Category: 2026

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.