Grieving Gardener

No buzz, no hum, no golden air,
just silence, thick and deep.
The flowers bow, the wind stands bare,
and even angels weep……..

Yesterday was a still afternoon at Winterpast, the kind where the sun shines brightly and the air feels unusually empty. HHH had decided to check the bees once more before winter, expecting to hear the familiar hum as he approached the hive. We’d planned to spend today insulating the hive for winter but silence met him first. Heavy, hollow silence.

At first, he thought maybe the frosty nights had slowed them. The desert nights freeze now, and even the most determined creatures take their time waking. But lifting the lid, he could see frames littered with the dead. Little golden bodies, soft and motionless, piled as though the hive had simply gone to sleep and never woke up. Some died right where they were working.

Only nature can stir that peculiar mix of sadness and reverence. Examining the hive more closely, there wasn’t scattered comb or broken wax. Just a quiet end. Every cell now sealed spring memories in a bit of honey . It was all that was left.

We formed a strong connection with these little beings. All summer, they’d been our constant companions. We’d watch as they dove headlong into the apricot blossoms, tumbled joyfully among the crab-apple blooms, and drifted through the greenhouse with a hum that blended perfectly with the wind chimes. The bees were tiny, every day beautifully ordinary miracles.

And now, they’re gone.

The greenhouse feels emptier, the lavender lonelier. Even the desert wind seems unsure which way to blow without their song to follow. I keep thinking of all they gave. They stitched together the wild and tended parts of Winterpast. Their life was an example of quiet perfection.

It took HHH and me the rest of the afternoon to harvest what little honey they’d collected. With no sign of stored pollen, their fate was sealed, as is our future as keepers. Next year, our plan is to pray for a swarm to choose us. No more California bees. Just some wild bees that decide Winterpast is the place they want to hang out for more than a season.

And so, today, we miss our little friends as we move towards winter. The desert has its own way of renewing what’s been lost. But today, the garden grieves, and so do we.

More tomorrow.

There must be something in the crisp autumn air that whispers, “It’s haircut season.” Everywhere you look, people and dogs are getting snipped and styled. The trees shed their leaves for free while the rest of us pay dearly to do the same.

It started innocently enough. Oliver, our sweet, shaggy little dog, is in need of a serious fall cleanup. His fur has grown so long that he’s beginning to resemble a dust mop. So, we’ll travel through the desert to the groomer. After a few hours, he’ll return looking handsome in his tiny little tie… along with a bill for $80. Eighty dollars! It’s all part of the cost of owning a dog these days.

This time of year, I question my own judgment. Why do dog owners everywhere cut off a dog’s natural winter coat right before freezing winds howl across the desert? His hair was doing exactly what nature intended, providing fuzzy insulation against the November chill. Yet, he was matting faster than a tumbleweed in a windstorm, and his “natural look” had started leaning more toward “neglected drifter” than “beloved pet.” Don’t worry. Oliver spends 99% of time sleeping inside these days.

This evening, he’ll be a smooth-coated dachshund instead of his wire-haired self. Once I felt so sorry for him that I knitted him a sweater. lovingly made just for him. He kept it on just long enough to get a picture while glaring like I’d insulted his manhood.

Last week, I decided it was time for my own seasonal tune-up with a minor trim of my own. Nothing fancy. Just the ends and bangs. In and out, right? Wrong. Tomorrow, I’ll create my own $85 bill, leaving with my hair smelling vaguely of lavender mist, and bangs that will likely drive me nuts for the next two weeks.

When did this happen? When did the cost of human and canine beauty become interchangeable? Somewhere out there, an economist is shaking their head and muttering about inflation, while a hairstylist and dog groomer are toasting to early retirement.

Still experiencing a little shock, I can’t help remember 35 years of $40 haircuts with Sweet Deb, who pampered me beyond the norm. She’d make me tea, ask about the kids, and somehow send me out the door feeling like a movie star instead of a mop head. Oh, how I miss those days, when a haircut didn’t require a small loan, and you left with more gossip than guilt.

Now, let’s be fair. Both stylists deserve credit. My hair will be sleek and shiny and Oliver will look like a show dog. We’ll both leave with complimentary treats, his a biscuit and mine a peppermint. Still, I can’t help but think I could’ve bought a small leaf blower for the same price while trimming both of us at home.

Here’s to the groomers, stylists, and brave souls everywhere who hold the scissors that keep us and our dogs looking civilized. May your tips be generous, your blow dryers quiet, and your fall haircuts worth every penny.

It’s that magical season again when the trees at Winterpast release their leafy bounty like ticker tape in a parade, and the desert winds take center stage. Every year, we’re convinced its the year we’ll finally need to hire a professional clean-up crew. Luckily, the winds haven’t let us down yet.

Last week, HHH and I were in the back yard with rakes and brooms in hand, while sighing at the sea of gold, brown, and orange carpeting the garden paths. And then, with one fierce howling windstorm, a miracle occurred.

The next morning?

Ground — bare.

Leaves — gone.

So, just where do they go, these thousands of dried leaves???

Not all of them vanish without a trace. A respectable number end up trapped in the greenhouse and shed, while many pile together along the fences, forming mounds. But, this isn’t every leaf grown this year. It seemed as if there were millions of them at the beginning of the season.

They’re not in the gutters thanks to our “Leaf Filter” system. They aren’t clogging the roof valleys or sneaking under the garage door. They’ve simply disappeared, riding the desert thermals like autumn butterflies, never to be seen again.

Wherever they land, we’re sorry. The ferocious winds of fall have done us a favor while redistributing the abundance and sharing a little piece of Winterpast with the neighbors.

So, as we wait for the next wind storm to sweep across the high desert plains, I lift my face to the sky and whisper a heartfelt prayer of gratitude. With a beautiful weekend of warm weather ahead, plenty of autumn chores wait.

Whatever you do this weekend, get out and about. Fill your lungs with the fresh, crisp air and enjoy the colors. Autumn is such a beautiful time of year. The great weather can’t hold forever, so don’t waste a second. As my dad would say, “It’ll be good for what ails you.”

Today, it’s been 85 years since my parents, Elmer and Esther, said “I do.” Can you imagine? Eight and a half decades has passed since that shy young couple met during their high school play, Mummy and the Mumps. It was the kind of country school performance where the costumes were homemade, the lights flickered a bit, and everyone’s parents sat in the front row with big grins. Somewhere between the curtain rising and the applause at the end, the young mummy and his leading lady fell in love, and the rest, became our family history.

After graduation came the real work. Elmer and Esther traded school books for farm tools, building a life together on the land. They worked from sunrise to sunset, side by side, with laughter, patience, and a quiet faith that carried them through every season. When their first daughter arrived on Elmer’s birthday, their hands were already full with more than chores.

During the war years, they ran a Japanese neighbor’s pig farm while his family was sent to Manzanar. This was a selfless act of compassion that said everything about who they were.

Two years later, Daughter #2 was born, followed by Daughter #3 six years later. In 1955, along I came. As Daughter #4, I was quite the disappointment to those holding out hope for a son to carry on the family name. Two and a half years later, Daughter #5 completed the lineup, and our home was officially overflowing with pink dresses, hair ribbons, and shiny patent-leather shoes. How my parents survived 68 years of marriage surrounded by all that girlhood chaos is still a mystery. A lifetime of stories with plenty of drama, comedy, and love!

But they didn’t just survive — they flourished. Their marriage was full of laughter, hard work, and adventure. Once retired from full-time farming, they became world travelers, exploring every continent they desired. From dusty back roads to foreign cities, they saw the world hand-in-hand, proving that love, when nurtured, only grows stronger with time.

Today, I picture them together on their heavenly stage, chuckling over their old lines from Mummy and the Mumps. Elmer still the jokester in his bandages, Esther still rolling her eyes in that affectionate way that said everything. Still performing their greatest role, together.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad! We’ll see you on the other side.

There comes a day in every newly married couple’s life when they look around their kitchen and realize it’s less of a functional workspace and more of a museum, curated by generations of indecision. That day, my friends, arrived yesterday.

It began innocently enough with a sponge and good intentions. But before I knew it, I was elbow-deep in The Great Kitchen Purge of 2025.

Let’s start with the elephant in the cupboard, Grammie’s dishes. These weren’t museum quality or one of a kind. They are mid-1900s adorable, and I’ve cared for them most of my adult life. For 50 years, not one plate has been used, not one saucer chipped. Every time I open that cupboard, I can practically hear her whisper, “You might need those for company, Honey.”

Keeping a set for four, because I just couldn’t let them go, I packed the rest, lovingly wrapped, but finally released. Grammie will approve of them finding a new home where they’ll see a Thanksgiving dinner once again again.

Then came the utensil drawer. I found three ceramic knives in a variety of colors, two rusted paintbrushes that had seen their last rack of baby-backs, and a John Wayne coffee cup. Add to that a variety of this and that, taking up valuable shelf space.

Into the spring yard sale box they went, a small moment of victory for functionality. I even matched my lids to my plastic containers. That alone felt like solving a great domestic mystery.

Today, I’ll face The Fridge that hasn’t moved in six years, which, in “kitchen time” is roughly a century. It’ll take bravery, leverage, and possibly a prayer to slide it away from the wall. Behind it? I’m expecting to find generations of dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds, one petrified green bean, a button from a long-lost sweater, and what may have once been a Cheerio.

Once cleaned, I’ll stand back and admire the glistening floor as if it’s a truly historic moment.

As the afternoon rolled on, boxes filled with duplicates, odds and ends, and memories. There’s something surprisingly freeing about saying, “No, I do not need two juicers or a Lake Tahoe coffee cup, never used.” Everything with life left in it was boxed and labeled for the spring yard sale, our future “Winterpast clearance event.”

By sunset, our cupboards were organized, drawers closed easily, and the countertops gleamed. The kitchen looked lighter, somehow, as if it, too, could breathe again. This morning, sipping steaming coffee in a mug I actually love, I feel a little proud, a little nostalgic, and a lot more ready to cook something yummy.

Sometimes, the best way to freshen up your life isn’t by buying something new — it’s by finally letting go of what no longer serves you.

And so…….

Old dishes rest, their duty done,
Held through decades, every one.
Utensils chipped and gadgets bent,
Each a relic of good intent.

I bless them all and set them free,
To kitchens yet to come, not me.
For in the space now clean and wide,
I find a little peace inside.

Less clutter, more calm, the lesson is clear —
It’s amazing what shines when the old disappears.

There’s something wonderfully indulgent about a midweek escape to our favorite resort spa. After all, retirement has its perks such as freedom from the calendar and the ability to say, “Why not today?”, doesn’t it?

Mrs. Lovebird and I had planned the spa getaway the week before her wedding. COVID derailed those plans, which needed to be postponed until after the nuptials. With the girls at the spa, the boys were free to try out the local Escape Room. Everyone was happy with the plans.

Our indulgent day began with a small delay in the women’s locker room. It seems the spa had a deadly buildup of spa scum around the water line. Scum and men are two words that shouldn’t be uttered in a luxury spa.

You haven’t truly lived until you’ve tried to tiptoe around workmen in blue overalls while clutching your robe and dignity. But we survived with a few giggles and only minor embarrassment, giving us something to laugh about before we even reached the tranquility zone.

Once inside the waiting area, the world softened. In a very dark room, water trickled gently down a glass wall, creating the perfect soundtrack for our deep, spiritual reflection or, at least, reflection on whether we preferred almonds or pretzels from the snack bar. The orange-lemon water sparkled like a promise, and we were tempted by the bowl of cucumber slices “for the eyes”, almost mistaken for a side dish.

Our sugar scrub treatments were divine with just the right mix of exfoliation, after which we glowed like polished apples. Then came the hotel’s famed “state-of-the-art showers,” which, rumor has it, cost $15,000 apiece. They didn’t disappoint with water coming from all directions to wash away the scrub.

After the rinse came lavender moisturizing cream with the scent of serenity itself followed by a massage where our therapists kneaded us like bread dough destined for greatness. By the end, we were thoroughly destressed.

Then came “the relaxation room.” Ah yes, the room that had once been my favorite spot for post-massage bliss. Unfortunately, the hotel decided to “improve” it. Let’s just say they should have asked a few paying customers before ruining it. It seems the “Changer in Charge” never used the spa to see what worked and what didn’t. This room is now a new and improved fail. So sad.

Lunch was served on the veranda beneath cobalt-blue November skies. Somehow, the desert air felt like spring, and we basked in the golden warmth of 70 degrees, laughing about our day and wondering whether we should take up spa reviewing as a second career.

When we met the menfolk a few hours later, they’d just been “blown up” at the local “escape room” experience. Looking slightly singed, with egos a bit deflated, they were grinning from ear to ear. It seems that while we were being kneaded into relaxation, they were being blown up by imaginary explosives. Sadly, they didn’t make it out of the room during the sixty minutes they were given.

Retirement really is the loveliest time of life, especially when you’ve learned how to work it. And between you and me? I think we’ve got it down to a fine art.

It’s that special time of year again when we collectively pretend that changing the clocks by one hour is no big deal, even though our bodies clearly disagree.

Two weeks ago, I finally reset the clock in the bathroom to the correct time. When HHH saw the clock, he asked where it hung. On the bathroom wall above the mirror from the day I moved into Winterpast in 2020, the clock has been right only 1/2 the year ever since. To avoid ladder time, it was easier that way. This year I decided to fix the time. Silly, because now I need to get out the ladder and change it again.

This morning, we awoke at what felt like a very reasonable 5 am. But no, according to the clock, it was 4 am. The dogs are confused, and HHH is a little grumpy about the entire situation. I’m so awake, I’m considering some yard work.

Yesterday, we were dressed and ready for church by 9:30. I repeat: Ready. For. Church. At 9:30, a full hour before our usual arrival time. The pastor probably thought we were trying to get extra credit.

Last night, as I sat watching the clock crawl toward bedtime, I had plenty of time to reflect on life’s big questions, such as…

• Why do we still do this?
• Who decided humans need to “save daylight”?
• Why does my body think it’s midnight when it’s only lunchtime?

Change is never easy — especially the two times a year when we have to convince ourselves that 4 am is the new 5 am and that this somehow “saves” something. Personally, I’d like to file a formal complaint with whoever’s in charge of time itself.

Please.

Make.

It.

Stop.

Until then, I’ll sip my steaming coffee and pretend I’m well-rested. My internal clock will eventually reset to the new normal.

Happy Fall Back!!! May your coffee be strong and your clocks set to the correct time, … until next spring.

Only in Nevada can we mix state pride, spooky skeletons, and sugar highs into one gloriously chaotic weekend. This year, Nevada Day falls on Halloween Friday and that combination might just blow the top off the pumpkin!

First, Nevada Day celebrates our state’s admission to the Union on October 31, 1864. YES! Nevada was born on Halloween! Every year, Nevadans proudly take the day off to honor our Silver State with parades, pancake breakfasts, marching bands, and a hearty “Battle Born” spirit. Government offices, banks, and schools? Closed. Entirely. It’s the one day you can’t get your driver’s license renewed, but you can wave at the Shriners in tiny cars.

So, with everything in Nevada shut down today, HHH and I have a glorious, guilt-free day to prepare for the little ghouls and goblins who will soon descend upon our front porch demanding fun-sized bribes. We can sort candy, get some dry ice for fog, and find that one strand of twinkly lights that isn’t half-dead. (Note to self: buy new purple and orange twinkly lights next year.)

Meanwhile, teachers everywhere are breathing a collective sigh of relief. For once, the sugar storm will hit on a Friday night at home, not in the classroom. No bouncing-off-the-walls kindergartners or chocolate-smeared math tests. The candy high is officially on the parents this year, folks. Enjoy your wild weekend of costume glue, sticky fingers, and bedtime chaos.

By Monday, the kids will be staggering back to school in a mild state of post-caramel detox, and the teachers will greet them with cautious optimism and perhaps, their own secret stash of candy.

Before we can even sweep up the candy wrappers, Thanksgiving is peeking around the corner, asking if we’ve defrosted the turkey yet. Nevada Day, Halloween, and Thanksgiving all occur in one joyful seasonal tumble.

So here’s to you, fellow Nevadans — may your pumpkins glow, your costumes fit, your candy bowls overflow, and your Battle Born pride shine as bright as the Nevada desert moon.

Happy Nevada Day! Happy Halloween!

Double the reason to celebrate… and maybe double the chocolate, too. 🍫👻

The beauty of autumn at Winterpast can’t be denied. The air is crisp, the crab apple has dropped her last fruit, and suddenly, cars in town have started blinking mysterious dashboard lights. It’s as if they all got together and decided, “Let’s make them guess what this means.”Before you end up in a game of “Name That Warning Light,” consider giving your car a little love as the seasons change.

Just like us, tires go a little flat when the temperature drops. The air inside them contracts, leaving your car a bit flat-footed. So, grab your gauge and check the tire pressure. The right numbers for pressure and tire size are usually posted on a sticker in the driver’s door jamb.

While you’re down there, examine the tread.

1. Grab a penny and turn the side with Lincoln’s silhouette toward you, so his head is visible..

2. Insert the penny between the treads with Lincoln’s head pointing into the tire.

3. Can you see the top of Lincoln’s head? If you can, it means your tire tread has worn down to an unsafe level, and it’s likely time to buy new tires.

Now, if your tires are as smooth as a baby’s cheek, no need to do the test, it’s time for new tires. Bald tires and icy roads don’t make a cute couple.

Your car runs on fluids like you run on coffee. Check the radiator, oil, brake fluid, transmission fluid, and windshield washer fluid levels and replenish with fluids made for winter temperatures in your area. A dirty frozen windshield is a recipe for disaster. If you pop the hood and don’t know what you’re looking at, your friendly mechanic lives for this stuff. And, don’t forget YouTube.

If you hear squeaks, squeals, or that awful metal-on-metal screech when you slow down, that’s your car’s way of politely begging for attention. Don’t ignore it. Brakes are not an optional accessory. They’re what stand between you and the rear bumper of that guy who forgot to scrape his windshield this morning.

Antifreeze isn’t just a cute name—it’s what keeps your engine from freezing when temperatures plummet. Make sure it’s the right mix for your area. (What works in sunny Las Vegas may not help much in a Reno cold snap!)

Once a year, change your windshield wipers. Be sure you have a first-aid kit stowed for emergencies. If the weather in your area includes snow, ice, and high winds, carry a blanket, water, and snacks just in case.

When’s the last time you treated your car to a professional once-over? A seasonal inspection can catch small issues before they turn into big, expensive surprises. Your car braves wind, rain, sleet, snow, and the occasional tumbleweed while keeping you safe. As the seasons change, give it the attention it deserves. Top off the fluids, check the brakes, and fill those tires.

Nothing says “prepared” quite like a car that starts, stops, and stays safely between the lines, especially when you need more Christmas lights to outshine the neighbor across the street.

More tomorrow.

There’s something a little unsettling about watching a plastic skeleton and an inflatable Santa Claus staring each other down across the street. One jingles, the other rattles. And so it goes here at Winterpast.

Directly across the street, our competitive neighbor ( the one who can’t wait to start the season) has his entire house draped in Christmas lights. Not just a few twinkling strands either, but on every eve. His lights even go up the roof to frame his dormer windows. He’s done.

Meanwhile, his next-door neighbor is holding strong for Team Halloween with tombstones, spider webs, and glowing ghosts. The two houses look like they’re having a seasonal identity crisis. One side says boo, while the other says ho-ho-ho.

Driving by feels like flipping channels between The Nightmare Before Christmas and It’s a Wonderful Life.

After watching the competition, we decided to embrace Team Halloween this year. We managed to find a new family member that we named Walter. The coolest guy on the block, he even has a top hat and sunglasses, stealing the show. When he was in place, there was no choice but to get down the two Halloween boxes and complete the scene.

We now have billowy ghosts, a spider witch, headstones with rocky graves, and lots and lots of spiders. The dogs haven’t noticed yet, or they would be telling us we have company. All dressed up for formal night, we’d both like to invite him to join us on our next cruise. By the way, we named him Walter.

While the neighborhood drama continues, Walmart is always one holiday ahead of human emotion. The Halloween aisle looks like it’s survived a zombie apocalypse with half-empty shelves, one lonely bag of pumpkin-shaped marshmallows, and a single witch hat hanging on for dear life. The Christmas aisle, however, is fully operational and ready for battle. Wrapping paper, candy canes, fake snow — all in abundance. And if you look closely, I swear there’s a box of pink conversation hearts lurking in the corner, just waiting for February.

Honestly, what’s the rush? Can’t we just enjoy one holiday at a time? Maybe take a moment to appreciate pumpkins before we’re buried in peppermint?

Still… I can’t complain too loudly. This year, due to a fantastic December adventure, we’ll begin decking our own halls the day after Halloween. I’ll be out there, my wreath while the neighbor’s fog machine is still smoking. Maybe I’ll even toss a Santa hat on Walter just to bridge the gap.

So, if you drive by and see a jack-o’-lantern next to a nativity scene, don’t judge. Just know that somewhere between the candy corn and the candy canes, we’re trying our best to celebrate it all, one twinkling light at a time.

Happy Hallo-Thanks-Mas, everyone.

More tomorrow.