Grieving Gardener

Treasures abound in the barn. The annual rummage sale for my Political Group is next weekend and donations are arriving. Not being into yard sales or thrift stores, it’s a new experience being on the receiving end of cast offs. Dropping off cast offs at the thrift store, relief is found in an empty trunk. This time, the cars are leaving boxes at my barn door for the sale to be held in less than two weeks.

The sale won’t be at my house, but at the neighbor’s. At least, that’s the way the plan started. The furniture and larger items can stay in the barn, with volunteers handling the actual sales. I’m providing help before and storage. The plan, anyway.

There is a certain curiosity that arises when receiving mysterious and unmarked boxes. What could be inside? Something irresistible? Just the knickknack that’d look great on a shelf? An old cashmere sweater? A designer purse? There is a certain pull, like that of a harvest moon, enticing hoarding tendencies. And just like that, cast offs become beloved treasures anew.

Being blessed with a new girlfriend, I haven’t been working alone. One donation filled a horse trailer and two pickups. An entire household of goods that had once belonged to my new friends’ mother-in-law. She’d lovingly packed the entire house when her friend and M-I-L passed away, and now remembered what was in each and every box as we unpacked and sorted. A raw deal for her.

You just never know what you can run across. Like a 1960’s fold-away hairdryer in the cutest case, as new as the day it was purchased. It looks like it came from Mabel’s Primp and Tease off Main Street. An oddity that brought back memories of a household of five blonde sisters getting ready for Easter Sunday. Curls and Curls and more Curls in the days long before hand held blow dryers and electric curling irons.

A few days before we started unpacking, the sweetest couple had come to drop off their donations. Before they left, the gentleman quietly told his father’s camera was with their donations. If I could, would I please put it on a table with valuable collectibles? It was something special but the time had come to let go.

Sure enough, the camera surfaced. In a well loved and worn leather case, the camera must be 75 years old. Just what family happiness had been captured by this gem? How easy to forget what excitement picture taking was back then. Posing. Smiling. Hoping for a great shot. Waiting for the pictures to be processed. Such a treasure and connection to the past. Yes. It’ll go with the valuable items. We’ll make sure we take very good care of it.

Every thing you could imagine making up a physical life sits in my barn. Beds. A mattress. Bedding. Towels. Linens. Pots and pans. Games. Videos. A television. Two recliners. Dressers. Clothing. Shoes. More shoes. Purses. Jewelry. Even purple tights. If only the items could tell their stories, what stories they could share.

I’ve found some cool purchases. A very old, silver box with wooden lining sat at the bottom of a box. Engraved on the top, it reads M.A.G.A. 1957. Just what did this acronym mean in 1957. Magical Association of Girl Astronauts? Mythical Agency of Gifted Artists? It hold a different meaning for me in 2021. Magnificent. Articulate. Gardener. Aglow. Two years old when the box was a new treasure, I was learning to stand on my own two feet. Sixty-four years later, I’m learning that all over again. A special treasure to someone who kept it all these years, it’s shiny again after a little silver polish. Inside the wood-lined box sit two pair of antique clip-on earrings, older than the box. A treasure meant for me now holds personal significance.

A little angel holding a bird now nestles between my patio plants. A cast iron plant stand sitting in the corner. A little red cross next to my kitchen angels. Little treasures I didn’t know were missing until I found them.

Do I need to bring home more clutter? Does anyone? But, my group IS holding a fund raiser. I better do my part.

With days to purge, I’ll find items to add to the sale. The group has never made more than $1500 after hours of work. I hope we break $2,000 this year. There’s some great stuff for sale. Things and Things and Things.

VST lived by this idiom. Goals ran our lives, living life’s minutes to the fullest. Time is the one thing that, when wasted, can’t be replaced. Some days, watching the minutes pass can be a healthy thing to do. Other days, it’d be nice to stop the clock. Being mindful of the choice made is key.

When he first came home from his night classes at University to share this thought with me, I was confused.

“Archery? Really? Between work and irrigation? I don’t think I’m any good with the compound bow.”

Hugging me, he explained his interpretation of the meaning. Through the years, it became one of the phrases that kept us on track. Our arrow was always aimed and set on the bullseye, even when the target jumped this way or that.

Life was full of schedules and lists. It had to be. Five kids coming and going like the tides. A household. Two professional jobs. Farming 40 acres at night and on weekends. A Bachelor’s, Master’s, Doctorate, and Teaching Credential earned during our “free” time. The care and feeding of two elderly parents. There wasn’t time to drop the arrows and play a round of golf. We were dancing as fast as two people could. Thank goodness we accomplished much in our years together, with his dance ending long before it should’ve.

Now, in retirement, schedules and lists have a different purpose. They propel me forward, even if it is inches a day. In my daily Agenda, completed goals stand as a written record on which to reflect when I think I can’t possibly finish one thing. There are plenty of those days around here. My minimum is three accomplishments per day, with nothing too big or too small. I make the rules. But, three is the magic number for me.

I’ve found if I finish three, then I can probably get six done. When six are done, why not shoot for ten. Life at Winterpast rolls along, arrow by arrow. I’ve always interpreted the idiom in that way, until this morning. Looking up the phrase, I wanted to be sure I wrote it correctly in the title. I use the internet often to check correct word meanings and useage.

Stumbling across another interpretation of the advice, it was again obvious islanders have the healthiest outlook on life. Somewhere in the past, I lived on Molokai. I just know it.

“If you don’t aim at nothing you will not miss at something, so you don’t get frustrated by failure.” 10 Kimo’s Hawaiian Life Rules to Live By — Philipe Borges

Philipe goes on to explain that if you can relax and do things for the joy of them, eventually things will get done when you least expect it. I should try this on Sundays. However, for the Mainland girl in me, this approach wouldn’t quite place my arrow in the bullseye. Somewhere there exists a balanced approach. Perhaps a miss can be the bullseye you hadn’t envisioned yet. Hmmmm.

The one place my scheduling doesn’t apply is in my garden. Each day, I leave one hour to play outside. It might be 20 minutes here or 40 minutes there, but at the end of the day, Winterpast takes at least an hour a day to stay looking her best. With $10 a day for water, and constant grooming, my hidden desert oasis brings me joy. I never consider it too much work or a grind. Gardening is, in itself, the reward.

Writing is the place in which heavy scheduling is needed. September 24th and the release of “Widow”, my first book, hangs over my head. Each day, as deadlines approach, more of my attention is focused on writing, editing, proofing, and correcting. There are places in which you need a Bulls-Eye. The first book in a trilogy is definitely one of those.

Arrows are simple and clean. Just a lethal tip, a strong shaft, and delicate fins. With the strength of focus, a single pull and well executed release, you can plant your arrow where you choose, or just enjoy its flight. It’s up to you.

Enjoy something fun today. Life is short.

Such a nice day Sunday is. Quietly, I’ve started embracing Sunday as my official day of rest. With Bible Study and Church in the morning and Bible Study in the evening, I have a little time to think about the direction my life is heading. I’ve time to listen for the wind, forever looming on the high desert plains.

Winds are mysterious. Around here, the day can be so still not a Cottonwood leaf moves. And then, with a vengeance, they strike out of nowhere. Limbs sway this way and that causing the trees to dance, while the birds hang on for dear life. Then, just as quick, the winds are silent and stillness returns.

Isn’t life like that? Turbulent and scary at some points. Still and quiet at others. Through it all, the winds blow out polluted thoughts and make us cling to our own branches so we don’t get swept away.

Lately, the winds in my life have caused me to clutch tightly my core values. Being shaken down to my toes by the last 16 months, there were some days the winds were so strong, it was all I could do to keep from being blown away. These days, life is kinder. More fun. Happier. Peaceful.

One of the biggest contributors to this is my church family, as they become closer by the day. Attending four times a week, I’m gaining new friends that struggle with the winds of their lives, too. Sharing their stories, I realize how much I enjoy these valued friends that want nothing more than a seat at Bible Study. Friends that harmonize beautifully as choir members. Last night, one of the sweetest gals brought a bag of California peaches to share. Dripping, juicy, tree ripened peaches. It doesn’t get better than that.

Each time I attend another class, I’m strengthened by lessons shared. The strengths of this loving church community are evident. With smoke from the California wildfires choking my little town, Nevada’s big blue skies have been missing for weeks. You can taste the air. Opening the door to the chapel and entering is a great visual for my world without these friends and my world with. Inside, the air is clean without a hint of smoke and the temperature cool, making me forget about the ugly days of August. A perfect environment for seeking truths I need.

Through my journey, I’ve identified with the type of woman I’m striving to become. A Proverbs 31 Woman. Raised this way by farming parents, I thought all women were of this mind set. At times, personifying these traits is consuming and difficult. Young women might find fault with this thinking, for no where here is there a hard and fast rule for 50%/50%. For me, embracing these qualities is making my life richer.

A Proverbs 31 Woman is…….

1. A well-rounded, unique, and rare gem.
2. A wise and intelligent woman.
3. Faithful.
4. Kind.
5. Trustworthy, honorable, comforting, and encouraging.
6. An excellent Homemaker.
7. One who empowers herself spiritually, mentally, and physically.
8. Charitable.
9. A preparer and a provider.
10. Properly dressed for every occasion.
11. Dignified and appropriate.
12. A good judge of character.
13. Business minded.
14. Someone who attains and excels.
15. Strong, graceful, and secure in her position.
16. Above all else, God-fearing. (theodysseyonline.com)

When my life ends, it will have been well lived if those that knew me best remember at least some of these qualities when they speak of me. As the desert winds blow, these guide posts will lead me down a path towards a bright tomorrow.

Small town life. There’s absolutely nothing more refreshing or sweet than living in Small Town, USA. In my town, people wave to each other with a smile. More times than not, neighbors are found chatting in the aisles at WalMart. School bus drivers wave at locals. We all wave to our men in blue. Everyone knows everyone.

It was on the local “town square” of Facebook I’d heard about someone I wanted to meet. “Check out Linda.” “Linda will brighten your day.” “Go Linda.” It seemed the grocery store had employed a new celebrity! Linda!!!!! She was the checker full of golden smiles and kind words bagged up free with every order. The compliments were glowing. This Linda must be a pretty special gal.

I don’t know about you, but I hate to grocery shop as much as I hate to cook. Disliking it so much, I sometimes order groceries through curbside delivery. If you haven’t tried this miraculous little service, give it a whirl. You simply “walk” down the cyber aisles of your store, picking this and choosing that. You fill your virtual basket, pay online, and wait at the door for your delivery. In my tiny town, I can actually watch the delivery person leave the store and make their way to my house. Delightful.

In my experience, the delivered produced has been fresh, frozen foods frozen, and the bread and chips unharmed. Everything as fresh and perfect as if I’d picked it out myself. I’ve even received calls for permission to substitute an item for one that’s unavailable.

With my last delivery, there was an added bonus. Delivery Man John. Just like always, my phone alerted me to the eminent arrival and I opened the garage door. A nice, shiny car pulled up, and out popped John. I knew his name, because it flashed on my phone. “John will be delivering your groceries in one minute.”

Yes, indeed, John did arrive. Neat and clean, driving a car that didn’t make obnoxious noises, he quickly opened the trunk to retrieve the bags of groceries. Tanned and toned, while sharing our small town smile, Senior Citizen John left the groceries in the garage and was off. John got five stars from me. Absolutely another reason I love grocery home delivery. Just sayin.

But, a woman cannot be a hermit forever, and grocery shopping qualifies as an outing. Needing to find out more about Linda and running low on coffee creamer, I grabbed my list and was off.

You’d never know I live alone by looking at my grocery bills. A little of this and a lot of that can add up. Even though one only needs a Bay Leaf once a year, you still need to buy the entire bottle. This is true for every single item in the kitchen. Things expire. Not the Bay Leaves, of course, but other things. Like the entire jar of Bleu Cheese salad dressing bought for dinner with a special guest. Chicken soup, waiting for the day Covid or the common cold comes roaring through Winterpast. Random things age out. My grocery cart is always full of replacements and things to make meals that might sound good someday when I might feel like cooking.

The perimeter of the grocery store is the only place one really needs to shop. Everything healthy is found along the perimeter. But, it’s the inner aisles that hold all extras, so up and down I roll. At least the idiotic “One Way” signs are removed from the floors. Who shops in a traffic pattern? How did this prevent Covid? I’m surprised they didn’t insist on traffic circles, as well. Insanity at its finest and yet another reason grocery delivery is a good way to go.

With a full basket, one register glowed OPEN. In luck, I was the only customer and I started unloading items on the belt. Out of nowhere, and louder than expected, came a happy voice, “Hello there! Welcome!!!! Is your day going well? What are you planning to make with the zucchini?”

LINDA!!!!!!!!!!

Smiling, because I couldn’t help it, Linda and I conversed while she scanned and stuffed my groceries. Putting in my Rewards number displayed my name, and I became “Joy” instead of just “Honey” or “Ma’am”. In the time it took to bag up $87.50 worth of groceries, cheerfulness surrounded Aisle 1. The three customers waiting behind me were enjoying the conversation and adding to it. A little party at Check Out, all because someone was smart enough to hire Linda.

Linda isn’t the thinnest or youngest. She IS the happiest. She shares that happiness with every single person that goes through her line. People notice this and don’t mind waiting for her services. I certainly didn’t mind paying higher prices to be treated like a human being. Her smiles were well worth the added cost of doing business at a real grocery store versus Walmart.

When I asked her if she was THE Linda, she blushed. She knew about the hundreds of nice comments on Facebook. She was grateful for every one of them.

“My customers are just the best. Way too kind. I love you guys.”

Linda. Look for a Linda at your grocery store. If there isn’t one, you be the Linda. The world needs happy kindness right now. It’s out there. Go find it.

Oliver is Three Years Old! As he sleeps quietly at my feet this morning, I’m so thankful there’s been a sensible little dog hiding in there all this time. He just needed to grow into his paws. I needed to grow into mine, as well.

In the winter of 2019, I was pining for a dog. Not just any dog. THE DOG. The one that would be my last. A dog like those I’d seen when RVing that did all the cool things dogs do. Listen. Understand. Comfort. Sleep quietly at their owner’s feet. Greet guests politely. Just be a great dog in every way.

VST wasn’t a dog person, wanting no part of the requirements of responsible dog ownership. He wanted no extra responsibilities, added drama, or unexpected costs. He wanted none of that. He saw owning a dog as a negative drain on his life. Period.

In my world, nightly dreams brought an angel dog to tag along. Just a little guy, he’d show up and off we’d go. Each morning, I’d wake wishing that a dog would come into my life. VST didn’t waver. No dog.

Until one day.

Out of the blue, VST decided we should have one more dog. THE DOG. The cool one. He started an active search for our last dog, with ideas in mind of those that would be suitable or not. For a time, Oliver could have been a Yorkie. Why a burly man’s man would choose a dog the size of a postage stage is beyond me. Yorkies are perfect for Yorkie owners. I wanted something a little more substantial.

In truth, I’m a Mastiff gal. The bigger the better. Mastiffs watched our ranch for many years. Thoughtfully gentle, they were appropriately imposing when strangers stopped in. Pony sized, their deep bass barks shook the night at the slightest hint of intruders. VST would patiently lift two 40 pound bags of very expensive dog food into our Costco cart every two weeks. Our security team paid in kibble, we were never robbed.

These days, I’m older and weaker. No longer can I help the backside of a 200 pound dog into a truck bed, or hoist 40 pound bags of dogfood. Mastiffs have a very short life span and a puppy is so much work. VST and I agreed we’d like a dog that would be around for a decade+ after the potty-training ended. We fixed our sites on a small Dachshunds. It seemed the rest of California had done the same and all litters were promised or sold. No puppies were to be found.

Until the week of Christmas. Disappointed by multiple contacts to breeders who had “just sold the last one”, one more time, I Googled “dachshund puppy”. And there he was.

One picture says it all. Oliver was left over. He’d aged out. At 16 weeks, he’d been discounted 50%. A bargain puppy. The breeder would deliver him to our area on Christmas morning in the parking lot of a huge casino. At this point, VST was onboard. The Christmas gift to end all, he’d never need to buy me another present. Oliver was birthdays, Christmas, and the 4th of July all wrapped up in those little green eyes. Oliver was THE DOG.

Over the 2.5 years we’ve been together, there have been days we didn’t see eye to eye. Days he was sneaky and more days that he got caught. Lost hours of sleep, and correction after correction. As many senior citizens have exclaimed, “I’m not a puppy anymore.” Countless hours have gone into training ME to meet his standards. I’m finally the “Mom-oh” he loves. He’s always been the dog I waited a lifetime to meet.

Yesterday, he knew it was his special day. Extra couch cuddles and even popcorn for a treat. All the while, he waited quietly on his leash so I wouldn’t spill my coffee. He didn’t bark at visitors throughout the day. No nipping at garden emitters, or digging in the paths. Outside, he sunned himself and quietly watched the birds. He sat like a gentleman, waiting for his after dinner snack without a jump or wiggle.

At the end our our day, when asked if his was a good one, I’m sure I saw him smile right before his sleepy yawn.

“Yeah, Mom-oh. Time for bed.”

Sir Oliver, Gentleman of Ashworth Hall. One standard, wire-haired, cream, piebald dachshund from Song Catcher Dachshunds in Nevada City. One of a kind. Happy Birthday, Oliver. You know all my secrets. You’ll always be THE ONE.

Living alone, I’m very careful about keeping things locked. Especially at night. VST was our armed sentry, always on watch. I never worried about safety, because he had that handled. Although, two years ago, there was an event that rocked Northern Nevada to its core while robbing me of a sense of innocent safety that I’ll never get back. The Gardnerville/Reno Murders of the winter of 2019.

Vacationing at the beach when the first murder was committed, I could hardly believe the headlines. Connie Koontz, 56, was shot dead in her kitchen. She was just the first, with three more victims to follow over the next nine days. Random, innocent senior citizens were shot and killed in their own unlocked homes. A few days between each murder, with miles and counties separating the crimes, citizens felt bone-chilling fear. Things like this didn’t happen in a place where many people didn’t even lock their doors.

Connie’s big crime was hiring a gardening service. One of the day laborers was an illegal immigrant who noticed more than the weeds. Nice home, with an open garage door. He would return to take her life, sneaking in and catching her unaware and off guard in her own kitchen, as her disabled mother slept quietly in the back room. Shot dead, she would still be alive if only she’d locked her doors. If only.

He stole a few things that Connie would have happily exchanged for her life. Electronic gadgets that the murderer’s mother enjoyed receiving. Her “good, sweet boy” was always bringing home unexpected treasures for her. So thoughtful. Such a good, good boy.

A few short days later and a mile south, Sophia Renkin, 74, was killed in her home. The killer entered through an unlocked door under the cover of darkness. Sophia, startled, put up a struggle. While being shot repeatedly, she tried to escape to safety in her bedroom. Sophia was shot with in the face with a .22 caliber bullet. When that didn’t do the job, the killer shot again and again, in the face and upper torso as she fought for survival, but lost. The cowardly killer didn’t even steal anything from her. Just her life, letting himself out the same way he he’d come in.

Sophia loved antique cars and her horse. She’d planned to see friends the next day. When she didn’t answer the phone after being late, the terrifying discovery was made. Now, two women lay dead, while the communities sheltered in place, fearful of who could be next. Not a ring video or witness had seen the murderer, just a random someone out there.

This monster wasn’t through yet. Fifty miles north, three days later, in the early morning hours he struck again. Sherri David, 81, was in the kitchen when the illegal alien opened fire, killing her. Her husband, Jerry David, 81, was killed next as he dressed for the day. Again, the killer entered through an unlocked door, ambushing them.

Sadly, this piece of human debris had worked with the same gardening service at all three properties. The vile rogue snuck into the David’s unlocked travel trailer and stole the guns that would be used to kill four people days before Connie’s murder. The David’s never even knew their guns were missing.

All elderly, these people were vital members of the community. Jerry and Sherri were active members of the Reno Rodeo Association and beloved community members. In their early 80’s, they still rode their horses as often as they could. Connie was cherished as a great mom, daughter, neighbor, and vital part of her WalMart team, while Sophia was a member of three antique car clubs and a civic minded individual. Sophia was taken from the horse she rode for pleasure. Four beautiful elders were stripped from families, friends, and the communities that loved them so much.

Two years later, the confessed murderer gets his three squares a day, while lawyers fight about his mental competency for a trial. No closure for the family. No justice for the small communities that were terrorized by a common thief stealing items to sell for his next fix. No consequences for the greedy mother that waited at home for her “good, sweet boy” to bring her more gifts. We all wait for justice that may never come.

I check my door locks every single night before I close my eyes. Gates remain locked. My neighborhood is very similar to those of all four victims. One afternoon, I insisted that VST drive by each home. Needing to understand these crimes, I assumed the victims must have lived in undesirable locations. Surely this couldn’t have happened in an upscale neighborhood. I was very wrong. Neat and beautiful, the four murder sites were manicured. But, of course they were. They all hired a gardener who employed illegal day workers.

A doorbell in the night conjures up all kinds of thoughts. I enjoy a neighborhood that’s quiet and remote. The only visitors are invited. After seven, it’s rare that I have company. Sad, but true. Last night, the bell rang. Dusk was turning to dark as I shouted out “Who’s there?”

No answer.

Wondering if a neighbor needed help, I slithered to the front window, peering out the blinds to see no one. Having an alcove by the front door, danger could be lurking there.

Calling out again, I received no answer.

Becoming more brave, I went to the sidelight next to the front door to gain a better view.

There, a small note and plant sat on the front porch. Murderers don’t usually come with flowers, do they? Relieved, I opened the door and retrieved the plant and card.

Ninja Neighbor! I love her so. No murderer ringing the bell. This time. Just a little surprise from my sweet firend next door.

Crisis averted. This time.

Remember to keep things locked No matter where you live, Mayberry doesn’t exist anymore. Bad guys can be Americans just like you and me, or a desperate illegal, working hard to get his next fix of heroin. Connie, Sophia, Jerry, and Sherry would tell you the same thing, if only they could.

My RV barn is a thing of beauty. I could hold church inside the four finished walls. With dimensions of 45’x20’x20′, more than one man has stopped in his tracked to hear angels sing when first seeing the barn. Conjuring up visions and possibilities in people, VST and I chose it to protect our new RV, The White Knight. VST got his RV barn. I got the gardens of Winterpast. Buying this home was an equal Win-Win for us both, although I moved here alone.

When VST died, the fate of The White Knight was certain. I’d never driven it, couldn’t drive it, and therefore, wouldn’t be driving it. At 30′ long, it had to be sold. Meanwhile, the barn kept mourners out of the sun at VST’s memorial service. It’s a place I store household overflow, including the deer head I just can’t discard quite yet.

Yard sales are not my thing. I’ve never held one, or even helped at one. The thought of strangers descending on my quiet little world to pick through-cast offs isn’t something I’d choose to do on the best of days. But, this yard sale is different. It’s for my Political Organization, ripe with friends for the picking.

Politics. Such a nasty and divisive topic. Differences of opinion can severe relationships forever unless you happen to stand on the same side of the great divide. Then, it can be a safe topic of conversation on which to bond. Miss Firecracker had introduced me to this group, urging me to join when I moved here. Being in a Widow’s fog a little longer than I realized, it took some time to connect. But, connections are firing now and this is a group of new friends that’ll anchor me even more securely to my little town.

The group has their biggest fund raiser the third weekend in August. A yard sale. My Ninja Neighbor, a new member to the group, is the chairwoman of THE YARD SALE committee. Such an initiation to the group. Yikes. Loving her as I do, I offered my barn to house the furniture items and she accepted immediately. Another unique use for my wonderful building.

Yesterday, my barn became Yard Sale Central. All the earthly belongings of a heaven bound angel found their way into two pickups and a horse trailer, to be delivered to my barn. With three other deliveries, the barn is stacked high with boxes and furniture. What. Have. I. Done????? You know the old saying, “Stupid is as stupid does.”?

During the afternoon, people arrived as strangers and left as friends. I’ve invited new comrades into Winterpast and my life. I’m one of the gals now, and what wonderful gals we are. So many different personalities, all offering words of encouragement and comfort. There are successful gals. Executives. Business owners. Widows. Wives. Mothers. Daughters. Friends to meet at water aerobics. Friends that like the beach and traveling. Friends with kind eyes. Friends that are funny husbands that adore their beautiful wives. A solid core of like-minded people. No longer can I whine that I’m friend-less-ly new to town . A barn and new gal-pals. It doesn’t get better than that.

The dancers in the group told me of two evenings of square dancing every week. One in my little town and one in the little town 30 minutes East. Two nights of more new friends. Music. A professional square dance caller who happens to be my neighbor.

Wizard of Oz-ish, the door of possibilities opens wider as my town little town turns technicolor. This isn’t California anymore. This is a horse of a different color. There’s no place like home, and this is mine. After all, Home Means Nevada.

My secret vision for the barn is a wonderful star-filled evening, complete with a barn dance. In my life, I’ve helped plan two. Both in a huge ranch barn, never did anyone have as much fun. Hay bales for seating, fiddlers and banjo players strummed while everyone danced the night away. Of course, I can’t host a barn dance. My neighbors would never forgive me.

But, wait just a fiddle plucking minute here.

Maybe they would come?!?!?!?

In the blazing heat, a new friend was admiring the finished barn walls.

“This is the perfect place for a BBQ and barn dance!” the dancer declared, sharing her vision. Meeting her just minutes before, she had no way of knowing mine. None. But. She did.

Another gal mentioned that we should have a “Just Because” party in my back yard. What a delightful idea! “Just Because” we’re alive, happy, healthy, intelligent and beautiful. “Just Because” everyone needs new friends. “Just Because” without friends and parties, what would life be? “Just Because” VST and I loved hosting neighborhood parties. Winterpast and I need a housewarming. Coming together in a storm of sadness, Winterpast watched over me while I cared for her as we both watched Winter Pass. Now, we need to celebrate as one, “Just Because”. I’ll be thinking on this.

Today, the unpacking begins. How fun to “shop” in the barn. I’ve already spied a cute garden stand I’m buying. Guess what? I get to set the price! Let’s see. $1? Sold!!!!!

It’s amazing just to be alive and breathe. If I’ve learned nothing else in the last 16 months, it’s that lesson. With such a full life of doing, VST and I seldom stopped to enjoy our accomplishments. There were always goals looming. Deadlines. Unfinished projects. The last brick.

VST enjoyed long walks every day. Along the way, he always met new and interesting people, reporting back to me on their stories. Mike was one such person.

Mike and his wife moved to C Street, Virginia City from the Bay Area of California. Their home wasn’t a mansion like DunMovin, but rather a conservative little house with good bones. Mike, being a retired brick layer, began his magic. Each day, VST would talk to him about his progress, brick laying being another skill VST knew a thing or two about. When going to town, we’d drive by Mike’s to see how far he’d progressed, as the scaffolding moved from this wall to that.

Mike built a brick garage, and his progress went on, month after month. Soon, he was working on the side not visible to the road. Each time they visited, VST was more impressed with this man that kept going, one brick at a time. Bricking an entire house perfectly showed who Mike was as a craftsman. VST was in awe of the brick layer’s mad skills.

Long ago, newlyweds still, VST shared his trademark secret with me. Living at the ranch, he’d remodeled a bathroom, laying tile flooring one piece at a time. With such perfection and attention to detail , it was finally complete, except for a small missing piece of tile behind the toilet. Proud of his work, he asked me for my seal of approval, and so, I pointed out the missing tile. A project isn’t done until it is. This wasn’t.

“No, Darlin’. Every project has one last piece left unfinished. Finish that? You’re done.” His reference to “Done” meant DONE. Finished. Time expired. “Put down the trowel and die” kind of done.

This superstition became tiring over the year. I finally broke him of this habit during our renovations in VC. Every project was 100% complete. No missing wood or tile. No unpainted surfaces. Not a crack uncaulked. Every improvement was up to his perfectionist standards, even when he was within three months of dying.

One bright and sunny morning, VST saw Mike for the last time. The scaffolding was empty of brick. The house stood as a tribute to the professional brick layer.

“Yup. Just laid the last brick yesterday. Think I might go fishing today.”

Mike died at week’s end. Dropped over of a heart attack. It was swift and final, leaving Mrs. Mike stunned and in disbelief. A man younger than VST, he didn’t know the secret. Always, leave the job one brick shy of complete. VST would have shared that if he could have seen what was coming. The entire community mourned Mike’s passing.

Reflecting on this, I struggle each day to write a chapter just so, or uncluttered a closet while the real beauty of life sits right outside my door. The garden. The birds. Friends. Mountains. The breezes. Oliver and his antics. Projects will never be completed. Mine are all far from the final brick.

Books are the same way. Each day, I move towards completion of “Widow”. Chapter 1-3 sit printed on my desk, as I trudge on. The last word? Ha. That’ll come with my last breath. There are hundreds of stories to live and then write. Great stories aren’t created while cleaning a closet.

Peace hugs Winterpast these days. While he heat broils on, mask mandates foul my mood. Nothing is as it used to be, but the important things remain the same. Stop to remember the important things. Health. Love. Life. Nature. Smiles. Happiness. A quiet soul. Contentment.

Have a peaceful day today. Fergettabout the last brick. There’s always tomorrow.

Miss Firecracker and I understand each other. Strange, because we aren’t chronological contemporaries. Our thoughts and beliefs intersect at key points bringing us laughter or tears. She’s a great sounding board for so many of life’s deep questions, knowing when to answer or just give a knowing glance. A friend in need is a friend, indeed. She’s my BESTIE.

After sharing the stars and the moon in Zero Gravity, we moved on to lunch. Like royalty, our own wait staff took orders and invited us to the terrace for Mimosa’s, while lunch was prepared. Sunning ourselves, we never ran out of topics for discussion.

The terrace was filled women of different ages. Groups congregated in the private pool, or sat on terrace lounges. Everyone was enjoying sunshine and the normalcy of a spa day. Nothing normal about this spa, it had been closed for almost a year. Special it was to enjoy something that hadn’t been available for so long. After purchasing a service, the facilities were available to us until 9PM. I didn’t realize we could have returned even if we left the spa. But, then, Miss Firecracker had a full day planned for us.

Lunch arrived, healthy and delicious. After a few hours of pampered bliss, we decided to find the rest of our group. Downstairs, her daughter, Miss Firecracker’s Mini Me, was tanning her beautifully skinny self by the main pool. She’d saved lounge chairs poolside. Making our way through the children was refreshing. Kids. They’ve paid the ultimate price through Covid and the ways of this crazy world. These kids were having fun. Not a few kids. Lots and lots of sweet children.

As a retired teacher, I noticed one very important point for second time in as many weeks. Covid and home schooling has helped parents become parents again. Although the pool could’ve been a watery sea of chaos and unruly children, it wasn’t. The sweetest kids played nicely with each other. Mindful that parents were watching, they behaved. And, yes, I noticed parents that WERE watching. My Movie in the Park experience last week was similar. Parents being parents, but allowing children to be children. Refreshing.

Mini Me is equally as delightful as Miss Firecracker. A bold, fierce, and smart executive, this woman is a witty, funny and beautiful life force. Miss Firecracker, you taught her well, my dear.

Sunning by the pool, the question on my mind was, “Why Have I Not Enjoyed This Resort On A Routine Basis?” Laying in the sun while listening to the guests, I realized a 5-Star experience exists less than an hour away from Winterpast. This will join the list of my monthly activities.

Visiting with Mini Me, time passed and the blazing sun finally got the best of us. Our strength would be needed for the last of Miss Firecracker’s plans. A dinner at the best restaurant in town, with reservations made months before.

Dinner was one I’ll never forget. Served by two waiters, not one, we were pampered and treated to epicurean delights. Of course, Miss Firecracker stole the show, especially when I clued in the waiters that she was, indeed, THE Miss Firecracker. Delicious food. Excellent service. Friendship extraordinaire. In a flash, we were enjoying Baily’s and Coffee topped with fresh whipped cream. A beautiful evening in an exquisite restaurant with my Bestie. It doesn’t get better than that.

VST was always curious about girl weekends, ask, “What did you do?” It’s hard to describe to a man the value of conversing with a girlfriend. Men sit together, often not exchanging a word. But, women. We’re different. We gab, gasp, groan, laugh, cry, commiserate, and gossip. That could all occur in the first fifteen minutes. We nourish our souls with words from a woman friend that just knows. Supports. Cares. Loves. There is nothing better than that in the world.

Our vacation ended too soon. There are the secret stories we’ll take to the grave. We did need to pay for some damages that occurred on our night out. And, there was the issue with security. Glad Miss Firecracker talks a good story. She saved us more than once that night. Memories will make us laugh for years to come. What happens at the resort, stays at the resort. Rest up, Girlfriend. Until the next time, Thanks for the wonderful weekend. You know. I love you.

There’s nothing like a few days away to improve an attitude, especially if time spent involves one Miss Firecracker!! Normally isolated, it was refreshing to enjoy a normal vacation, in which all vacationers behaved normally. Bustling and crowded, the resort made me feel I was back in pre-pandemic days, except for the masks. Nevadans must wear them inside, AGAIN.

Miss Firecracker, with her wit and wisdom, is a one-of-a-kind BESTIE of the BEST KIND. There are some people in life that you need, like oxygen. She is mine. Getting caught up on the OOHHH’s and AAHHH”s of life, there were plenty of smiles and lots of laughs. Rooming together, our antics went late into the night, well past my normal bedtime.

Together, we could almost conjure up our late husbands through shared memories. Members of the same service organization, we spent time getting to know each other well. We camped together, for goodness sakes. After a successful camping trip, people become family. Campfires do that, melting the group into one gooey S’more of stories. The four of us shared many camping trips. VST and Baily’s were surely observing from on high this weekend, laughing at our antics, while wishing they could be on the other side of the room, their deep voices booming like thunder.

Miss Firecracker and I are Alpha Females. We draw attention with our stunning beauty and strong attitudes. Controlling our own lives, we’re what you’d consider, A CATCH. Women of Means. Ladies. Seasoned Queens of our own destiny. Quite frankly, we’re lovely. We don’t settle for anything less than lives we’ve planned for ourselves. Independent and fierce, weak men are intimidated. Just as well, because, quite frankly, we’re used to lives with our Alpha Males. Each having been half of a power couple, anything less would bore us to tears.

Visiting with such a friend, I remembered the woman I was when I met her. A “+1”. Arm candy for the member of a prestigious Men’s Service Organization, I was somebody’s Lady. At the time, that was a nice person to be. Today, it’d never be enough. Traveling through widowhood for the last 16 months, I’m so much more than a pretty face. VST always knew and appreciated that. It was ME that lost touch with my strength and courage. Complacent, I became the “Little Woman”. I smile at the ME I was, and some days, cringe at the ME I’ve become. All part of assembling a new and improved self as I pick up the pieces and move on, finding what works and what doesn’t.

On Saturday, Miss Firecracker had planned a wonderful day for us. At 9 AM, we presented ourselves at the Spa for Swedish relaxation. If you haven’t been to a 5-STAR spa at least once in your lifetime, you must. There are spas in every town. At least technicians that give a satisfying massage. But, a 5-STAR spa has all the bells and whistles. Things you didn’t even know you needed, but will need after experiencing them.

Only the finest spas can afford the finest amenities such as a vibrating massage table, set to music. Truly heaven made. In a dimly lit room, like candlelight, the fifty minutes of bliss commenced. My massuer, Lawrence, (no, I could never consider him “Larry”, he was definitely Lawrence), was skillful and respectful, applying capable and masterful techniques. As the music played, the table would vibrate with notes at different frequencies. The vibrations were so subtle they could easily have been missed. Warm vibrating table. Warm lotions. Warm neck pillow. Warm knee support. Soothing fountain’s soothing splish-ity splashes. All wrapped up in 50 blissful minutes.

Lumps of warmed butter, both, we met back in the Salt-Therapy room. White leather chairs with large ottomans lined the dimly lit room. A large cascade of salt water cascaded down one glass wall. Attendants brought iced water for our parched lips. All that was missing were tall hunky guys to fan us. Our spa day was just beginning.

Invited to use the facilities for the rest of the day, we took the elevator to the 4th floor, a step closer to heaven. There, private pools, Jacuzzi’s, waitresses, and an outdoor lounging deck awaited us. Everything clean and beautiful. Private for those of us that had purchased a treatment. Like kids in a candy shop, we tried everything. We were inside. Then outside. Going back inside to explore more, we found a metal door resembling a utility closet. On the door were the words, “Quiet Room”.

Entering, we found peace. Extremely dark, the space was lined with white leather Zero Gravity lounge chairs. Each chair, with the push of a button (and a little effort and giggling), went into position. Yes. Zero Gravity is a real thing, placing feet much higher than head. Positioned this way, we then focused on the stunning video display of the heavens. Crystal clear, the enhanced video showcased the big Nevada night skies. Star lit and stunning. Everything in this room comforted the spirit, all behind an uninviting door marked, “Quiet Room”.

In peace, I leave you for now. Enjoy the soft tones of music. The perfect temperature. Your feet suspended higher than your head in Zero Gravity. Quietly, I slip out of the room. Enjoy your rest, because, tomorrow, I’ll share the rest of the story.