Category: 2025

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.