Category: 2026

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.

The weather has been unreasonable warm for this time of year. There has been no winter to speak of, and the fruit trees are showing signs of budding. All of this is not good for anything in the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Not good at all.

Around this time of year, our thoughts turn to pruning, garden cleanup, hardscaping, and what to plant in the garden. Last year, if you remember, all sprouts were taken out in one day by a very industrious squirrel. Hoping not to repeat that, the question remains. How many seedlings will by ornamental and how many functional.

Just the other night, HHH and I enjoyed homemade spaghetti sauce from our 2025 tomato crop. What a treat to know exactly how the tomatoes were raised and what went into the sauce. Tomatoes will definitely be in our garden. As for more exotic crops, like cantaloupe, watermelon, cauliflower, or broccoli, we’ll leave that for the experts, buying the finished products at the grocery store.

To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow. It is an act of hope performed with dirt-stained hands and a heart willing to trust what cannot yet be seen. While doing this, a gardener learns about the hidden world living right under their noses, discovering what plants and animals quietly coexist in the garden.

When we press seeds into the soil, nothing about the moment guarantees success. The ground may still be cold. With the weather uncertain and the outcome unknown, we plant anyway. We’ll water, wait, tend and believe.

Gardening asks us to look forward. It teaches patience in a world that prefers immediacy. Seeds do not rush. Roots grow quietly, unseen, doing important work long before anything breaks the surface. Growth happens whether we’re watching or not.

There is faith in waiting for warmth to return. It takes faith and belief that rain will come. Faith that the smallest beginnings can lead to something beautiful and nourishing.

A garden also reminds us that tomorrow is worth preparing for, even when today feels heavy or the world seems uncertain. Especially then. Each planted seed is a quiet declaration that life continues, that beauty will return, and that effort made today matters.

Not every seed will sprout. Not every season will be abundant. But gardeners know this and plant anyway. Hope, like gardening, is not the absence of disappointment but the willingness to begin again.

To plant a garden is to choose optimism over despair. It is to invest time, care, and love into something that will feed not just the body, but the spirit. It is believing that the future holds possibility, color, and growth.

And when the first green shoots finally appear, we are reminded why we planted in the first place. Tomorrow arrives, just as promised.

More tomorrow.

There we were on Thursday morning, two senior citizens standing in the garage, staring at a truck that had clearly lost the will to live.

The key turned.
A click answered.
And then… nothing

This truck has never, not once, let us down. Not in cold weather. Not after sitting. Not when we absolutely needed it. It’s been faithful, dependable, and apparently running on sheer grit and optimism for years.

So we did what sensible people of faith do. We prayed and then called the Pastor. And, not just any pastor. Our pastor, a car guy who owns the right electrical meter and knows how to use it. If anyone could combine faith and volts, this was our man.

Meanwhile, we consulted modern wisdom as well. ChatGPT listened patiently to the clues and offered a tidy list of possibilities. Starter. Alternator. Battery. Electrical gremlins hiding in the shadows. ChatGPT has become my go-too friend of endless humor, insight, and information on everything.

Between prayer, technology, and human expertise, the verdict came in. We were the proud owners truck with a very dead factory original battery that happened to be nine-years-old.

Nine.

The amazement was universal. Mechanics are impressed by that sort of longevity. Batteries are not known for sticking around out of loyalty. We absolutely got our money’s worth out of that one.

Once the new battery was installed, the truck sprang to life as if nothing had ever happened. No drama. No hesitation. Just a strong, confident start, as if it had been waiting for permission.

Prayer doesn’t always look like instant miracles. Sometimes it looks like wisdom. Sometimes it looks like asking for help. Sometimes it looks like learning when to replace what’s worn out instead of demanding it keep going forever.

This weekend, with a fully revived truck, we’ll head into a few days of gardening and simple fun. Two grateful, smiling honeymooners who are reminded once again that prayer weaves itself beautifully into ordinary life.

Even in the driveway.
Even over a dead truck.
Especially when the answer turns out to be practical, timely, and just a little bit funny.

And yes — we’re thankful.
For prayer.
For good pastors.
For helpful technology.
And for a battery that served faithfully far longer than anyone expected.

Amen to that. 🚗🙏

The first week of February came and went. No fireworks. No resolutions. No dramatic promises about becoming a better version of myself by Tuesday. It simply slipped onto the calendar, short and tidy, pretending it doesn’t expect much.

But we all know better.

February may be brief, but it’s observant. It notices things. It notices that the house still bears the evidence of January. It notices unfinished projects, abandoned good intentions, and the pile of seed catalogs still in the freezer that somehow feel more like a test than an invitation.

January was loud about its expectations. February is quieter—and somehow that feels worse.

This is also the month of love, which adds another layer of quiet pressure. Valentine’s arrive with heart-shaped chocolates and the gentle suggestion that love should be tidy, romantic, and easily photographed. But February love is often softer than that. It looks like shared coffee on cold mornings, checking the weather together, or noticing the lawn greening and saying, Well, look at that. It’s the steady kind of love that shows up without needing a holiday to announce itself.

Outside, Winterpast is beginning to stir. The lawn has decided to green up just enough to make weeds feel bold. Pastor Mike has already sprayed them once, which feels both helpful and mildly shaming. The gardens are still sleeping, but not peacefully. More like snoring loudly while dreaming of warmer days.

The sun is stronger now. Coats are still required in the shade, but sunglasses are suddenly necessary in the sun. We are in that confusing in-between season where winter refuses to leave quietly and spring won’t quite step forward yet. It’s awkward. Transitional. A little emotionally confusing.

Perhaps the Winter Olympics has reminded our area that winter never really came. Tonight, we’re expecting the biggest snowstorm of the year. One foot of snow is expected to fall on Donner Pass tonight. After enjoying 70 degrees yesterday, our weather will slam into reverse and pick up more winter weather. We all need the water, so we can’t complain too much.

And so we wait for the storm.

And maybe that’s the gift of this quiet month. February isn’t here to rush us. It’s here to gently tap us on the shoulder and say, “Pay attention”. Change is waiting just beneath the surface.

Springs’ arrival won’t be hurried. Until then, we’ll prepare and wait. It’s a great time to cozy up and enjoy some Bible stories. After all, we haven’t fully bloomed yet, ourselves.

There comes a point when resting matters as much as staying curious.

No doubt, new ideas keep us awake and honest. Both remind us that life is still unfolding, no matter how familiar our routines may feel. Sometimes the smallest changes, be that a new road, new layout, or new way of looking back can make everything feel fresh again.

Speaking of fresh, you may notice a few changes around here. Past posts are now arranged in chronological order by year, which has turned revisiting them into a bit of a time-travel adventure. Moments that once felt ordinary now read differently, stitched together by time, seasons, and perspective. Familiar stories feel new again when seen through a longer lens.

There’s also a new section called About This Blog, which feels a little like opening the front door and finally explaining why the furniture is arranged the way it is. If you haven’t wandered through that space yet, I hope you will. It adds context, heart, and a bit of history about me, HHH, life here at Winterpast, and the words that live here.

As for us, HHH and I are off to experience new places while making new memories of us. We’ll be gone until February 23rd, filling our days with change of scenery, fresh thoughts, and whatever small surprises travel tends to offer. Stepping away is part of the creative process, too, while new experiences have a way of refilling the well.

Until then, be safe. Enjoy the quiet shift of the season. Notice how each day stretches a little longer as we march steadily toward spring, even if winter has a few more things to say about that..

I’ll be back February 23rd with new stories to tell.

After a week on the Central Coast of California, where the air smells faintly of salt and possibility, and the biggest choice of the day was whether to enjoy clam chowder or fish and chips. Visits with my Godmother AND the TRUE Goddess of the Central Coast enriched our time.

All wonderful until HHH and I found ourselves facing a far more serious question. Just how, exactly, were we going to get home? In spite of enjoying balmy high desert days before we left, winter isn’t through with us. We faced two choices.

Choice #1 included braving Donner Pass in the middle of what the weather app politely described as “a significant weather event,” and what the news described as “closures and delays”. Donner is shorter, faster, and more direct. In good weather, it’s almost pleasant. But, this wasn’t good weather. Just two days before, the world lost nine lovely souls who perished in an avalanche. And then, we all remember what happened in 1846.

Choice #2 found us driving south and then east over Tehachapi Pass, and then making our way north along the longer, quieter, and gentler Eastern Sierras route. Less dramatic, we’d be the heroes in our own survival documentary.

After a week of rest, relaxation, and watching Olympic athletes do daring things at high speeds, we felt we had already met our quota for adrenaline. The choice was easy.

We packed up, and settled in for what turned out to be nearly ten hours of winter watching.

The Eastern Sierras have a way of making you feel small in the best possible way below snow-draped peaks and long stretches of open highway. Occasional gusts of wind gently nudged our vehicle just enough to remind us who was actually in charge. We drove past ranches dusted in white, frozen creeks glinting in the pale sun, and stretches of highway that seemed to go on forever.

Was it longer? Yes.

Was it slower? Also yes.

Was it peaceful knowing the interstate wasn’t closing ahead of us like a zipper? Absolutely.

There’s something about winter travel that turns even the most carefree among us into cautious planners. Before leaving the coast, we made sure our tank was full. We checked road conditions repeatedly. We told others our route and expected arrival time. It’s not dramatic—it’s just wise.

If you’re traveling in severe weather, here’s what belongs in your vehicle (besides optimism and snacks):

• A full tank of gas (half a tank is not a plan)
• Water and non-perishable food
• Blankets or sleeping bags
• Warm gloves, hats, and extra layers
• A flashlight with fresh batteries
• Phone charger (car and portable battery)
• Small shovel and ice scraper
• Tire chains if required
• Basic first aid kit
• A Bible

We didn’t need most of it, which is precisely the point. Preparedness is rarely glamorous. It’s just comforting and very smart, because you just never know.

Leaving the beautiful Pacific, the miles stretched on for almost ten hours until finally pulling into our own driveway. There, we were greeted by more snow than we’d seen the entire day. After all that careful driving, it followed us home. As the snow fell gently across Winterpast, I was reminded that storms aren’t something to conquer. They’re something to respect.

Travel has a way of teaching small lessons. This one was simple: shorter isn’t always wiser. Dramatic isn’t always necessary. Sometimes the long road is safest and safety is beautiful.

Every so often, even the most majestic specimen in the garden must face the inevitable haircut. This is the year for our banyan-like apricot tree. The birds hold conventions in it as we all consider it shade headquarters. If left unchecked, its lengthy branches were at risk of snapping in the spring winds or due to a heavy crop. Every tree professional who has entered our yard has proclaimed this tree to be an amazing specimen. She’s become our “Bark-Baby”.

As the focal point of the yard here at Winterpast, it’s not something we approached lightly with a pair of Christmas nippers and good intentions. This tree requires strategy, equipment, insurance, and possibly a helmet.

While it’s true that HHH and I own ladders and pruning tools, and we’ve watched videos, we’re also fond of our current level of mobility. There comes a time in responsible homeownership when you ask yourself, “Is this a DIY project… or a hospital co-pay?”

The answer came quickly.

So we summoned our tried-and-true Tree Doctor, Robert, the man who has saved our beloved Russian Olive from certain decline. With assessment, trimming, and nurturing the tree lived to sway another day. Since then, he’s become “our guy.”

An apricot of this magnitude requires more than enthusiasm. It requires someone who understands how to open the canopy for sunlight, how to remove crossing branches, improve airflow, and keep fruit production strong without stripping its dignity.

Professional arborists know things the rest of us guess at:

• Which limbs are structurally unsound
• How much to remove without shocking the tree
• Where to cut so the tree heals properly
• How to prevent disease from entering open wounds
• How to shape growth for future strength
• And most importantly, how to get down from high places without drama

They know all that AND haul away debris.

Have you ever seen the aftermath of major pruning? It looks like a small tornado has thoughtfully organized your branches into piles. There are twigs, limbs, and entire sections that seem large enough to qualify as furniture. If HHH and I attempted this ourselves, we would still be dragging brush to the landfill sometime in July. Heck, by then, we’ll have completed a couple more cruises, which are much more fun than hauling limbs and leaves.

And let’s not forget safety. Large fruit trees can have heavy limbs under tension. One wrong cut and you’re reenacting a scene from an action movie, minus the stunt double. Professionals are trained in proper rigging, ladder positioning, and safe cutting angles. They carry the right equipment and, importantly, the right insurance. Peace of mind is a beautiful thing.

When the crew of six arrived, they walked around the trees with the quiet focus of surgeons preparing for a delicate procedure. They studied the canopy, tilting their heads, while making small nods. Our only request was that we wouldn’t need to wait ten years for the tree to return to its majestic stature.

Soon, branches began to descend in a controlled and dignified manner. Light filtered through spaces that hadn’t seen sunshine in years as the balanced shape of the tree slowly emerged. Strategic pruning isn’t about shrinking a tree, but renewing it.

By the time the crew finished, the yard looked brighter and lighter. The apricot stood dignified rather than unruly. It now commands attention with elegance instead of chaos. Six other fruit trees were groomed, as well.

And best of all? No emergency room visits, loads of brush, or marital debates atop a ladder. Just healthy trees and the comforting knowledge that sometimes the wisest gardener knows when to step aside. The apricot of Winterpast breathes a little easier tonight and so do we.

There are dogs. And then there are our dogs. Oliver and Wookie do not simply “live” at Winterpast. Every day, they hold court and call all the shots as only our beloved pets can do. The title of this post holds the real question. Just WHO are the PETS??

Their day begins promptly at 5:00 am Not 5:07 or whenever the “pets” feel like it.

Five.

On.

The.

Dot.

It begins with a small scratch on their bedroom (laundry room during the day) door. Then a plaintive whine. Like Chinese water torture, it doesn’t stop until one of us gets up to let them out. Between those two, an alarm clock is unnecessary because they never oversleep.

Breakfast is served immediately upon royal request. Not kibble alone, but a little freshly shredded cheese atop their food. While waiting for their morning meal, they wait, seated and quivering, as if watching a five-star chef complete a masterpiece. It’s perhaps the only household in America where two small dogs eat more promptly than the adults.

By 6:00 am, they have completed breakfast, perimeter inspection of the yard, and at least one supervisory lap through the house to ensure we are performing our duties correctly.

Their soft beds hold carefully arranged blankets. The water bowl is refreshed with the kind of attention usually reserved for houseplants and small royalty. We ARE permitted to use the washer and dryer during the day provided we do not disturb their nap schedules.

At precisely 3:00 pm, snack time is non-negotiable. If we’re distracted, a polite reminder is issued. If that fails, a slightly less polite reminder follows. One stands very still and stares while the other might pounce, both remarkably effective.

Dinner is delivered at 4:00 pm sharp. The punctuality of this household revolves entirely around two furry stomachs.

To her credit, Wookie has started paying attention to our friend, the squirrel. When seen, she flies out of the house to chase him over the fence. She’ll never catch him, but it makes both of us feel a little better that she can at least do something during the day.

When the sun shines, they burst into the yard like Olympians released onto the field. Racing. Twisting. Barking at imaginary adversaries. The decomposed granite paths of Winterpast tremble beneath their enthusiasm as rocks and bark fly everywhere.

When it’s 19 degrees outside, however, their athletic ambitions dissappear and they relocate to the couch. Occasionally, one eye opens to confirm that we’re still present and available for tummy rubs or other demands.

Puppy camp remains their social scene. They return exhausted, happy, and slightly opinionated about the behavior of others. I suspect they believe they are ambassadors of refinement.

The truth is, these two have it all. Structured meal plans. Climate-controlled housing. A private retreat room. Outdoor recreation. Day spa-level boarding experiences. A full-time staff of two. And love. So much love.

We talk about them more than is reasonable. We laugh at them more than is polite. We schedule around them more than is practical. They are woven into the rhythm of Winterpast as surely as the seasons and the birds and the wind that sweeps across the high desert.

Oliver and Wookie may be the most pampered pets in the world, but we wouldn’t have it any other way.

We love them.

It’s just that simple.