lawn back to life, we met a lovely gentleman who lives across the street. Born in an island country across the Pacific, life brought him to our desert town. With the biggest smile, through broken English, we’ve shared a few minutes under the warm spring sunshine. Friendships start with a “Hello” and sometimes continue with broken English and a smile.

We found a home for “Lucky Duck” later in the year. When we found her lost and alone, baking in the summer sun, something had to be done. HHH brought relief with the hose, giving her a place to cool off. A stylist from the cute little Salon across the street came later in the day to retrieve her. “LD” is enjoying her spot with the flock to this day, while I now enjoy great haircuts from the salon.

During breakfast fests on mornings before church, we’ve gotten to know more about each person that comes to share a bite before worship. From Sweet Bernie (90+), who bakes for us every week, to the youngest of us who is just “FOE” (translated — 4), we’re family throughout the week, not just on Sunday.

Thursday Bible Study, with its popcorn and cookies, continues to be one of my favorite gatherings. The seasoned scholars with their well-loved Bibles sitting next to the newcomer Bibles with their crisp, unmarked pages. The questions lead us on many adventures through the land Jesus walked with his apostles. Laughter fills the room like sunshine while friendships deepen with each verse. It’s a weekly reminder that faith grows best in circles.

Grief Share brought healing to those of us who needed space to breathe and speak. The meditation garden, with its roses, chimes, and sacred quiet , is a refuge for more people than we ever expected. The simple act of maintaining it while pulling weeds, rearranging stones, and trimming back stubborn branches feels holy in its own way.

Then, there are the neighbors of Winterpast, always providing a wave and a smile. We have plenty of time to visit and a yard of leaves to chase. All this as we wait for the great reveal of the neighbor’s 2025 Christmas light display, which will be grand.

During our travels on the high seas, we learned that travelers bring their Bibles as well as their formal wear. How lucky to find out that each voyage includes daily Bible studies held in the chapel.

This year has shown us we’re not meant to walk alone. When we give our time, hands, and listening ears, we gain more than we give. For all of these things, we give Thanks!!!

In the hush before sunrise, with the house still and deep,
HHH slips into the kitchen from a night’s gentle sleep.
The coffee pot hums, like a drowsy drum—
The morning whispers, “Thanksgiving’s finally come.”

The rhythm starts with footsteps soft, a shuffle on the floor,
A cupboard’s creak, pots and pans, the spatula encore.
The oven warms like sunshine, glowing gold behind glass,
And the chef starts his dance as minutes slowly pass.

The turkey waits, majestic, chilled, and grand,
While the pie smells of spices from a far-off autumn land.
The mixing bowl whirls at a clink-clink-clink beat,
The counters host a festival of flavors rich and sweet.

Outside, the high desert morning lifts its frosty, pearly veil,
A whisper of the season riding on a cooling tail.
Inside, the day is warming as the scents begin to rise—
A rhythm built of gratitude beneath the waking skies.

Soon laughter will be heard over steamy coffee brewed,
But now it’s peace and promise, just a moment made for two.
For in these early quiet hours, with every swirl and stir,
Thanksgiving plays its opening song with God as our conductor.

This morning is the beginning of a lovely day! HHH and I discovered on our very first date that we prepared our holiday turkeys exactly the same. It’s got to be in the oven bag. Along with the same preference for stuffing, not dressing, and all the sides, today, we’ll create a perfect dinner for two.

However you celebrate today, remember to be thankful for all the beauty in the world. Call friends you haven’t heard from in a while. Eat too much and laugh even more! This is the most beautiful time of year. Enjoy!!!!!

I’ll be back tomorrow.

Happy Thanksgiving!!

The calendar is winding down again, marking not just the end of another year but the gentle end to my sixth decade on this earth. Sixty-something years of laughter, loss, joy, grit, adventure, and the kind of wonder that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. As I sit here on the high-desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, watching Winterpast settle into the winter hush, I can’t help but smile at how fast 60 years have flown.

This year was stitched together with big adventures that will fill scrapbooks and memory boxes. Road trips across wide-open Western skies. Moments of belly-laugh humor with HHH that reminded me why this chapter of life is so sweet. Days spent in gardens, at church, with family, with dogs who think they’re human, and in places where peace hangs in the air like morning mist.

It was a year of long drives, quiet mornings, bright sunsets, and the surprising delight of finding blessings in unexpected corners, sometimes even under the washing machine. A year of celebrating anniversaries, tending to the land we love, and being part of a community.

But now, as December is about to wrap around us like a wool blanket, something in me feels different. Closing this year, I’m moving into the unexplored territory of a new decade of life.

I’m not sure if it’s bravery or simply the gift of aging gracefully, but there’s a tug inside whispering the next decade will be the grandest adventure yet. Not in a loud, dramatic sense, but in the quiet confidence of knowing who I am, where I belong, and what really matters.

It’s impossible to map out every journey (heaven knows the detours are the best parts anyway), but I’m stepping into this next season with an open heart. With HHH by my side, Oliver and Tanner always ready to create mischief, and the big, blue Nevada sky above me, I’m ready to face whatever comes. So here’s to closing my sixth decade with gratitude.

Here’s to the unexplored.
Here’s to the adventures still out there waiting.
Here’s to trusting that the best chapters aren’t behind us, but the ones still being written.

I’m taking the last month of the year for our own private celebration. I’ll be back January 5th with stories about our amazing adventure. From Winterpast to you, may your next steps be bold, your blessings abundant, and your heart wide open.

Happy Holidays — Joy