Category: 2026

After such an amazing start to our adventures, things only got better. With a month of great memories to share, I need to skip to the end. My conversations with God continued across one country after another, until it was time to board another plane for home.

If you haven’t flown in a while, let me warn you. Everything has changed. These days, it’s quite normal to see dogs of all types and sizes wandering the concourse. No longer in tiny little handbags waiting to be snuck on the plane, these are out-in-the-open, barking, squirming, happy dogs traveling with their anxious owners. Along with people who don’t understand what can and can’t fit under their seats, these dogs are everywhere.

To accommodate these dogs, the airlines have installed bathrooms for these pets. Our own airport did a cute design with its own fire hydrant and fake lawn. I wish I were making this up, but it’s true. The dogs have their own restrooms. therefore avoiding accidents. Each day, hundreds of happy canines serve humanity across the friendly skies.

For hours as we waited for our plane, HHH and I were pretty grumpy about the situation. Really? Thinking of our own two fur babies at home, we focused on the obvious. What about the noise, mess, and unpredictability? Safety issues? Personal space? We found hundreds of reasons to say, “Not on my plane.” And, I will admit, that was included in my conversations with Him. “Please, not today, God.”

Six long hours later, our boarding time arrived. After praying for angels to surround our plane, we took our places in two aisle seats in the back of the plane. In this plane, the seats were six across, so I had two unknowns. And, surprisingly, with the door was almost ready to close on a sold out plane, they remained empty.

Until.

Oy.

Vey.

Three beings came to join me. Two smallish humans and their Pit Bull/Aussie cross. Green-eyed, brown-nosed, just like someone else I know. THREE in a space meant for 1.5. Why did it have to be a Pit Bull anything????? Avoiding eye contact, I stood for them to enter.

Immediately, the canine moved the tiny bit to the left. With one word, the beast was at attention and sitting in the correct place between his owner’s legs. It behaved in a way that showed hours of training. And, of course, there was a very large, shock collar around its neck.

HHH gave me a few superior glances, as he had scored the great seat without Pit Bull involvement. And with that, we took off.

After about 15 minutes, everyone in row 29 had relaxed. It was then that I felt the softest sniff at my ankle. Just a little breathy “Hello”. I smiled, hoping it wasn’t the sniff before a bite. And then it happened. This soft, sweet, lovely dog draped his wonderfully comforting head across my foot, fully encroaching into my foot space. That was all it took.

We snuggled for the rest of the flight, he and I. I realized how much I missed Ollie and Tanner while experiencing the comfort of a dog snuggle. This sweet animal became my service dog for a time without ever receiving a pat on the head. He became another angel in our travel stories, and an unexpected source of grounding meant just for me. One I didn’t realize how much I needed after a very long trip.

God does have quite the sense of humor, eh? Delivering an angel in the form of a green-eyed, Pit Bull/Aussie cross, no less. What started out as an inconvenience turned into a connection.

As it turns out, there were at least two dogs on our plane. The other was a very large lab that we never saw or heard from until we left the plane. A veteran’s service dog that made everyone smile at baggage claim.

Bottom line, grace doesn’t always look holy. Angels come in all shapes and sizes. And, sometimes, their comfort comes with furry warmth draped over the feet of a newly-70 year old woman. This is going to be the best decade ever!!!!

More tomorrow.

Our adventures in December surpassed anything we dreamed when choosing to visit a very old coffee plantation in Antigua. On a full-day tour, we hoped to see a bit of the REAL Guatemala. What that would include, we couldn’t imagine. By day’s end, we sailed away with memories of a most mysterious place.

The first four days of our cruise were sea days. Now, there are those who long for exotic ports of call. For HHH and me, the sea days are why we cruise. Hours and hours of changing seascapes and skies, while traveling about 20 miles an hour. There are those who find the thought terrifying. It could be nothing further from the truth, from mornings with fun activities to the evening when the lullaby of the crashing waves through an open balcony window soothed us to sleep. We’re “Sea Day” people.

With a stop in Puerto Vallarta for a day of sailing in the Bay of Banderas. we enjoyed one more sea day before disembarking for a land excursion. Carefully protected, we walked through trinket shops at the dock to our awaiting bus and tour guide. All eyes were on the tourists, keeping us safe from harm.

Throughout the day, volcanoes, history, and nature surrounded us. Along the way, one of the distant volcanoes began erupting. Starting with a tiny puff, there was soon an entire plume. As the tour guide continued talking, it seemed we were driving towards certain disaster. Later, we learned the volcano does this several times a day in pretty dramatic fashion.

It’s this volcanic ash that makes Antigua the perfect place to grow coffee. Upon arriving at the historic coffee farm, the cleanliness made a statement. Pristine and elegant, we soon learned about this very old plantation, filled with pride and professionals.

Coffee beans are called cherries when ripe. Our guide handed each one of us a red “cherry” and asked us to squeeze it. A clear juice came out of the tip. He then asked us to taste the juice. To my surprise, it was deliciously sweet. After breaking the bean apart, the pulp is made into jelly, while the bean is roasted for coffee. The parchment is turned into cattle feed. All of this happens in a circle of erupting volcanoes, as it has for decades.

The tour was fascinating. The tiny plantation, filled with ancient machines, is operated by men who’ve worked there for decades. It was obvious that growing coffee takes care and patience, which is true with any farming.

After a Guatemalan lunch served on a veranda that overlooked the plantation, we loaded into smaller buses for a short ride into Antigua. “Cobblestones” make up every street in the town, which are actually hunks of volcanic rock. Do Not Fall on these uneven and jagged streets. On that particular Sunday afternoon, families were enjoying time in the town square under lovely trees shading the area. Conversations and laughter replaced a noticeable lack of cellphones. So beautiful to experience that once again.

We ended the tour with a visit to a Jade factory. To our surprise, we learned that rocks containing jade rings like metal when hit with a hammer.

Before leaving, I’d bought a wallet, bamboo flute, small drum, and cobalt-blue scarf that HHH insisted I must have. Throughout our visit, the locals celebrated the Day of Bread. Vendors selling every size and shape of bread you could imagine filled the streets. Funny. A Day of Bread would be a delightful thing to celebrate here in the States.

Returning to the ship by 5, we sat on our balcony while watching the last of our shipmates race to the gangway before we sailed away.

Although I’ll probably never return to Finca Filadelfia for a stay, the beauty of that plantation will stay with me forever. Just a very old coffee plantation nestled in the rain forest under the watch of beautiful volcanoes that blow once in awhile.

More tomorrow.

During our travels, the biggest adventures of all belonged to me. Tropical bird songs and filtered sunlight replaced candles and a pink birthday cake. That day unfolded as planned months ago when I first decided to spend the day with sloths. Damp earth, rustling leaves, and the quiet of a sloth sanctuary welcomed me into my 7th decade. Never having made a real birthday wish for myself, I did this year, creating a milestone, not just a footnote.

Costa Rica must be the place God goes to relax.

In my experience, this country is one of the most beautiful places on earth. We spent my birthday morning at the Costa Rica Animal Rescue Center, dedicated to the rehabilitation and release of Costa Rica’s endangered wildlife.  The stars of the show were the baby sloths, but there were plenty of supporting actors.

One of the first things I noticed upon our arrival was that this very old place was extremely clean. Without the smells you might find at any normal zoo, the caregivers moved with calm and gentle motions. There would be NO SELFIES with the animals. Every animal there had already suffered enough at the hands of men. In their opinion, selfies only promoted the human urge to possess these creatures. NO SELFIES with the animals. Period. With that, it was clear that snuggling with the babies wouldn’t happen. Watching would be enough.

With that we met some residents. Of course, the two that melted our hearts were the babies. Electrocution is one of the biggest causes of death in sloths. The two orphans are now raised by their human Sloth Mother. Having worked with these tiny creatures for 30 years, she watched over her littles who were wrapped in blankets. Sloths don’t like to be touched. It stresses them out.

There were five adults hanging around. Sloths only defecate once a week, climbing down the tree to bury their scat. Then, it’s the slow journey back up the tree to safety.

Enclosures held monkeys rescued from the evils of man. One belonged to a cartel, where he learned to drink, smoke, and consume cocaine. A very muscular and busy animal, we were told he was the most dangerous in the compound, which escapes now and then. Another monkey spent years in chains. When she arrived, it took her six months to stop carrying a piece of chain with her, although it had been removed. Oh, the bottomless pit of evil in humans.

Watching the care giver made me think about Jesus and his care for the least among us. Those of us that have the strength, resources, and time are called upon to help the overlooked, harmed, or forgotten in ways we can.

After our tour, the hosts offered us snacks from the rainforest. Juice, pineapple, and other fruits were served under a canopy to protect us from random raindrops. Magic in the middle of the wilds of Costa Rica, just as I’d dreamed for months.

The two hours we spent wandering, looking, and listening are imprinted on my heart. I’m so grateful for seventy years of learning, loving, and becoming. Growing up on a farm taught me everything I needed to know before I struck out on my own. Returning to an animal sanctuary, I stepped into a decade guided by wonder, awe, compassion, and faith. This decade won’t be defined by speed or spectacle, but with curiosity and presence. This decade will be intentional.

More tomorrow.

A sixteen-day cruise, including three formal nights, requires strategic packing. In our case, it began a month before embarkation. The week before traveling, the suitcases were weighed many times. Three would provide plenty of space for necessities and souvenirs. With three days dedicated to laundry during our trip, laundry rotations work out just right. After all, we were taking 150 pounds of clothing and necessities. But even the best cruisers can’t outpack time.

The first laundry day was planned for the sixth day of the cruise, off the coast between Puerto Vallarta and Guatemala. By then, the two garbage bags I’d brought from home were fully separated into whites and colors. All systems were go, as I lugged the bags 1/2 of the length of the ship to the aft.

Cruise ship laundry rooms are very busy places. You just never know, after walking a football field carrying two bags of laundry, if you’ll find an open washer. It’s a crap shoot, so, I started early. Arriving promptly when open at 8 am, I found two empty washers. Score!

On our last cruise, the use of the washer, dryer, and detergent were free, a lovely situation. A bigger ship, there were 8 sets of washers and dryers. This ship was a little different. Five brand new Samsung dryers sat atop their washing partners. It was a great sign that they all worked. The token dispenser was another story. After a bit, I left two washing machines working, as the line continued to form out the door. $8 lighter, I’d be back in 27 minutes.

If you happen to be leaving on a cruise of your own, I have a suggestion. Pack the new sheets of detergent/softener. They may not work the best, but they beat the boxed powder sold by the cruise lines. I felt as if I was in a 1960’s commercial for laundry soap.

My second suggestion is this. Make NO eye contact with anyone in the laundry room. Don’t start any happy little discussions, because there will be someone there to ruin your moment of blissful domesticity. Some seasoned wench will bully the sweet 70-year-old who uses TWO machines at one time, considered a breach of laundry etiquette. (No one told me.) These people, usually women of a certain age, revel in their absolute and unspoken authority. Their word is law.

During our cruise, I’d experience the laundry room two more times. I learned that IF there is a chair when you enter this tiny little laundromat, sit in it. It won’t be there for more than a few minutes, so claim it. Sitting claims your machines, while standing invites chaos and help from strangers. It also allows time for premium people-watching and lesson-learning.

While watching, I discovered that people waste tons of time and energy by leaving their clothes in the dryer far longer than needed. After waiting 20 minutes for a dryer, the timer was down to minutes. The owner of the four items in the dryer returned. It was obvious this load had been dry for the previous 20 minutes, but no. She waited until the timer marched on to zero. DING (dong). Tip — Check your laundry partway through–they may dry earlier than the scheduled time.

Hours later, warm, clean clothes felt like a major win with a sense of accomplishment. Even after breaking the two-machine rule, everyone still smiled and wished me well as I left with my bags of fluffies.

Life on a cruise is magical in so many ways. But, laundry happens, even to the most seasoned passenger. And, just like every Friday morning, mine awaits today. Have a great weekend. I’ll be back on Monday with more stories from the high seas.

Waking before the alarm and most of the ship, we watched the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean. You read that correctly. Panama is one of a few places in the world where the sun RISES over the Pacific and sets over the Atlantic. The sky shifted from ink to blush to gold, and for a few quiet minutes, it felt as though we were the only souls awake on the water.

That illusion lasted right up until we saw the lineup of thirty-six ships, all politely waiting in a nautical pattern similar to a very well-behaved traffic jam. Apparently, nothing says good morning quite like maritime gridlock.

Gathering in the bay before the sun had fully committed to the day with engines humming, everyone inched forward with the patience of saints. This was a slow, deliberate procession toward the locks, a crawl so measured it felt like we could knit a sweater between movements. Somewhere along the way, we discovered we’d done something rare and magical in travel: we had booked correctly. Not only were we on a ship built to travel through the historic locks, but also on the correct side of the ship. Happy accidents!!!

Too excited to sleep, we climbed to Deck 18 right after sunrise over the Pacific. I’m not sure what time the other passengers assembled, but it was before us. The stairs leading to Deck 18 kept many from enjoying the best views. Every vantage point along the railing was taken, with many people bringing chairs. Everyone quietly anticipated the big show of the day. The Panama Canal.

As if all the excitement wasn’t enough, a tour guide narrated the entire day, calmly explaining every gate, cable, tug, and inch gained.

Days earlier, Room Service had contacted us to ask about breakfast preferences. At that time, it seemed crazy that the woman on the other end of the phone was asking endless questions about our preferences, down to the type of berries we’d like. Really, two omelets with sides of bacon would’ve been great. Yes, we had ordered a multi-course private breakfast, served directly to our own port-side balcony. However, we weren’t prepared when, promptly at 8 am, the waiter arrived with champagne on ice, along with at least eight courses of steamy, hot food.

There is something magical about privately sipping coffee while watching one of the world’s greatest engineering feats pass you by. Plates arrived, courses followed, and food disappeared. All while gliding forward at a pace best described as geological. Built by Americans and opened in 1913, it was later handed over for $1 by a president whose generosity exceeded his negotiating skills. These historical facts landed softly while we floated between concrete walls with only twenty-four inches to spare on either side, trusting completely in people with clipboards and teams of little trains called mules, that ran on a cogged track.

The day unfolded through three sets of locks and two lakes, each transition slow and mesmerizing. Time blurred while water levels rose and fell. We became experts in waiting. And then, just when it seemed the day could offer nothing new, we spotted movement along the shore. Frolicking animals that weren’t deer, cows, horses, goats or sheep.

It turned out to be a herd of capybaras lounging, waddling, frolicking, and living entirely unbothered lives while global commerce cruised by. They were the perfect reminder that while humans are very proud of their canals, nature remains unimpressed.

By the time the final lock released us and the ship turned toward Cartagena, the sun was setting. As the horizon shifted and open water returned, a new set of questions arose. Heading towards Columbia, would we make it through without pirates? Random bombs? Mild intrigue at minimum?

More tomorrow. Stay tuned.

Last September, counting down the days to my birthday extravaganza, we carefully chose an excursion for each port. Visiting baby sloths, monkeys, and butterflies on my birthday was a special treat, but nothing prepared us for an excursion to Monkey Island on Gatun Lake. A zoo-like, long-distance view of monkeys doing whatever they do. Instead, our experiences were up close and personal, while even witnessing a theft on another boat. Oy Vey. Let me start from the beginning.

To begin with, the boat reminded me of something we watched on Gilligan’s Island. Without Skipper or the professor, the setup was a little sketchy. Two elderly tourists took their walkers up to the boat, and then, the sweetest crew helped the frail couple aboard. Once we put on the life jackets, 18 souls were ready for the river. This was definitely less of a cruise and more of an adventure.

Once we left the dock, the captain hit us with a sudden acceleration across Gatun Lake. Along the way, we passed many huge ships making their way through the Panama Canal. Skipping across the water, our boat jumped the wakes with back-jolting hits. At least, we were too fast for mosquitoes. Chopping along at high speed, hair whipped as passengers clutched their hats.

Racing our sister boat, it was neck and neck. Each captain tried to catch fewer waves to reach the monkeys first. Quite the competition was underway. With each slap across the water, I prayed the fiberglass shell would hold. These weren’t the safest or newest boats on the water. While the race continued, tourists scanned the shoreline with cameras at the ready.

After about 20 minutes on the water, the engines slowed, and the rainforest grew as quiet as a rainforest could. The captain and guide began making strange calls, a sort of blend between clicking and whistles. Ever once in awhile, the guide would snap out a word that sounded like “Bendt” in a language foreign to me. Arriving at Monkey Island, we waited, as everyone wondered how this would work.

After trying several places along the tree-covered shoreline, the first monkey materialized from the jungle. One after another came to the shoreline by swinging through tree branches. Howlers, capuchins, and tamarins showed themselves. One Howler came aboard the other boat and quickly stole something from a tourist’s open backpack. Like a flash, it was back among the tree branches eating a candy bar, and then dropping the blue wrapper in the water below. And so, the adventure was in full swing.

The capuchins had curious faces and clever eyes. Agile and confident, they clearly ran the place. These felt friendly (except for the thief.) According to the guide, they are cute, but not safe or friendly.

Not to be left out, the howlers came to visit. Although we didn’t hear them, these monkeys have deep, booming calls that roll across the lake. These monkeys are too large to ignore, and we all looked up to watch their antics.

The Tamarins were the last to show up and the most suspicious of our boat. After our guide rubbed fruit on a hanging limb, they came down to enjoy a little snack. Two father’s carried their babies around on their backs. Squirrel-sized and extremely fast, they were hard to photograph. The fatherly love caused our collective hearts to melt.

Monkeys visited our boat. The guide handed me a leaf from one of the trees to pass off to the littlest passenger. Grabbing it, he was gone in a flash, back into the safety of the trees of the rainforest. Monkeys were hopping aboard, here, there, and everywhere. We weren’t to touch or smile in any way, as exposed teeth are a sign of aggression. The thought of a possible attack sobered up the group. Calm and still, everyone did a good job hiding teeth and excitement.

Being surrounded by wild monkeys in their own world was exhilarating. Experiencing equal parts of wonder and disbelief, this was one of those rare travel moments that can’t be recreated. Just experienced and never, ever forgotten.

Once docked, we returned to the bus. There we received water, a turkey sandwich, and coconut muffin, a delightful end to a most wonderful morning. Although photos couldn’t possibly capture the rich experience, we all took home magical memories. Truly something unforgettable.

Cruising into Cartagena felt like creeping onto the set of an adventure movie. Over the smooth bay and under a cooperative sky, the ship eased in as if nothing unpleasant had ever happened there, ever. Boarding a bus parked just feet from the ship should have been a red flag. Appearing convenient and efficient, our departure was clearly designed for passenger safety. For the day, we were property of Columbia. Yes. The Columbia presently on the news.

The bus ride took us to a barrio outside the walled city known as Getsemaní. Assuming the name had biblical roots, after about thirty seconds on the street, I was confident prayer would be a great idea. Before noticing the colors, architecture, or people, HHH pointed out raw sewage running through open gutters. Just… there. Flowing along like it had every right to be. It was the kind of thing you see once and then spend the rest of the day pretending you didn’t.

We were ushered into a restaurant where we were served fried plantains, ceviche, and a coconut milk and lime drink that worked very hard to distract us from our surroundings. After experiencing the walk to the little restaurant, the last thing I would be eating on this strange day was raw fish, no matter how it was prepared. So, twenty-five new friends sat on stools made of scrap wood and rebar, knowing inside was safer than outside.

Then came the coffee. Lots of coffee. Glorious, rich, Colombian coffee. If bravery could be brewed, this was the attempt. I drank it willingly, hoping caffeine might double as courage, and the water temperature killed any pathogens.

Back on the bus we went, heading toward the walled city, where the rich live. The buildings were undeniably historic, but I never felt safe the entire day. It was a low-grade unease that hummed quietly in the background, like bad elevator music you can’t turn off. Every step required a little extra awareness while I clutched my already secure fanny pack. Losing a passport in this place would be the worst, and it seemed many would love to take it. Thank goodness for HHH.

After enjoying a wee bit of air conditioning in an emerald museum, HHH, sensing both the moment and my state of mind, surprised me with an emerald and silver cross necklace. Putting it on immediately, it was something solid to clutch as we continued on, surrounded by pushy locals selling absolutely everything under the sun. If you could imagine it, they had it. HHH bought a t-shirt and a hat because resistance was futile.

Eventually back on the bus, we rode a short distance to the harbor, where we boarded what can only be described as a frat party on the water. Music blared at a volume that suggested long-term hearing damage was part of the experience. People enthusiastically encouraged us to drink more, more, MORE, and tried valiantly to turn a boatload of seniors into something resembling Dance Dance Revolution. It did not happen. It was never going to happen. If they could have just turned down the music, perhaps negotiations could have begun, but as it was, I’m fairly certain I left a small portion of my hearing somewhere in the Caribbean.

At the very end of the day, after being dumped off a little ways from the ship, we stumbled into what turned out to be the very best part of Colombia. A quiet indoor tourist park. Peaceful. Calm. Civilized. Inside were live flamingos, toucans, parrots, sloths, and monkeys, all just hanging out, being wonderful. Who knew? Apparently not us. We could have simply enjoyed the day there among the animals.

With coffee once again in hand, we boarded the ship for the last time. Ahead of us were three blessed sea days to process everything we had seen, heard, and survived. Aruba has replaced Colombia in future itineraries. Cartagena may have been uncomfortable, but Central America, with all its chaos and beauty, is an amazing place. Even the rough days come with stories worth telling.

More tomorrow.

Returning home from adventuring, our heads full of stories, and phones full of photos. At some point between unpacking shoes we didn’t wear and souvenirs we absolutely needed, we decided to scrapbook. HHH accepted this challenge with calm bravery normally reserved for turbulence or escargot at sea.

One day at sea, while looking for Christmas presents, I discovered a complete scrapbooking set. Not only was everything included, but this set was themed especially for Princess Cruise Lines. The Love Boat thinks of everything. Successfully hiding the 12 x 12 journal and accessories for the rest of the trip, HHH was surprised on Christmas morning!

The box of scrapbooking accessories included papers with just the right shimmer, essential stickers, and a scrapbook itself that felt important enough to deserve its own shelf. We were both confident this book, when finished, would be magnificent.

Printing began. Enter the tank printer, the unsung hero of modern memory-keeping. If you don’t have one, you should. Truly. Bottled ink allows a crafter to print with wild abandon. Big pictures. Small pictures. “Let’s just try it” pictures. No rationing or guilt, but absolute freedom. HHH looked through hundreds of pictures on his phone, picking the best of the best. A monkey here, a tanker ship there. It was surprising how many during the cruise.

Choosing photos was an adventure of its own. Some were ours, carefully framed and occasionally artistic. Kind strangers captured others on the internet with better light, angle, or steadier hands. We welcomed those photos into the family without shame. Scrapbooking is no place for pride.

As the pages filled, so did the conversation. Long, detailed conversations about things like whether a photo was taken on Day Seven or Day Eight, and whether that mattered (it did). We revisited the highlights of each of our 16 days while time slowed as glue dried. Memories of us secured a place in our brains.

Passage through the Panama Canal was covered throughout four very stubborn pages. Suddenly, my confidence wavered while the layout rebelled. This was the moment HHH came to the rescue, calmly taking over. Organizing the best pictures we had, he made sure each one was in the correct order (because that DOES matter when you’re traveling through the Panama Canal.) Together, we finished those pages. HHH, my mysterious Marine, is now a proven scrapbooker.

The finished book is full of color, laughter, and memories pressed safely onto pages. A place we can return to on quiet afternoons, just to smile and relive our beautiful trip together. Thanks, HHH. I truly couldn’t have done it without you… or at least not without significantly more frustration and a much worse attitude.

More tomorrow.

January arrived quietly, without fanfare or fireworks. Around here, there weren’t parades or parties, only an exchange of one calendar for the next. With the rest of the year all about doing, January is about imagining new plans for what could be.

After finishing the scrapbooking of our December cruise, we’ve decided to continue. First, pictures of our Alaskan adventure were glued in place. Another vacation was memorialized with glue and printed photos. But this getaway had many problems. The wind blew at 70 mph, while the seas were too fierce to battle. Over seven days of rough seas, ports, and excursions were canceled, limiting our Alaskan experience.

Thumbing through the new scrapbook, our January dreams turned back to room service and non-stop housekeeping help. The endless buffet available at any time, day or night. Activities prepared and at the ready. A full staff beauty salon and spa. Most importantly, the beauty of falling asleep on the high seas.

Memories flooded our brains, and then our eyes met. At that moment, these dreams became reality, and the next steps were obvious. Alaska 2.0 is on the books for 2026.

Not all dreaming requires a checklist or deadline. Dreams can take form while staring out the window at a dormant backyard while a steaming mug of Costa Rican coffee warms very cold hands following December holidays.

While the yard is waiting for us, we are waiting for the weather to warm up just a little before we begin the 2026 gardening season. With highs in the high 40’s, it’s still a little too cold for serious gardening.

Alaskan waters await our return. This time, we’ll enjoy our time among the glaciers and whales, while returning to our home away from home on the high seas.

January is a fine time to dream. It’s certainly a great time to remember fantastic vacations enjoyed just months ago. There’s plenty of time to plan the Gardens of 2026. With only two weeks left in January, there’s no time to waste.

Have a wonderful weekend. I’ll be back Monday.

We don’t want much. Just a little soil.
Not dirt.
Soil.

They are not the same thing, no matter how many garden bags say otherwise. Dirt is what you sweep off the porch. Soil is what feeds the world. Dirt is what you curse when the wind comes up. Soil is what you kneel in with hope. Good soil is full of decaying organic matter. On the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, we are surrounded by dirt. That’s just the way it is.

I grew up in California’s Central Valley, where soil was so rich it felt like cheating. You could drop a seed, turn your back, and come back later to something edible. Fields stretched for miles, dark and generous, producing food for places far beyond our view. They called it the Bread Basket of the World, and it deserved the title.

Back then, I never understood why people were so upset about new housing construction. Why the protests? House after house crept across the landscape, swallowing fields that had quietly done their job for generations. I was too young to understand what was being lost. Between the coastal range and the Sierra’s, the vast landscape felt endless. Farming felt permanent.

Then, all grown up, I did exactly what they warned about, building a home right in the middle of what had once been a fig orchard. The trees were gone, and the soil was sealed beneath concrete. Comfort replaced cultivation, and I didn’t give it much thought at the time. Wasn’t a tile-roofed 3/2 with a pool in the back progress at its best?

Fast forward to Winterpast. Here, we don’t have soil, we have dirt. No way around it. Young dirt, as dirt goes, is decomposed granite and sand compacted into the desert floor by wind and time. This dirt laughs at shovels and shrugs off good intentions, resembling concrete more than soil.

For twenty-two years, stubborn homeowners like HHH and me have been trying to change that. We amend, compost, mulch, plant, and believe. Season after season, we work to coax life into the ground, even adding worms. Season after season, we still have dirt. Gardening in the desert teaches you humility as well as patience, whether you asked for the lesson or not.

Recently, a memory surfaced from my childhood days on the farm. I remembered my mother at the garden center, buying bales of peat moss. Lovingly, she worked it into our already beautiful soil. Azaleas and rhododendrons grew in a secret flower bed so lush it belonged in a magazine. She partnered with nature.

Azaleas and rhododendrons are a step too far for our desert climate. That January dream would just dry up, and blow away in the Zephyrs. But, what if peat moss could nudge our dirt a little closer to soil?

So, Saturday, HHH and I bought a bale. I clearly remember my mother paying a few dollars. We paid $38.00 for one bale of compressed hope.

We stood there doing the math gardeners everywhere know too well: How badly do we want this? Gardening, it turns out, is also an exercise in economic acceptance. It will be another expensive year for gardening, but then again, it always is.

Because soil is more than dirt. Memory, time, and care are layered season after season. Soil happens when you refuse to give up, even when the ground resists you. And, just maybe, this year our dirt will become something a little closer to soil.

More tomorrow.

Tick, tick, tock goes the garden clock,
Plant those bulbs before they rot.
Too late, too cold, too soon, too slow—
Plant them now… or never know.

A particular kind of panic settles into a gardener’s bones more important than weather forecasts or watering schedules. Suddenly, one realizes the bulbs must be planted right now, and possibly last week. The urgency arrives without warning, usually while sipping coffee and gazing at perfectly empty flower boxes that were prepared just weeks ago.

This realization sent us racing to the garden center, only to discover that it’d vanished, like a mirage. Locked, we found an empty cavern where rows of flowers and trees once lived. Gardening season ends in September, and we are too early or late, however you want to look at this situation.

Thank goodness, our new bulbs were waiting in the garage. HHH doesn’t waste money buying hothouse flowers from Walmart. Planning carefully, he’s planted the most beautiful array of blooms that will arrive year after year. Everything from Iris to Tulips, I only need to go outside and select the bouquet of the week.

Back at Winterpast, the front yard looks refreshed and smug with the crisp, new flower boxes waiting with purpose. Meanwhile, weeds have taken full advantage of the balmy 50-degree afternoon skies, popping up everywhere without invitation or plan, disrupting our plans.

Ignoring the weeds for a moment, our entire focus was on getting bulbs into the ground. Repeating, “It’s not that late,” and “People plant later than this all the time,” yesterday was an exercise in optimism wrapped in dirt.

Of course, no plan at Winterpast is complete without considering the local mustangs. As we imagine bulbs sleeping peacefully underground, the mustangs are imagining dinner reservations. I picture them watching from the hills above us while quietly taking notes. “Ah yes,” one seems to say, “freshly painted boxes. Clearly the appetizers.”

Will these bulbs bloom gloriously in spring, filling the front yard with color and vindication? Or will they become the most expensive forage the mustangs have enjoyed all season? That remains to be seen. But still, we plant because gardeners always do, with hope. With crossed fingers, we understand that nature has the final say, sometimes showing up wearing hooves.

With bulbs in the ground and the weeds taking over, the garden center remains closed until March and the mustangs keep watch. Spring feels close enough to believe in, and belief, after all, is what keeps us digging. 🌱🐎

The sign affixed to the shed clearly claims our position as a wildlife refuge center. Posted with confidence, we love our title. Each year, Winterpast provides water, food, and nesting materials to passing wildlife. Yes, to even random toads and squirrels.

Here at Winterpast, each morning begins the same way. We wake to wings. Not the dramatic, biblical kind, but the everyday miracle of small birds arriving for breakfast as if they’ve all synced their watches. Before we’re dressed for the day, the feeders are already busy, and the day has declared itself open for business.

HHH, benevolent provider-in-chief, keeps the operation running smoothly. Bags of bird seed are generously poured into feeders that don’t stay full for long. The finches arrive first, clinging to the sides and swaying back and forth like tiny trapeze artists. .

Below them, polite but persistent coveys of quail scurry to collect whatever falls from above. Moving with purpose, they always seem slightly hurried, as if they’re late for an important meeting elsewhere. With nothing wasted, this is a very efficient dining establishment.

The civilized world frowns on this. Don’t feed the wildlife, upset the natural flow of things, or get involved with the wildlife.

A true story comes to mind. Along the Pacific Coast, one sweet little old lady LOVED birds so much, she put up 50 feeders on her tiny, oceanfront lot. What goes in, must come out. The birds ate, and then…….ate some more. Soon, the roofs of unhappy neighbors became so soiled that professional cleaning became necessary. The California Department of Fish and Game became involved, threatening a court date unless the feeding stopped. All delicious intrigue for a tiny little street just feet above the Pacific Ocean. HHH has been warned…. It could happen anywhere (except on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada).

Noticeably absent is the squirrel. Not gone. Just…not here YET. His absence feels temporary, suspicious even. For now, we’re realistically optimistic.

As the feeders sway and the seeds fall, spring quietly begins assembling itself around us. Our birdhouses stand ready like freshly built subdivisions awaiting new tenants. Soon enough, nests will appear, followed by chirping babies and their fretful parents. Watching from a respectful distance, we’ll pretend to focus on pruning while making mental notes of their activities.

Of course, ever nearby and watchful is the hawk. Perched patiently, he surveys the scene like a diner reviewing the menu. While calmly waiting, he’s confident that eventually, dinner will make a mistake. The circle of life is alive and well, even during breakfast hours.

Hope and faith are reinforced on these frigid mornings. The return of birds. Winter life continues, quietly and insistently, right outside the window. Spring doesn’t announce itself loudly here but simply shows up, feathered and hungry, reminding us that once again, the season has turned.

At Winterpast, the refuge is open, and feeders are full. Hope, like the birds, never really left at all.

Pruning of the roses is an activity that begins with hope and ends with Band-Aids. An annual reminder that, in this life, beauty rarely comes without thorns. Roses, much like people, require a little tough love if they’re going to flourish.

Pruning always starts innocently enough, encouraged by winter’s vast blue desert sky overhead. Its reward is armloads of fragrant blooms in a few short months. Yesterday, I stepped outside with optimism, thick gloves, and the sleek, sharp nippers HHH gave me for Christmas. Careful to avoid the ice still present from the snow of two weeks ago, I retrieved a trash can for the trimmings before realizing that if there is still ice on the ground, I should wait for a warmer day.

And so, pruning will wait. To prune, be prepared with thick, leather gloves, a winter-weight sweatshirt, and long pants. The smallest bit of exposed skin usually ends up with scratches and embedded thorn tips.

Always present is the great pruning debate. Just how much is enough, and how much is too much? Every rose guide says something different. Knee-high? Waist-high? Cut back by a third? Cut back by half? It takes experience and patience to learn about your own bushes, creating true art when it’s just right.

This year, HHH and I have a plan. He’ll choose the height, which, if too short, will feel reckless and, if too long, will feel lazy. His instinct and memory of last year’s blooming plants will guide him. I’ll follow to remove dead and crossing stems, removing anything thinner than a pencil. Pruning is a great exercise in respecting the opinions of your co-gardener. Last year’s blooms showed that, together, our method worked well.

Each clean cut promises new growth, while the trimmed branch remind us to trust the process. Cutting back something living while knowing it will come back stronger is Faith-Gardening at its finest.

Meanwhile, the weather plays its own little game. While creating my own Vitamin D in the desert sunshine, it felt downright pleasant, lifting my mood. But moving into the shade, it was gloves-on, visible-breath winter again. One minute I was warm and optimistic, the next shivering and wondering why I left the fire inside. Gardening, like life, requires layers

For now, the rose garden stands there, bare and unremarkable, looking nothing like the lush beauty I’m imagining. The magic of pruning isn’t about today, but about those fragrant spring blooms when you forget all about the thorns.

Like everything else, the world of vacuums has certainly evolved since the 1900’s. Gone are the days of random salesmen arriving at inconvenient times to show you their cumbersome contraptions. Heavy and complicated, they made vacuuming even more work than necessary. Now? Selecting the right vacuum requires research and comparison charts for a machine that SHOULD work well for four years.

The need for a new one became obvious earlier in the week. With two shedless dogs (HAHAHA) vacuuming is a must. I vacuumed once. Then again. And, finally, a third time. However, the carpet still looked tired. Certainly not the fresh, crisp look I remembered from years past. My four-year-old vacuum was doing the bare minimum.

Our dogs are lovely creatures of the “non-shedding variety.” Of course, after living with them for years, we know that’s a marketing lie. Non-shedding apparently means the hair redistributes itself throughout the house in artistic ways under corners, rugs, and furniture. If they could vacuum after themselves, they would happily comply. But, without opposing thumbs, they rely on their humans for that.

And so, the shopping began. Oh my goodness, the choices. Corded. Battery-operated. Upright. Stick. Bagged. Bagless. Vacuums that bend. Vacuums that light up. Vacuums that appear to have headlights better than my car. There are even machines now that vacuum and mop the floor at the same time. As if we all collectively agreed that pushing a mop was simply too much to ask of modern humanity.

Every model promises powerful suction, revolutionary technology, and a cleaner life. Some sound less like appliances and more like NASA equipment. Cyclones. Multi-surface intelligence. Pet-erasing capabilities. Really??? I just want the dog hair gone.

Reviews, of course, were wildly unhelpful. One person claims a vacuum changed their life. Another says it stopped working after a week and has been banished to the garage. One reviewer has five dogs and says it’s “fine.” Another owns a single cat and seemed personally offended by the entire brand.

In the end, I decided on a powerful Bissell that boldly promised to erase pet hair. Erase is a strong, confident word. After plugging in the retractable cord, I gave it a test run in the guest room, which had just been vacuumed with our old, four-year-old Shark. Surely there wouldn’t be much left. After all, there aren’t many guests here at Winterpast.

Oh, how wrong I was.

What that new vacuum pulled out of the carpet was both impressive and deeply unsettling. Apparently, the old vacuum only lightly groomed the surface. The vacuum found pet hair from dogs who may not even live here anymore. After two rooms, I emptied the container and kept going.

So, at Winterpast, we’re entering a new era. With early spring cleaning underway, we’re enjoying cleaner carpets and the quiet satisfaction of knowing that sometimes, it’s not you, it’s the vacuum.

Enjoy your weekend. I’ll be back Monday.

Once in a while, we need to leave the comforts of home, including our favorite coffee mugs. Becoming restless, even Oliver and Tanner dream about time away at puppy camp. As honeymooners, we’ve discovered that, sometimes, life needs a reset. That can be found after a short drive west, away from wide open skies, towards the neon lights of the Biggest Little City to the West.

City life never disappoints. Driving right past the main part of our destination city is a place that offers an inviting stay while still humming with energy. You can choose to scurry about or do absolutely nothing at all, both good options.

Our favorite resort can only be described as a little city within the biggest little city in the west. Park the car and put away the keys because everything needed is right there. Restaurants don’t require reservations weeks in advance. Long, quiet hallways lead to rooms so comfortable they practically insist on an afternoon nap. Here, someone else makes the bed, provides the extra-fluffy towels, and brings room service.

Stay-cation days start slowly, with coffee cups that remain filled to the brim. Made-to-order breakfast magically appears as we sit and enjoy our meals a little longer than normal.

The best thing about this resort is that something is always going on. Travelers come and go for those who enjoy top-tier people-watching. Who knows? A random service horse and their owner may walk by.

The resort is divided into two sections. One is exactly like any other mega-casino you might visit. Aisle after aisle of slot machines and card tables, all designed to make the gambler feel as if winning is a given. It’s very wise to remember that the only giving to be done is from the gambler to the house.

The other side of the resort is tranquil and inviting. Surrounded by rows of empty lounge chairs, winter is a time when the fog-generating hot tubs are often empty. Above the pool area, the spa awaits to cocoon one in steamy bliss. Time stretches into hours of relaxation, always restorative, even if you’re only escaping retirement.

HHH and I always find peace for a few days away from our two crazy canines. Sleep is deeper, and mornings blissfully uninterrupted. There’s a lightness that comes from knowing the fur-babies are fine at puppy camp while we’re temporarily off duty.

Leaving home on a Stay-cation at our “Home-Away-From-Home” reconnects us with who we are when not gardening. The best little resort in the Biggest Little City of the West gives us space to breathe. And sometimes, that’s the very best kind of comfort there is.

More tomorrow.

Experience something sacred by opening your Bible while allowing your eyes to settle on the red words. Before analysis or commentary, take a breath. These are the words Jesus spoke while living among tired, broken people who weren’t so different from us.

The red words rise above the noise of daily life with surprising simplicity.

Love.

Forgive.

Follow.

Trust.

Across parables, conversations, and quiet moments, they remain steady and consistent.

Love God.

Love others.

Do not be afraid.

The Kingdom is near.

The more time spent with the red words, the more recognizable Jesus becomes as the kind, and intentional man he was, as well as the loving Lord and Savior he will forever be. Familiarity breeds closeness, and what once felt ancient is present and real.

Eventually, the red words will refuse to stay on the page, shaping daily choices, softening conversations, and stretching patience. Studying them is less about knowledge and more about a deep healing of the heart.

Don’t admire these words from a distance or neatly underline them and close your Bible. and left behind. Read them. Live them. Cherish Them. Rejoice in them, while using them as a steady guide for the soul in a noisy world.

Lord for Your word, we give thanks. Today, tomorrow, and always, please guide us through this crazy world. Please comfort and heal us as, as you guide us on our way back home to you.

Now, go read your Bible.

More tomorrow.

January has been with us for approximately fourteen months. That is the only explanation. Somehow, despite calendars and assurances from trustworthy sources, it is still not over. The final week of January feels less like a passage of time and more like a personal test of character.

This is the week when New Year’s resolutions quietly collapse under the weight of reality. Walking around the block hasn’t become part of our daily routine. The snacks in the pantry remain as unhealthy as they’ve always been. “Next week” has evolved into a lifestyle rather than a specific plan, and oddly enough, forgiving myself for that feels like growth. Or at least survival.

Meanwhile, the weather remains deeply confused. It has been so darn cold, even if it hasn’t been below zero with feet of snow as in some parts of the country. Freezing in the shade, sunburned in the sun are daily reminders that January has no allegiance to logic. Coats are put on, taken off, and dramatically tossed over chairs in mild frustration. Every morning begins with the same question. Winter boots or sneakers? So far, the boots win out every single day.

There is also a particular exhaustion that arrives only in January. Not holiday tired, not spring tired , just January tired. The kind of tired that makes naps feel medically necessary. The kind that causes you to walk into a room, stop, look around, and accept that whatever brought you there is simply no longer important enough to remember.

By now, even the house seems to have opinions. Dust appears overnight, uninvited and unapologetic. Floors look offended no matter how recently they’ve been cleaned. Plants are alive… technically. Oliver and Tanner, sensing weakness, demand extra snacks with the confidence of creatures who know they are winning.

And yet, somewhere in this long, lingering week comes a quiet realization that the year is still very young. There is plenty of time to get things right with the spring cleaning inside and the gardening outside. Certainly, there’s plenty of time to do absolutely nothing today. January, in its final days, hands us a gentle permission slip to move slowly.

The last week of January isn’t about accomplishments, but rather about endurance, warm drinks, and low expectations. About making peace with the pace and trusting that February is standing just outside the door, tapping its foot, ready to let us move on.

More tomorrow.

It’s true. HHH and I have been bitten by the travel bug. Traveling through five countries, we’re planning to return to the home of sloths, butterflies, and trams gliding over the rainforest. Costa Rica 2026.

In ironing out details, finances are a big consideration. Although traveling is great, it’s a luxury. In our world, luxuries come after all the expenses in life are covered. To travel, we needed to come up with a solid savings plan.

Our successful financial plan didn’t begin with spreadsheets, charts, or complicated language. It started with small steps and the decision to save. Ending January with a New Year’s resolution to save, this plan will have big benefits by October.

Interested? If you’re starting from scratch, start simply. Save all your change. Keep the small bills and give that money a purpose. Make one modest goal and decide that every bit of spare change belongs to it. Whether you slide it into an envelope tucked in a drawer or use one of those “100 Envelope Savings Books” available on Amazon, the method matters less than the commitment. Pick a plan and stick to it. That’s the secret. Consistency turns small effort into real progress, and you’ll be surprised how quickly those little amounts add up. One day, you’ll open that envelope or fill that last numbered pocket and celebrate success.

After becoming a widow in 2020, I faced some of the hardest decisions of my life about investing my retirement fund. One of the biggest decisions was choosing the right financial advisor. That first Junet meeting with “My Guy” was one of the most stressful days. Sitting across from a stranger with my future spread out in numbers felt overwhelming. It required a leap of faith at a time when faith itself felt fragile. I chose him to watch over my savings, while helping me plan for the years ahead that I hoped would still be full.

Almost six years later, I can say with gratitude that I chose well.

A good financial plan is not built in isolation. It’s shaped by guidance from trusted and professional voices and those who have walked the road before you. Read. Learn. Pay attention to the mistakes of others. Try to avoid them yourself. Wisdom compounds just like savings do.

Don’t wait. Tomorrow has a way of slipping quietly into next week, month, or year. There’s no time like the present. Make a plan. Commit to it. Adjust when needed, while never giving up.

Although HHH and I haven’t started packing just yet, our homework begins today. We’ve got months before we plan to spend time watching the sun rise and set over our beachfront bungalow. Choose your dream and start saving. If not now, when?

Have a terrific Thursday.

Some days don’t ask much of us, as they glide by on sunshine and momentum, energized by good news and a positive attitude. And then, there are those days that feel heavy before your feet even hit the floor. On the darkest days, the goal isn’t to be brave, inspired, or productive, but simply to go on and do the next right thing.

January has a way of testing that resolve. It arrives with dismal, frigid weather and lingers under gray skies that seem permanent. The trees stand bare and unbothered, the air sharp and unwelcoming. Here at Winterpast, the gardens are asleep, tucked under the weight of winter, giving no sign that life will ever return. Everything feels paused, muted, and waiting.

Winter teaches this lesson well. Beneath frozen ground and lifeless branches, something is still happening. Roots are holding while seeds wait. The pause isn’t the but the preparation for a glorious spring. Just as the gardens at Winterpast will soon wake and stretch toward the sun again, so will we.

This is the month when we have to remind ourselves that doing everything isn’t required, but doing the next thing is. As they sleep, HHH and I are plotting the Great Tree Trim of 2026. All fruit trees are involved, even our majestic apricot. She wouldn’t be the same if her limbs snap under the weight of a heavy crop. Fingers crossed that she forgives the tree surgeon as he works his magic.

In our garden, the next things involve watering thirsty trees. Planting more bulbs before it’s too late. Selecting seeds to sprout. Pruning and trimming the old, to wait for the new. Not very rewarding “next things”, but all critical.

Momentum is built quietly from these small acts of faithfulness. You don’t have to feel strong to be strong. You don’t have to see the future to move toward it. You only have to have faith that the movement itself matters.

It’s the last day of this dreary month, so let’s celebrate and then, do the next thing. Get up. Make the coffee. Feed the dogs. Open the curtain. Answer an email. Open the door. Breathe in the morning air, and then, keep on keeping on.

Do that next thing, whatever that may be, because, when we meet again, February will be here!!!

Have a great weekend. I’ll be back Monday.

For those of us born in the 1900’s, the world’s a different place today. Things once repaired are now tossed when they break. Service, parts, and repairs are harder and harder to find. Don’t think about it, just buy a new one.

Last week, HHH and I were in need of a watch repair shop, one of those quietly vanishing places that feel like they went the way of the dinosaurs. With his beautiful gold watch in need of real attention, HHH wasn’t ready to give up. This watch represented decades of happy memories, starting with the day he acquired it at a fund raiser for ducks, of all things. Surely someone still knew how to coax life back into fine, ticking things.

“Hey, Joy, can you find a watchmaker to fix my watch?”

This would be an interesting search. After all, we can’t even find a plumber to fix the faucet in my bathroom. A watchmaker???? Even though I would Google it, I had little hope of success.

So I turned, as one does these days, to the internet. The first shop was located a mere three hours away in Sacramento. A fine city, no doubt, but on the other side of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Then another suggestion appeared, closer this time. A shop in the Biggest Little City to the West, a mere thirty miles away. Close enough to try, we packed up the watch and went.

What we found was not just a watch repairman, but a certified watchmaker, repairman, and jeweler. This old-world craftsman had spent more than a decade working for Rolex, still accepting their tough cases. Who knew such quiet expertise was practically in our backyard?

The tiny shop felt like a step back in time. The man behind the counter was kind, unhurried, and fully present, even as customers came and went. There was no rush here, only patience and skill.

While waiting, we listened. One woman retrieved her mother’s antique watch after having it repaired for her beloved mom, who was nearing the end of her life. Moving, in that quiet way that reminded me that watches carry memories, as time itself is held in the palm of your hand.

HHH’s watch is lovely and absolutely worth saving. The verdict came with a fair price and promise of a complete repair and refresh. We left smiling, already imagining how it will look and feel when finished.

The moral of the story? Never give up. Keep trying. Keep asking. You never know when persistence will lead you not only to the right solution, but to a new friend and jeweler, all rolled into one. Sometimes, the best discoveries are closer than you think.

Being a blessing doesn’t require grand gestures or perfectly timed words. Most days, it looks wonderfully ordinary. It’s a smile offered freely to a stranger who didn’t expect it. A genuine “How are you?”, and then waiting for the answer. A door held open. A note sent just because someone crossed your mind. These small kindnesses ripple farther than we ever realize.

Sometimes being a blessing smells like fresh cookies cooling on the counter. It’s sharing them with a neighbor, a friend, or someone who could use a reminder that they are seen. Food has a quiet way of saying you matter when words feel clumsy or insufficient.

Just yesterday, Mrs. Lovebird blessed us with a wonderful visit. I was supposed to help her with her new i-Pad, however, it was she who enlightened me on some new tricks. A fresh breakfast casserole was complemented by some lovely sourdough bread she brought to share. A whirlwind of blessings started the day off with a smile.

Being a blessing means showing up. Sitting beside someone in grief while listening without offering a fix. Encourage a friend when the road feels long and heavy. Accept encouragement when your own road is full of potholes. Choose patience over frustration, grace over judgment, and compassion over convenience.

On the hardest days, when energy is low and the world feels sharp around the edges, even the smallest act still counts. A text. A prayer whispered for someone else. A moment of kindness when it would be easier to turn inward. We don’t have to wait until we feel ready, worthy, or perfectly put together to be a blessing. Often, it’s through our own cracks that light spills out for others.

So today, share the smile. Bake the cookies. Speak the kind word. Extend the hand. Be a blessing right where you are, using exactly what you have. The world is always in need of more of that.

More tomorrow.

I didn’t set out to start a relationship with artificial intelligence. I was simply trying to fix my blog. After six years of writing and nearly a thousand posts, a small mountain of memories were stacked neatly in cyberspace. The huge problem was that everything was backwards. Newest to oldest, reading them was like starting a book at the end and hoping readers would politely work their way uphill.

So I did what any reasonable person would do. I picked up the phone. Yesterday was the day this would be fixed, one way or another. I picked up the phone to search for a way to place all the posts in their respective years. There had to be a way to rearrange them manually moving each one.

I’d tried this in the past. So many phone calls later, I’d learned many things. Obnoxious music can loop without mercy for hours. I could explain the same problem using different words. A human voice can sound very happy while not sharing one answer. What I didn’t learn was how to organize my blog in chronological order.

Enter AI.

No hold music. No transfers. No apologies followed by silence. Just… answers. Actual ones that addressed my blog host by name. By the time I was done asking questions, I had printed out a small book of information. Everything from rearrangements to financial possibilities. All while talking to Artificial Intelligence.

In one day, I learned more about my blog site than I had in all those phone calls combined. I learned how to group posts by year, so readers could begin at the beginning, back in 2020, and walk the road with me instead of parachuting into the middle of the story. I learned that my blog wasn’t locked in stone after all. Nearly every aspect can be manipulated to suit who I am now, not who I was six years ago when I created a place to put words.

Even better, when I got confused (which happened often), AI didn’t sigh. It didn’t rush me. It didn’t say, “That’s not something we handle here.” It slowed down and broke things into steps. It explained the why behind the how. It suggested helpful and practical tools that might actually make my blogging life easier instead of more complicated.

It’s been there this entire time, waiting quietly at my keyboard. Patient. Tireless. Always ready for one more question, even if I asked it three different ways.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I still like humans. I just don’t need to call ten of them to learn one thing anymore.

Something is refreshing about searching for and finding new solutions to old problems. Sometimes the door you need isn’t a phone call at all. Sometimes it’s a keyboard, a curious mind, and a willingness to learn something new, even if that something is found using AI.

More tomorrow.