Grieving Gardener

Life on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada has been changing. These days, a 30-minute drive to the city west of us can take an hour or more, depending on the number and severity of crashes on the interstate. Once a modest, artsy alternative to California life, the area is rapidly transforming.

As I’ve been painting outside, the added noise is hard to ignore. With the Port of Nevada up and running, trains run day and night. The interstate is bumper-to-bumper many times a day. And then, there are the apartments. With construction surging and a steady stream of citizens fleeing Cali, daily life in our area is feeling the ripple effects of urban growth.

Just yesterday, HHH and I decided we needed a few things at Costco. We haven’t visited the store for months, as it’s easier to order online and have things delivered. Costco used to be one of my favorite shopping stops. Offering everything from Coach bags to dog food, there was something for everyone. It was also a place to visit with fellow farmers who were taking a break from the summer heat to shop.

Before we left, I kiddingly made a bet with HHH that Christmas items would be on sale. We both laughed, agreeing that mid-August and Christmas don’t go together. Of course, there wouldn’t be Christmas items yet. But, of course, there they were right next to Halloween goods.

Yesterday may have been the last time I will ever willingly go to a Costco again. The last time I visited that particular store, a person had been run over in the parking lot. Indeed, it could have been repeated yesterday. People on a mission to make their purchases and get out are unaware. One woman did hit me with her basket as we tried to navigate the aisles. It’s only August. No big weekend ahead. A Wednesday morning at 10:30. What will it be like week before Christmas?

The huge influx of transplants has come with consequences. Although housing markets in some states are a bit sluggish at the moment, homes are selling like hotcakes here amid the great migration. Each week in our town, another new family is putting down roots. Comical at times, their eccentric ways make them easily identifiable.

One such family down the road has just installed a six foot fence around their acre of desert sand. Looking like penitentiary grounds, we aren’t sure exactly who or what they are trying to keep in or out. After installing the very expensive wrought iron fencing, ($20,000?) they installed cheap mesh wire and at ground level along the entire fence. Why??? Protection from rattlesnakes? (Never seen one here.) Rabbit control??? (Their entire property is rock.)

As for locals, limited housing, services, and rising rent costs weigh heavily. The infrastructure is at a breaking point with crowded roads, stretched schools as the race to build even more apartments continues. These are multi-story, unsightly, and extremely expensive to rent. A tiny 2-bedroom apartment in our little town rents for $1700/month (and the usual first, last, and hefty deposit). That’s over $5,000 to enter a rental agreement for an apartment.

For the time being, it’s best we avoid traveling west. After all, there isn’t anything we really need that can’t be found at the local Walmart. There’s always the city to the east, which isn’t experiencing such extreme growth. YET.

Whatever you do, when shopping, keep your head on a swivel. Don’t get confused. It’s still August, even if Christmas music is playing as you shop..

More tomorrow.

Life is a lot of things, but stagnant it isn’t. All the pieces of life’s puzzle have fallen into place. Happy laughter is the music of the day. But, in a matter of hours, catastrophic glacial flooding could arrive, burying lives in copious amounts of mud, like the poor souls in Sitka, Alaska. Or, it could be something as commonplace as losing your spouse of 32 years. When that mud comes, it may be too deep to navigate, bringing with it confusion, denial, anger, and regret.

Slow down for just a minute, and you can become stuck in life’s mud. It’s a human condition that hits everyone at one time or another. At those times, it’s helpful to remember the following Bible verse.

The dancing time is lovely, the laughing time divine. But that weeping, mourning, stuck-in-the-mud time? Not so much. That’s the season we pray will pass faster than a Friday afternoon root canal at the dentist. Unfortunately, it’s up to us to free ourselves from the mud of the situation.

Muddy seasons are part of life, and everyone gets stuck from time to time. Whether it’s grief, loss, regret, or just the slow, sneaky weight of daily discouragement, sometimes we find ourselves sinking, spinning our wheels, and not going anywhere. It’s possible to become emotionally, spiritually, and physically stuck.

If you’re like most, the first instinct is to curse the mud. Be careful because negative thinking is quicksand. You start with one gloomy thought, like, “I’ll never get out of this”, and before you know it, you’re building a mental house in the swamp, complete with matching curtains made of cynicism and regret. Not helpful at all.

The longer the negative thinking sticks around, the heavier the mud gets. Stuckness becomes becomes your label, story, atmosphere, and identity. The only thing that remains is more mud. Not solutions, healing, or hope. The heavier your heart, the harder it becomes to get out.

While stuck, the worst thing of all is that life goes on. Don’t you dare let it carry on without you. There are those things we’d all like to forget for a bit. Bills and chores will always be there, no matter how low we get. But, right outside your door, the seasons are changing. New babies are born. People are falling in love, starting new jobs, or even learning to salsa. Don’t let life get ahead of you while the mud holds you back.

After the rain stops, the mud WILL dry up and that heavy, stuck feeling will lift. Shake off that sludge and keep moving forward, one foot at a time.

Call a friend.
Go for a walk.
Talk to God (He’s fluent in muddy prayers).
Refuse one negative thought today, and trade it for a positive.

Bit by bit, step by mucky step, you’ll find your way out

If you’re stuck today, you’re not broken, just human. There’s a time for everything under heaven. But there’s also a time to get up, wash off the mud, and rejoin the dance floor of life, awkward moves and all.

Life hasn’t forgotten you. Just don’t let it leave without you.

More tomorrow.

There comes a time in every homeowner’s life when, while squinting at the peeling edges of your trim, you say, “Yes, it’s time.” Not “time for a professional,” because obviously, HHH and I are weekend warriors with paint buckets and ladders. The time for these top-notch DIY-ers to spring to action had come, and we decided to paint it ourselves.

This is how HHH found himself, paintbrush in hand, balancing like a caffeinated mountain goat on the second rung of a ladder, gazing lovingly at our white house. Built in 2004 with raised trim around the doors, windows, both the trim and body of the house were the same color. A color we now know Lowe’s offers under the name “Nice White”.

Planning this project all summer, the games began a week ago. Windows and screens needed cleaning, which dovetailed with washing the entire house before painting. HHH started with the back windows, leaving the front for last.

While painting window trim in the front, HHH noticed some movement down the road. Three troublemaking mustangs sauntered right in front of Winterpast, but continued to walk on by. Of course, not before leaving us a present. The best thing of all was that they ignored the new landscaping, which means that the lion-pee-laced-hog-deterring-nuggets are working!! A win for us.

Naturally, once you start painting trim, you discover all kinds of secrets your house has been hiding. Small portions of railing have transformed into “wood-colored sponge cake” thanks to years of moisture and wood rot. It’s important to check your house every few years.

After quickly emptying the first gallon can of Elastomeric paint, it was time to return to the paint counter at Lowe’s. We approached with our carefully chosen color swatch, “Zanzibar Spice”. And there, we waited. It’s not good to keep your customers waiting so long, they learn the “Help” button cycle. Across the entire store, people everywhere could hear that customers were waiting at the paint department. After quite some time, the Queen of Paint arrived.

Ordering five gallons, we left her to do the mixing, but not before HHH witnessed her wiping away 1/2 the tint that should’ve gone into the paint. Yes. Stray drops fell on the lid, only to be whisked away by Little Miss Helpful.

When we got home and opened the paint, the color was wrong. Quite a bit lighter than that already painted on the trim. Back to Lowe’s, we got another associate to mix up a new five-gallon bucket, which was a correct match. It seems many situations end up like that these days. Very sad.

Over the last eight days, HHH has painted trim in the heat and wind. Slowly and surely, Winterpast is glowing. The fresh paint made the windows pop. The boring, nice white has been replaced with clean, “Zanzibar Spice”. The house looks like it’s just come home from a spa weekend after a great facial. In the end, it’s been worth it. Long delays at the paint desk have all paid off.

Winterpast, you look fine. Not just “okay” fine, but fantastically fine. Your trim gleams, your blemishes are fixed, your windows are gleaming, and your curb appeal is almost flirty.

As for HHH? He’s earned a victory lap, sore shoulders, and a secret dream of hiring professionals next time.

Maybe.

With only three more weeks of GriefShare classes, HHH and I have learned more amazing things about grief. Each week, as we share a little meal, we’re getting to know each other better. Friendships have bloomed, even though grief is a deeply personal and often lonely journey. Whether someone has lost a loved one, a relationship, a pet, a dream, or a sense of stability, the stages of grief can feel overwhelming. For those walking alongside someone who is grieving, it’s sometimes hard to know what to say, or even if saying anything helps at all.

Encouragement in grief isn’t always loud or wordy. Often, it’s showing up, sitting in silence, offering a tissue, or sharing a warm meal. It’s listening without trying to explain the loss away and acknowledging their pain without insisting they move past it.

A sweet woman I knew long ago was grieving the loss of her father. He’d been everything to her. A dad. A mentor. A confidante. He was her personal encyclopedia about facts on farming and nature, having lived through 99 years. A year later, she joined a grief group even though relatives told her she should get over IT. They couldn’t understand that what she needed was the support of others who understood a tiny bit of her pain. Her relatives didn’t need that in their grief journey, but she did.

Grieving hearts need reminders that they’re not alone but that someone sees them, acknowledging their loss. Most importantly, God is there, helping them carry more of the load than they realize.

In our daily routines, it’s easy to forget those that quietly mourn. A coworker still grieving a parent years later. A neighbor who lost a spouse. A young person grappling with the death of a friend. Grief doesn’t follow a calendar. Encouragement means continuing to check in even when the casseroles are gone and the services are over.

Encouraging others through grief is sacred work, bringing a glimpse of God’s comfort to them. In grief support, members are seen, heard, and loved while learning about the normal stages of grief. Offering comfort to others reflects His heart.

There is a quiet joy in offering someone a safe place to land. While carrying peace into someone’s storm, our faith has deepened. Compassion grows and hearts expand. We begin to see people not for their pain, but as precious children of God who need tenderness, not solutions. Just being present, without pressure, can be more comforting than words.

God of all comfort, help us to be encouragers to those who grieve. Teach us to listen well, love deeply, and reflect Your compassion in quiet, faithful ways. Use us to remind the hurting that they are never alone.

I’ll be back tomorrow.

Driving along the loneliest highway in America, the sight of the “V” on the side of Mt. Davidson makes me remember another time and place. Virginia City, Nevada, is a quirky, wonderful, haunted little place perched at 6,200 ft., where the sidewalks are still wooden, the Bucket of Blood is a real saloon, and at any given moment, someone in a cowboy hat might be playing a banjo under a brilliant blue sky. During the day, it’s not exactly quiet, but when the tourists leave for the evening, it’s peaceful.

And then, Hot August Nights rolls in.

Once a year, this peaceful little mining town transforms into a chrome-covered, motor-oil-scented carnival. It’s like a meteor shower of classic cars crash-lands here, and instead of fleeing in terror, thousands of people show up to watch and cheer. I didn’t know I’d be signing up for this when it became my home in 2014.

Virginia City is famous for many events. The white line down the state highway is painted green for St. Patrick’s Day. The pets dress up for an old-fashioned pet parade for Easter. There are dirt bike races that last all day with close to 1,000 entries. And then, there’s one of the most famous classic car shows in the United States. Hot August Nights.

Of course, the neighbors couldn’t have explained what life would be like. But, I knew it was happening the moment I heard the first engine echo through Six Mile Canyon. That deep, rumbling sound of a ’68 GTO struggling up the hill like it was auditioning for Fast & Furious: Retirement Edition.

By noon, “C” Street was no longer a street but a mostly sun-burned parade route. People in camp chairs popped up overnight like mushrooms. Not many people parked on “A” Street, a bit more up the hill than most would like to walk. Of course, tourists were gawking at the old houses. One of them asked when they closed the gates at night. Not many believed anyone would CHOOSE to live on the side of the mountain in a haunted, old mining town.

Going to the store when you live in VC isn’t a quick trip. In fact, in any one of three directions, you need to travel eleven miles to get to flat ground and civilization. After three years of life on the mountain, a store finally opened that carried fresh milk. But when an event like Hot August Nights rolls into town, make sure your fridge is full and your car locked safely in the garage.

There’s something uniquely humbling about being woken up at 6:45 a.m. by the sound of a steady stream of vintage engines echoing across the canyon. Not roosters. Not church bells. Just raw V8 engines screaming into the morning sky like angry mechanical pterodactyls.

During those days, I gave up trying to live like a normal person. The driveway would be blocked and the roads jammed. Even the mustangs left town for higher ground during this event.

Perched on the deck, 16 feet above “A” Street, I enjoyed an ice-cold Diet Coke while sitting on the porch like the cranky prospector I am at heart. If you can’t beat ‘em, might as well yell “Nice paint job!” every few minutes and make the best of it. A guy in a candy-apple red El Camino waved at me. I waved back. He revved his engine so loud my windows rattled. By that time, I didn’t even flinch.

Here’s the deal. The cars are beautiful. The music is fun. People love this stuff. And if you’re into it, Virginia City during Hot August Nights is probably your idea of heaven.

But if you live there, it’s like suddenly sharing your living room with a thousand people and 400 Camaros for a week straight. A wild, noisy, tire-squealing, leather-jacket-wearing invasion.

Will the party ever come East to my little town? Probably.

Will I complain the whole time if it does? Absolutely.

Will I secretly kind of love it? …Youbetcha. I just might surprise HHH and get into it.

I’ll be back Monday.

When you think of ports, you probably picture bustling docks, towering cranes, sea spray, salty air, and massive cargo ships rolling in from Shanghai or Singapore. You probably don’t picture the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada, 500 miles from the nearest tide pool and roughly one million nautical miles from anything remotely resembling a coastline. But that hasn’t stopped local visionaries from opening the next BIG port, which is dry, dusty, and entirely devoid of boats.

The Port of Oakland has long been a West Coast shipping giant, but it’s got problems including congestion, union disputes, rent prices that require a second mortgage on your first mortgage, and seagulls that judge you.

Nevada, on the other hand, offers ample space to store over 14,000 shipping containers, with room to spare. With affordable rent, good-paying jobs, and the possibility of owning a real home, in your spare time, you can fish Pyramid Lake, a landlocked lake with water 1/6 the salinity of seawater. If fishing in a salty lake isn’t your thing, freshwater Lake Tahoe is a short drive away, where hiking, water sports, or winter activities await.

Landlocked, the Port of Nevada lacks an ocean, lake, or even a respectable puddle. As it turns out, water isn’t always necessary. On our northern and southern borders, there are almost 170 existing land ports.

After arriving by ship in Oakland, containers will be moved by train over Donner Pass and the Sierra Nevadas, through a large city within feet of a major interstate. Now, what could possibly go wrong with that plan???

Here’s how it working:

1. Containers arrives in Oakland by sea.
2. They’re immediately transferred onto train cars.
3. Those trains travel 5.5 hours inland.
4. Someone at the Port of Nevada yells, “Ship it!” to feel important.
5. The cargo goes back on trucks or trains.
6. It continues to its final destination.

Efficiency? Pretty low.
Public Safety? Could be threatened.
Is it already up and running? Absolutely. Just drove by the place yesterday.

Currently, the Port of Nevada staff is working to flatten mountains of sand undisturbed since before the days of covered wagons. Expanding daily, rail traffic has, indeed, increased. New fencing borders our fine port, and now there’s even talk of a new airport on the edge of town. All this excitement builds while colorful containers are stacked up in neat rows, like at a real port. Let’s hope the contents can withstand extreme desert temperatures while waiting to leave for their final destinations.

Anyone who lives in our town knows the seagulls and white pelicans have been planning this for some time. With breeding grounds at Lake Pyramid, all we need is some salt-air breezes and we’ll be set.

Never seeing an actual ship, the Port of Nevada represents something more powerful than global trade. There is at least one person in this world who person thinking out of the box to come up with new solutions to age-old problems. Why not truck the materials to a state where union membership is a personal choice? Why not ship containers by rail to an inland port on the other side of the Sierras? After all, does every port need to sit next to the ocean?

So, the next time you order something online and it arrives six weeks late with some sand on the box, just smile. It probably passed through The Port of Nevada, the premier ocean-less port.

Ahoy, desert sailors, Ahoy.

Dear Dad,

Happy 105th Birthday.

It’s hard to find words big enough for a milestone like this. 105 years ago, you started out on a journey of life, love, work, faith, and quiet strength. As I sit down to write you this letter, I can’t help but think about everything you witnessed throughout your lifetime.

Since your passing in 2018, the world has changed in so many ways. You nailed it by living in the best of times and leaving just before things started to go south. Through your 95 1/2 years on this earth, your character remained steady and constant.

You were just a little boy when you started driving a tractor for your father, not out of privilege or comfort, but out of necessity and grit. The depression hit and there were no shortcuts, handouts, or easy paths, Just long days, hard work, and a determination that somehow became part of your bones. Growing up, times were tough, but you always had enough love, responsibility, and backbone to build the kind of life others could lean on.

And we did lean on you, Dad. All of us. You raised five daughters with caring hands and a loving heart. Teaching by example, you showed us how to work, endure, and stay kind in a world that isn’t always so. As we grew, I cannot remember a single curse word coming from your mouth, and yet your presence commanded more respect than a hundred loud voices ever could.

Thank you for showing my boys how a God-fearing man lives his best life. You were a wonderful example of son, father-in-law, brother-in-law, brother, husband, and Dad. Teaching them how to work on the family farm, you found ways to make chores fun. Whether collecting aluminum cans along a dusty road or selling baby rabbits, you helped them earn pocket money, when you could have easily given them $20 and told them to go watch TV.

You lived your grace-filled life quietly, humbly, and with deep, unwavering integrity. You showed us that being a good man doesn’t require noise or drama but requires consistency, patience, and the courage to do what’s right, even when no one is watching. That was one thing we could always count on. You always chose to do the right thing.

The world today is a far cry from the one into which you were born. Cars have changed, technology has invaded farming, and even the way we talk to each other has changed. Thank goodness your values remained steady throughout your life. In a huge way, your lessons have been my North Star when I lost my way.

So here on earth, I’m celebrating more than just your years. I honor your legacy and the Christian life you lived, shaping lives with quiet dignity while loving us freely without conditions or complaint.

Happy birthday, Dad. I hope heaven is absolutely fabulous with lots of roses to water and fruit to pick and share. Save some for me when I get there. I miss you. Thank you for showing us what it means to live a full and wonderful life.

With all my love,
You Daughter,

Joy

There’s something strangely beautiful about summer thunderstorms here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. The sky shifts from blue to steel gray as clouds pile up like the work we still have ahead. Out here, storms don’t just sneak in but arrive with drama. Thunder rumbles across the vast open skies like an old engine coming to life, and if you’re lucky, there’s rain. And if you’re extremely lucky on a hot summer day, you can feel the relief as big drops fall.

But luck wasn’t on our side Saturday morning.

It was the kind of day where the sun doesn’t just shine, it burns. With five tons of river rock to be moved, the work area was a sun-blasted concrete driveway. No shade. Very little breeze. Just heat radiating up from the ground and reflecting off every surface, turning the whole space into a slow-cook oven.

HHH and I headed out to begin our day of work after enjoying a hearty breakfast. I’d picked up my metal bucket with bruised arms and began to fill it with rocks. It was then I felt the familiar lightning bolt in my back. Without argument, I was out for this job. There’d be other things I could do inside, but moving rocks was off my To-Do list. HHH would need to finish the job alone.

Throughout the morning, he drank bottles of water like there was no tomorrow. His shirt was soaked, his arms ached from moving the wheelbarrow, and his legs were turning into jelly with every trip. His muscles passed sore and were now screaming. You know the kind of ache that tells you you’ve gone too far, but you’re not done yet? HHH was there.

Throughout the day, his stubborn German side never hit the wall. Periodically, he’d stand for a long second, shovel in hand, sweat pouring off his chin, thinking: I can’t go on. He wasn’t even sure if he could lift one more scoop, but lift he did. Load by load, rock by rock, HHH kept going. There’s something incredibly satisfying about seeing a landscape transform under your own effort.

All that stone and sweat, placed like a quiet promise that something beautiful was coming. Over and over, he ferried rock until completely lining the entire driveway with five tons of it. (The remaining five ton will wait for a backyard refresh at a later date.)

By that time, I’d come out to marvel at his gorgeous job. Sitting on the tailgate of the truck like teenagers, we didn’t say much. It was a thing of beauty sitting along a mustang-poop-less street, thanks to the “Wild Hog Away” nuggets.

All of a sudden, the thunder cracked. That deep, rolling kind that makes your ribs vibrate and your eyes scan the horizon. The storm wasn’t overhead, but it was coming. The wind kicked up a little, just enough to stir the dust and lift our spirits. Somewhere inside us, something shifted. Maybe it was the promise of cool rain. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was madness. What it was, we became giddy with delight as the first huge drops fell as thunder and lightning danced overhead.

Fat raindrops sizzled on the driveway. The smell of wet desert earth rose up like a reward. We leaned back, let it fall on our faces, and laughed. The ache in HHH’s muscles remained, but the storm had washed the weight of the work. Satisfaction remained over a job done well and the deep, sweet calm that only a desert summer storm brings.

After enjoying a day of rest, today brings a new project. Painting the trim on the house. The transformation has begun and we can’t drop the ball now.

Stay tuned!

If we could eliminate one month of the year, August might be the best choice. Here in the desert, it is hot beyond hot. The spring flowers have finally given up the ghost. Sadly, the last of our mustangs are struggling with their new foals. Every August, they come down from the high country in search of food and water. It’s in our neighborhoods that they get in trouble.

It’s been hot this summer with the kind of days where the sun personally roasts you for your life choices. Our horses have returned to the neighborhood, bringing happiness to the local poo hunter and his trusty dog, Rex. Strangely enough, this man canvases the neighborhood in his little ATV, cleaning up after the horses. I’m not sure what use he has for the road apples, but he does collect them.

Our horses were missing for over 8 months, but have somehow found their way back to us. They not only eat most new plants, but can destroy a complete sprinkler system while looking for water, learning very quickly how to break lines. This is all be very expensive damage.

We had talked about putting up a fence long ago, but with a quote of $15,000, we decided there must be a cheaper way. Turning to Amazon, I started looking for deer and hog deterrents. If something works on deer and wild pigs, it just might work on horses.

There it was — “Wild Hogs Deterrent”. Now, if you know anything about wild hogs, you must know it’s hard to deter them when they move in. The advertisement read as follows: “Our wild hog repellent is made of the freshest mountain lion urine, peppermint oil and Citrus Essential Oils, emitting a strong scent, making pigs afraid and causing them to run away. Please replace the product after rain.” If these make wild hogs run away, these little balls of mountain lion pee might do the same for our skittish horses.

I’m outside, glistening while sweating like a cheese wheel in a sauna and armed with a box of “WILD HOG DETERRENT” that I bought off the internet during a sleep-deprived gardening spiral. Now ready for deployment, I must remind you that we’re not plagued by wild hogs. We have wild Mustangs.

I’ve been told there ARE lions in the hills above us, so these horses should know the scent and be afraid. Very afraid. Between that and the incessent barking of Wookie and Oliver, we might just have a chance to grow some pretty flowers after all. Apparently, the smell of lion pee tricks animals into thinking they’re about to be eaten. Terrified, they flee. Genius, right?

So there I was, crouched like a weird suburban hunter. These golf-ball-sized scented balls covered in lion pee were placed into little lace bags and then were placed around our “Rose of Sharon” plants. The instructions were very clear: “In the heat of the afternoon, place one pellet 3′-6′ apart.”

HHH and I obeyed and placed them with reverence, like sacred meatballs of fear.

And then we waited.

The outcome? Let’s just say… mixed reviews.

The Mustangs have shown up like clockwork. But this time, instead of grazing gracefully, they walked on by while one mare gave me the side-eye. The kind that says, “Ma’am, RUN!!! Mountain Lion!” while our plants remain untouched. That says something!! All I can hope is that they keep walking on by.

If any of the neighbors ask about the strange stench coming from our front yard, I’ll answer, “Just warding off the horses with predator pee,” casually, as one does when their yard smells like a safari.

In case you are wondering, the rock work is coming along. After many bruises, I’ve decided to take a little break while HHH continues on. It looks amazing. Now, let’s hope the hogs don’t decide to come for a visit.

Have a wonderful weekend!

Front yard beautification sounds so innocent, doesn’t it? So hopeful and Pinterest-y. A vision of artfully arranged succulents, a charming gravel path, and maybe a tasteful birdbath where small desert creatures can sip daintily and ponder their life choices.But, in reality, not so much.

Reality showed up at 7 a.m. in the form of a dump truck named “The Widowmaker.” Rumbling up the driveway like a caffeinated buffalo, it offloaded ten tons of river rock onto what was, moments before, a perfectly empty spot near the garage. If you’ve never heard ten tons of rock hitting the ground before breakfast, it sounds exactly like optimism being crushed beneath the wheels of ambition.

Just minutes before, HHH (Hubba-Hubba-Hubbie or Hero-Hauler-Human) was in the kitchen, cheerfully flipping pancakes, eggs, and bacon like the super cook he is. The smell was glorious, and the mood relaxed. The coffee was hot. Birds chirped. Somewhere in the distance, our neighbor’s chicken screeched as she laid her morning egg. And then, everything changed.

After that truck dropped its load, we were in full-on high desert plains emergency mode. HHH glanced up from his spatula with the haunted look of a man who just realized he’s going to spend the next week doing things his back hasn’t done for years.

After gobbling down our breakfast, we stood at the edge of the rock pile, sipping coffee and contemplating our life choices. It looked innocent enough at first. Pretty, even. Dusty round stones catching the morning light were whispering “just a few wheelbarrow loads…” like sirens in a landscaping-themed tragedy.

Just thirty minutes after breakfast, the work gloves were on. Forget metaphors—WE had become the mules. Only instead of carrying provisions across the desert, we were hauling loads of river rock in a very wobbly wheelbarrow and one small galvanized bucket, down the driveway, while trying not to sprain a hip or start an argument over rock distribution strategy.

You learn a lot about yourself when moving river rock:

• You learn that shovels are both best friend and mortal enemy.
• You learn that “just one more load” is a lie told by the optimistic side of your brain.
• You learn that your neighbors will absolutely come out to “supervise” while holding iced drinks.
• You learn that if you hear one more rock clink, you may commit a minor felony.

But you also learn how good it feels to see progress. Slowly, inch by inch, the front yard has taken shape. That once-barren stretch of hard-packed desert dirt? Now a shimmering riverbed of effort and sore muscles. That formerly nasty slope? Now a landscaped wonderland that says, “We showed up to win. After a few hours, we conquered.”

Plenty of chilled water can make anything a little better. Let me tell you, it tastes even more amazing at 10 a.m. when your shirt’s soaked with sweat and your hands look like you just auditioned for a gravel-themed action film.

So, beautification continues. We’re a little sunburned, sore, and occasionally swearing at inanimate objects—but the front yard is becoming something special. Something wild, yet managed. Natural, yet clearly influenced by two stubborn seniors with shovels and a dream.

And a LOT of river rock.

Pictures tomorrow.