Grieving Gardener

Good morning, DearReaders,

Miss Firecracker and I are having the time of our lives. So much music, only so much time to dance. And, well, there was the small issue of the broken table….It looked sturdy…..

We’re off to a day at the spa today to refresh and rejuvenate.

I’ll be back on Tuesday to discuss Swamp Creatures, The Used Car Lot of Life, and so much more.

Joy

Defined by these three powerful words, they swirl around my head each day. In so many ways, my identification has been bound by them for decades. Intertwined with Should-s, Shouldn’t-s, Why-Not’s, and Maybe’s, they govern my actions like judgmental sentries as I’m try to decide which one defines the real WOMAN in me. It’s for this reason, the Sisterhood books in my first trilogy will hold bare the titles WIFE, WOMAN, WIDOW, with Widow the first to be published .

Presently, WOMAN is the biggest challenge, giving me a run for my money. Discovering I’ve no idea how to WOMAN, I’d much prefer to Gal, Tom Boy, or trot along with my own version of life. To successfully WOMAN is a tough job, indeed. At 65.5, I’m confused about the requirements and societal expectations of the role for the YOLD (Young Old) female in 2021.

At my age, health is the key to success in any endeavor. Keenly aware of the functions and complaints of the body I’ve been given, I must say, it’s performing well for a high mileage chassis. Grateful for this, I’m aware that at any time, I could spring a leak or blow a tire. Heck, I could drop a headlight. I try to avoid roads that are too pitted or dangerous for an old goat like me. But, in this day and age, road signs are difficult to read or missing all together. I think some might be in Chinese. GPS directions can run a girl astray and stranded on a one way street towards disaster.

In some ways, I might be considered a barn find. Hidden away for decades, I’ve been kept out of the ravages of the elements. Protected and valued by the best husband and family, I know what it’s like to be cherished and truly loved. Truly blessed, I marveled at every dream come true as life unfolded. I value my rare qualities. They won’t be shared with someone that doesn’t fear God and truth, even when inconvenient. I find the Swamp Creatures of the Senior Citizen dating world avoid inconvenience at any cost. It’s their kryptonite. Swamp Creatures. We’ll touch on that subject in an upcoming post. For now, avoid them at all costs.

This is Vintage Vixen is goal driven, again attempting to update the exterior with one new outfit that screams 2021 rather than the late 1900’s. Sporting my zippy new hair cut, I’ve promised myself that I’ll spent at least one hour perusing store manikins, choosing to buy a complete look. There must be at least one headless example of trendiness that would look compliment my plump-ish frame.

Next, a new pair of flats is on the list, as my “Go-Toes” are adorable and comfy for a woman a bit older than myself. I can do better, not needing Red Bottoms to pull off a look. Just some cute flats in which to line dance, with best intentions to learn how and go often. Flats, because I’m finding that at 5’5″, I’m considered tall in the dating world.

A new piece of jewelry, as much as I hate it. Jewelry. I don’t understand sparkly baubles. I overheard two women at Bible study as they discussed diamonds and the women that say they don’t like them. (I’m one.)

“What kind of woman doesn’t love Diiiiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaammmmmmoooooonnnnnnddddsss? (Hello? Me?)

“THEY can’t AFFORD them.” (Not true, in my case.)

“They go with EVERYTHING.” (Not potting soil, or star gazing on a moonless desert night.)

Not intending to buy diamonds, I can at least buy something trendy to complete the look. It can’t involve earrings, though. I’ve no need to punch holes through perfectly good earlobes. Besides, earrings would distract from my eyes. No need. Sophisticated, flowing, and luxurious, my naturally highlighted grey hair hides my ears, anyway. A wasted effort in my case.

Today. One look. That’s the plan. One new sassy look that screams 2021. One head turning look that turns heads as I turn the corner on WOMAN’s WAY. That’s the mission for today.

Autumn is such a better season for me. The bat wings can be captured in long sleeves. The knee droopage concealed under flattering jeans. Turtlenecks do cover up my perfect and flawless décolletage, (the dermatologist raved about mine) but, in life there are trade offs. With the temps still hovering at triple digit level, the Great Cover UP will need to wait a little longer. Shop to Pop!!!!! Stay tuned.

Official Song Of The State Of Nevada

_{Lyrics and Music by Bertha Raffetto}

Way out in the land of the setting sun,

Where the wind blows wild and free,

There’s a lovely spot, just the only one

That means Home, Sweet Home to me.

If you follow the old Kit Carson trail,

Until desert meets the hills,

Oh you certainly will agree with me,

It’s the place of a thousand thrills.

Home means Nevada, Home means the hills,

Home means the sage and the pine.

Out by the Truckee, silvery rills,

Out where the sun always shines,

Here is the land which I love the best,

Fairer than all I can see.

Deep in the heart of the gold west

Home means Nevada to me.

Whenever the sun at the close of the day,

Colors all the western sky,

Oh my heart returns to the desert grey

And the mountains tow’ring high.

Where the moon beams play in the shadowed glen,

With the spotted fawn and doe,

All the live long night until morning light,

Is the loveliest place I know.

Home means Nevada, Home means the hills,

Home means the sage and the pines,

Out by the Truckee’s Silvery rills,

Out where the sun always shines,

There is the land that I love the best,

Fairer than all I can see.

Right in the heart of the golden west,

Home means Nevada to me.

******California has a state song, too.

Pales in comparison, IMHO.

Home Means Nevada. For me, a truth.

After so many months in isolation wondering if I’d ever meet friends, my relationship garden as suddenly bloomed anew. I’m truly blessed. Finding my little country church has not only helped me grow spiritually, but also to grow as a valued community member and friend. This week, it’s evident. I belong in this sweet little town. Home Means Nevada. Winterpast is mine.

It all started when a church girlfriend invited me to play cards with her group at the Senior Center. Filled with eager anticipation, I looked forward to meeting a group of chatty women anxious to size up someone new to the community. A “Newbie” is always of interest with women in the know. I’m no different in that respect. I’d be honored to be their “Newbie”. Besides, they’d clue me in to important survival tactics. Always trust a card-player to know things.

Intimidated, I joined them at the game table. Four women examined their cards as seriously IRS auditors. This wasn’t just any old card game, but an intense coterie of four playing a game called “Hand and Foot”. They explained, in as few words as possible, the game was a form of Canasta. That’s when my heart fell. NOT CANASTA!!!!! I’d failed before I began.

Challenge me to a rip roaring game of “War” or “Go Fish”? I’m your partner! A lightning fast game of Bunco, I’m in. But, Canasta???? One needs to think. You need to remember who holds what and cards already played while using 13 decks at once. Helmet-ed by silver hair, my subdermal blonde roots, originating deep into my brain, were misfiring. These women took turns explaining all THEIR rules, which differed from hundreds of versions of the game. Drat. I couldn’t even study for weeks to understand this. Tailor-made rules.

Watching for an hour, I tried to understand the purpose of the “Foot” and in what order the “Hand” was played. Never mind the rule that you got an extra 100 points if you picked up exactly 22 cards to begin the game. And yes, one of the ladies did get the bonus. Never have I ever, and I probably won’t ever again. These women are way above my mental ability. After an hour, I thanked them for letting me watch. I’m happy to report I have three new friends, along with the friend that invited me.

When leaving, I found the August activity flier on display near the door. Yoga. Line dancing. Exercise. Bingo. Scrapbooking. Art Journaling. Choir. Cooking. Knitting. Quilting. All long with lunch for $2.00. Such a deal. An autumn writing class is needed. I just happen to know a pretty good author that would love to offer her services.

At the Tee Pee Bar and Grill, it was fun to visit Waitress Diane. Getting to know people is an art. Finding my way as a real desert gal, I’m meeting other women that are similarly content. Not a lot of high fashion skirts and stilettos in these parts. Nope. Just casual clothing that breathes as the temperature soars.

The lunch tab arrived way to soon. There’s always much to learn when lunching with a new friend. After 15 months, it’s refreshing to realize I’m not the newest kid on the block anymore.

Women are unique and powerful individuals bringing intelligence, intuition, and grace into their worlds. Distinctive gifts we have to share. How refreshing it is to acknowledge the differences between each other, appreciating the innate beauty and purpose found in each.

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. . For by it the men of old gain approval. (Hebrews 11:1 NASB). My faith has been tested lately in ways for which I’m sorely ill-prepared. Curve balls can catch a girl off guard, especially when they keep coming, one after the other.

My Mother-In-Love, Joann, was one of a kind. She taught me so much about life. She was a MOM in every since of the world. Not overbearing, but wise. She wouldn’t advise unless advice was requested. Secrets shared with her were honored and kept safe. Over the years, she became MY Joann. I had a Mom, but MY Joann was someone all together different. She had a wonderful sense of humor, but more than that, a strong direction in life. She walked in Faith like no other person I’ve every known. Joann was the embodiment of Faith.

When Cancer came knocking for the second time after decades of silence, she wasn’t shaken a bit. She began a walking program. A deteriorating spine caused her continuous pain, but, on she walked. While chemo made her weak, walk through it she did. Every morning, even in dense Tule fog, she took slow and steady steps up and down the empty country road bordering our ranch. Cane in hand, with hat on her little bald head, she walked until she couldn’t walk anymore.

VST and I adored her. She had not a need or wish that remained unfulfilled. We made a home for Jack and Joann across the drive from ours, and spent long hours visiting on the porch VST build for that very purpose. Porch therapy, we called it. After a day of work and dinner, we’d see them take their seats in the evening breeze, and we’d join them. A beautiful and unspoken devotion between the four of us blossomed as the years flew by.

One day, Joann needed to go to town for supplies. If you’re a country person, you’re familiar with the term, “going to town”. In our case, town was about 25 minutes away. Everything a normal family needs is IN TOWN. In the 1900’s, with no internet shopping, you actually went to the store. Such a concept. Farming gave cause for many trips to town purchasing everything from dog food to oil for the tractor. “Going to town” might involve the funeral of a dear farmer friend, or a trip to the dentist. But, every week, multiple trips to “town” were necessary.

On that Saturday, we all jumped in the car to lunch at Castillo’s, a favorite Mexican restaurant of ours. Needing a few things, Walmart, was our next stop. After a trip around the store, we paid and got back to the car. With her back sore, getting settled in the car took a bit of effort. We’d all belted up when she realized something.

“Uh-Oh. I left my purse in the basket.”

VST was the best son. He never lost his cool or patience. He just unclipped his seat belt and got out to retrieve her purse. Except, he couldn’t. It was already stolen.

The drive back to the ranch was quiet. Joann DID make one statement that caused VST and I to wince.

“No worries. My purse will come back to me. Jesus will make this right.”

In her purse she carried life’s identification. California Identification, Medicare, Insurance, Pharmacy, and Social Security cards, and other documents related to her cancer treatments. Everything she needed to continue receiving medical care was in her purse along with credit cards and $40. She smiled on the way home while humming an old time Gospel hymn. She never cried or fretted. Joann hummed in faith, while the rest of us catastrophized in our brains, with good reason.

Each day, for about a week, VST became less patient, as he made call after call. First, she would need to prove her identity. Difficult to do, as she was born in a little cabin by a lake in Oklahoma. She would need her Social Security number, which she didn’t remember. She would need to wait two weeks for a replacement credit card, her only one. The list went on and on. While VST did the leg work, Joann had one reply.

“My wallet will come back to me. Jesus will send it back.”

After a day or two of this, VST and I weren’t feeling much faith in the matter. However, Joann NEVER waivered in her statement. It was as if her documents had already been returned.

Living in the country, everyone has their own mail box. Mail delivery is at the same time every day, often the highpoint. In the days of snail mail, people would anticipate receiving hand written letters from a relative or the newest picture of a grandchild living far away. Mail was special.

One week after the loss, Joann was returning from her walk. She checked their mail box, even though mail delivery wasn’t for some time yet. I heard a muffled cry from the road, and hurried outside, fearing she had fallen, or worse.

“Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Jesus!” she cried, her arms stretched toward the sky.

Standing next to the road was My Joann. Hands held heavenward, she had the biggest smile. When she saw me, she started waving. She was holding something. Not too big. Not too small. It appeared to be a regular envelope.

That evening, the kitchen table held the contents, as she sat in faith.

“I told you. Jesus would make this right.”

One empty and unmarked envelope. One driver’s license. One Medicare card. Insurance cards. Original Social Security card. One Credit Card. Appointment documentation with dates and times for continued treatment. Everything lost, except the $40, in one unaddressed unsealed white envelope. Her life had been returned to her anonymously, just as in her unwavering faith, she knew it would be. If I hadn’t been a witness to this, I would’ve found it impossible to believe.

Joann didn’t BELIEVE it or WISH it to be true. She ENVISIONED and KNEW it would be returned through her profound faith. In doing so, she never broke a sweat, while the rest of us tried every earthly way to right the wrong that had occurred. She just waited on God’s time.

I hope someday my faith is even a little of what I witnessed with Joann. I miss her every day, always being thankful to her for the gift of VST, the most precious gift she could’ve ever shared with me. She is loved fiercely by her family to this day. VST and I were the lucky ones that enjoyed nightly porch therapy and her embodiment of Faith. Jesus made things right, Joann. He surely did.

Everyone has one. The neighbor that just won’t let up, even a little. You know they’re very interested in the private antics occurring just over the property line. They have opinions that drift over the fence, one after the other, until you realize their opinions are toxic to a healthy gardening experience. One exists in my utopian world of Winterpast. He lurks just past the sturdy white plastic fencing, cursing my trees and the never ending rain of debris from my 30 foot junk tree.

Being OOLD (old-old), his expansive RV barn stands empty. Age and health robbed him of the ability to hit the roads across America. That’s a bitter pill to swallow, for sure. His building, like mine, is now used for other purposes. He keeps his yard in tip top shape, scurrying out to snip unwanted weeds growing here and there. Being an original owner, his first round of trees died long ago, quickly replaced with youngsters. Scanning the world for dangers that could harm his canine companion, he spotted the immense and dreaded owl that has taken up residence in the very messy and hated junk tree keeping Fido from exercising on the back yard. Thoughts fester in his gut, as he peers out his window, clutching Fido and thinking dark thoughts about THE TREE.

He hates this tree of mine with a passion. To tell you the truth, except that it is the biggest wild Russian Olive tree I’ve ever seen, I’m getting tired of the mess, too. But, not to the point of removal. This 30 foot tree is a desert gem. It glowed for me in the winter sunrise. It’s home to my bird families and the owl. Messy or not, it stays until its death. As one landscaper told me, you don’t remove large trees in the desert. It’s taken them a lot to survive to maturity.

Last year, I was out enjoying the back yard. The apricot tree had finished dropping fruit and stood as stately as a banyan. In the premier position, right of center in the gardens, I was studying which limbs would be removed next, to accentuate its protective shape and shade qualities. The lowest branches are now forehead level over the path. Hazardous to a distracted gardener.

“Hey,” the short word drifted past me on the breeze.

How nice that neighbors were out on such a pretty day! Normally, the only sounds heard were the wind and birds. Wishing I knew the fence neighbors better, I continued puttering around the yard.

“Psst.”

“Hello???? Are you out there.”

After the third attempt, I realized a set of eyeballs were peering at me over the back fence. Never having seen the entire neighbor to this day, if we were in Walmart, I wouldn’t know him. But his eyes, I met that morning.

Being a new widow homeowner of a house I didn’t yet know or trust, nervousness about the unknown would take over at times. So many things could be breaking while I looked on unknowingly. VST would always be on guard for those sorts of things. He was on the hunt for sagging doors or appliances that weren’t humming just right. His knowledge and awareness had saved us thousands in costly repairs. Now, it was all on me. Mr. Bright and Chipper over the Fence had a few worries to add to the pile.

“Hi there! A nice day for gardening, eh?” With pleasantries, I soon understood he was on a mission to test my faith.

Had it been disclosed that the water pipes in my house were Pex Tubing and involved in a class action suit? Was I aware they could burst wide open at any time, raining on my little world? Blah, dee, blah, dee, blah-dee-blah-blah.

Yes. I knew. Disclosed before purchase, that little fact is sitting in the back of my brain. Just as easily as it could fail, the system could continue delivering water for the next 50 years. Part of the great unknown of homeowning. The website for reimbursement forms from the Class Action Settlement ,should failure occur, is bookmarked and ready.

That little fact shared, he went on, being the helpful guy that he is.

“That apricot tree’s a big one, there. Had one just like it. Grew that big and died.”

A stab to my heart without knowing, I tried to nod and smile just a little

“Well, mine is certainly doing well. Has a small crop this year.”

He wasn’t done yet. The REAL reason for contact was next.

“This tree right here? It’s a junker. Watched it grow from a twig. Sure drops a lot of stuff. It’d be great to …. (pregnant pause)…. CUT. IT. DOWN.

Okay, Eyeball Guy. Hold the phone right there.

Trees in my yard, as in all 35 of them, are like children to me. They give homes to my birds and the garden fairies that’ve certainly helped them grow so big and strong over the years.

NO. ONE. WOULD. EVER. CONVINCE. ME. TO. REMOVE. MY. LIVING. TREES. Junk Volunteers or otherwise, Black Olive was safe with me.

PERIOD.

Of course, I didn’t respond to Mr. Fussy Pants in that way. Being neighborly, I thanked him for all his words of happy encouragement, and then promptly returned to my house and proclaimed, “Over my cold, dead body.”

In the last 15 months, I’ve loved trimming my junk tree. Watering it lovingly. I haven’t minded cleaning up the nasty little debris that falls from it’s beautiful yet junk tree limbs. It has thorns I ignore. True, it’s a messy one, but, it’ll live on until it decides to die.

Yesterday, the little man was sneaking around cutting off limbs on the backside of my tree from his yard. Trimming a little much, there is a nice round spy hole from through which we will both choose to observe a stand off. I hope he finds peace in his little world, needing to control the uncontrollable. He obviously doesn’t understand the “Her-ricane” that lives just beyond his fence. I’ll wave as I get into the hot tub, while praying he finds peace and happiness in his own beautiful yard.

A concerned and nosey neighbor. Everyone has one. Now you’ve met mine.

Yesterday was desert hot. The kind of heat that makes you close the windows AND curtains to keep cool. Summer days are the worst. I wilt. I’m not sure of the daytime high, but by 7:00 PM, the outside temp was still 93 degrees. Coupled with choking smoke from the Tamarack Fire, it was miserable. My beloved big blue sky was a hazy mass of soot and smoke.

One great thing about the desert is fluctuations in temperature over a 24 hour period. Take yesterday, for example. Between the high and low, there was a 50 degree spread. Add a nice breeze and early mornings or late evenings become a pleasant time to be outside.

Considering changing my evening plans to an Olympic binge in my living room, I waffled for a moment. However. I DID make chocolate chip cookies. I DID wash and blow dry my hair. It WOULD eventually cool off. Sometimes a girl just needs to buck up and brave the elements. With cookies, chilled waters, a chair and a picnic blanket, I was out the door just before sunset.

Arriving at dusk, activities were in full swing. Businesses in my little town had outdone themselves providing a variety of activities for the littles. A bounce house. Face Painting. A frozen snack vendor. BBQ. And, a raffle.

The local Jeep dealership lent a brand new Jeep pickup complete with lawn chairs for use as a viewing platform during the movie. Along with the truck came a big bucket of popcorn, a tub full of snacks, and a cooler of soft drinks. Raffle tickets, costing $1 each, allowed children a chance to win this premier spot for their evening of fun. Local businesses also prepared a few child friendly baskets to complete the raffle.

Littles had been encouraged to dress as their favorite Toy Story characters. With a patchwork of families snacking on blankets in the dark, the movie began. The desert rests in absolute darkness. One hasn’t experienced night fully until sitting in the desert on a moonless night. Nevada just became the first state in the nation to create Night Sky Preservation Zones. You can’t enjoy the beauty of true big sky starlight if surrounded by artificial light pollution. Until you SEE the difference, you don’t KNOW the difference.

The movie took me right back to the wonderful times I spent with children on Third Grade Movie Days. As periodic rewards for hard work, movies in the classroom bonded my students and me through laughter, good snacks, and fun. Moving the desks and sitting on the floor, we’d focus on the drama or hilarity of the moment, while gasping or laughing in unison. Last night was a similar experience.

It helped that I hadn’t seen the movie. One day on a lunch time pizza run, I’d seen advertisements for both the local Junior Rodeo and Family Movie Night at the Park. Noting both dates, I vowed to myself that I would attend. Independently alone and on my own, to find a few hours of entertainment in the presence of others, even if they were strangers.

Examples of superb parenting and well behaved children gave me hope for the future. Looking around, I smiled at the adorable cherubs behaving themselves while having fun. There is nothing more enjoyable than that. Throughout the night, not once did I reach for my whistle, retired to my jewelry box so long ago. All eyes were on the movie.

If you haven’t seen Toy Story 4, it gets rave reviews. As a 65 year old adult woman, I found it totally entertaining.

When the last of the credits finished, the park was quickly returned to its resting state, cleared of any sign that people had enjoyed an event there. Not a cup or can was left. People cleaned up and cleared out with some of the youngest attendees sleeping soundly as they were carried to their cars.

Driving at night isn’t something I do very often, always being mindful of horses. In the desert darkness I mentioned before, they are in front of you before you can brake. Sure enough, coming around the corner on my way home, three neighborhood marauders plodded along the center divide. With no urgency to scurry off the road, they took their sweet time to clip clop along. A very good thing the speed limit is 25 mph in town. Even better is the fact that I’m a cautious driver.

I’ll be scanning the local bulletin boards for more small town events. With school back in session, I plan to follow our high school football team and attend some home games. For now, Bible Study and Church await. Have a great day. Take a few minutes today to watch some of our finest athletes do their best to bring home the gold. Go Team USA.

Through the smoke yesterday, I took a walk around the neighborhood. It’s a 25 minute loop through a maze of houses that all look a lot like Winterpast. Each morning, I spy little improvements or changes that’d be nice to try on my own home, while noticing horse poop on the streets. A common summer occurrence, the nightly neighborhood food and water raids of the mustangs cause damage and distress to us human folks.

In my mind’s eye, I imagine karate-chopping residents bursting out of open doors in the wee hours of the morning in raging efforts to shoo them away. Each night, piles of poop trickled with a splash of urine litter the streets, used as sign posts to guide them back. Even the growl of a protective dog doesn’t detour them. Smart enough they are to have learned the fences around here aren’t only to keep them out, but to keep biting dogs in. These animals are very similar to marauding deer, but deer with brains while being four times the size. Cunning and creatively crafty.

With morning breezes resembling Hawaiian trade winds, I pledged to work a little harder on my morning constitutional. Although Winterpast provides a regimen of daily activities, a morning walk provides the opportunity for cardio training. So, plug along I did, weaving around the piles of poop as I headed on my way.

Mustangs do most damage during the night. A terracotta planter told of their visit, absent of flowers freshly planted the day before. Sprinkler pipes broken. Hoof-printed paths over expensively landscaped rock patterns. Costly garden cloth, installed under gravel to keep sage and tumbleweeds at bay, pulled up and shredded looking for the source of the moisture underneath. Adding the ultimate insult, unwanted deposits along the way. Once, VST observed a wild stallion kick our utility trailer for no reason at all. Just because it felt good and it could. Wild and unpredictable, these are not your barn sour nags, but wild animals.

The neighborhood approach to mustang abatement is varied. Some deep pocketed residents have ended the nightly follies by putting up fencing. Black iron, split rail, stone, or white plastic fencing, installed to keep rock yards pristine and untrampled. A little overkill in my opinion, but, too each his own. The real damage these huge animals can do is to wipe out an entire sprinkler system. With water at a premium and repairs not cheap either, some people have opted for the fencing.

There are other houses at which the nightly war between man and beast is in full swing. Ropes circle landscaping held up by stakes or trees, decorated with plastic bags, strips of caution tape, or reflective ornaments. Anything that moves in the night breezeswill startle the mares, stallions , and foals while these family units pilfer as one. Night after night, more inventive deterrents appear. I pledge to live and let live until my yard is under siege. With little food or water in the front, I think I’m safe for now, but, you just never know. The first time one of these beasts clears my fence to nestle in my oasis, there’ll be trouble.

Extreme heat combined with lack of rain intensifies their search for food and water. It’s all about survival. An interesting fact in desert life is that plants such as sage or tumbleweeds are full of water. Weeding around here is a wet experience, each plant brimming with water. Bare handed, I can’t pick more than one without remembering to retrieve my leather gloves as these plants also have sharp thorns and barbs. It’s amazing that anything could munch away on them as the mustangs do. My hands are sore after getting poked just once.

On my walks, I’ve noticed that my garden oasis is one of the last left in the area. As younger families move in, yards transition into decorative stone quarries. Water is needed for dishes and showers more than for peonies and roses. So sad it is that the delights of gardening are lost on the young. Living with rock landscaping for the last 13 years, I need the soothing comfort of green and colorful things in the gardens of Winterpast. The birds appreciate my efforts, even if Oliver is as irritating as a noisy kazoo with his threatening barks. The bird families have learned his short legs and lack of thumbs limit his attacks as they laugh at him and carry on.

One of these nights, I may sit on the front porch and watch as the equine parade passes by. Memories of listening to the middle-of-the-night clippity-clops of hooves coming down A Street in Virginia City make me smile.

Distant. Clip. Less Distant. Clop. Closer. Clip. In front. Clop. Past. Clip. Further. Clop. Down the bend and towards the Canyon. Clippity clop. Into the night. Never a change in pace, just the study rhythm of their journey towards food, water, and safety. Visualizing their movement past our house toward the canyon, somedays I would love to disappear with them to learn their secrets.

VST was with the group of hysterical-ites, being the first on the street to clean up their overnight gifts. If not cleaned up, the next group will mark on top of the pile. And the next. And the next. You get the picture. Pretty soon, the mess has grown into a mass of poop. Another bit of wisdom I now appreciate. VST knew so much about the many things swirling in that big old head of his. The need to eliminate horse poop ASAP was something he wished he’d never knew.

This evening holds promise of fun. In OTP (Out of Town Park, for those of you new to the blog), the monthly Family Movie Night In The Park is returning, featuring treats provided by Joannie’s Ice Cream and Smoothies. Toy Story 4 is the featured movie, causing a need to review the story lines for Toy Story 1-3. It’ll be fun to sit out under the stars and enjoy the sounds of families enjoying a summer’s night. Things are just better in a small town.

Be grateful for all your blessings. Life is rich and wonderful. Enjoy today.

There is nothing better than a proper party in which the hostess has thought of the smallest details. Decorations on top of pretty tablecloths, with doo-dahs and frill everywhere. Such was the case on Tuesday night as I attended the annual service club dinner honoring new members. Attendees actually dressed up for the occasion, in respect for the service club to which we all belong.

My little town has the sweetest Community Center. Sitting on the Middle of Main and Center, (the heart of any town), its wooden-framed form speaks of a different time and place. Some would suggest the need for a new and glitzy building like the Senior Center here in town. If this ever becomes a possibility, I’d chain myself to the building in protest. There are some buildings that need to be preserved in their old age. This is one.

It’s not Victorian with frilly gingerbread and lace. Shoe boxed shape, it faces Center, not main. Next to the Mazatlán’s, the Mexican restaurant, parking is limited. I parked in front of Old Town Fix and Spin Automotive and Tires, across the street. Closing the doors for the night, Sam, the owner, was at the dinner along with everyone else. Walking up the stairs, while holding onto the galvanized hand rail, I followed footsteps residents have made since the early 1900’s. How many celebrations and town meetings had been held in this old building over the years?

As with every wooden, high desert building, the paint is faded and peeled. Just a fact of life that makes little towns like mine appear shabby. Paint is the first thing to fade and peel off. Once white with blue trim, the harsh climate changed the color scheme to dingy white with light grey trim. Through the weathered door, as I crossed the threshold, tables in a sea of Red, White, and Blue greeted guests. The flooring, (REAL hardwood, not laminate), was scuffed from years of pointy high heels and crusty cowboy boots. High ceilings and double hung windows helped with desert heat over the years. That night, the air conditioning had died again, and fans blew. The 15′ ceilings helped to capture the heat, while fans did their best to expel it.

Wooden walls were wainscoted. And then, there was the stage. Very old curtains hid whatever lay behind. Not in use during our event, ghosts of entertainment-past lingered. The perfect venue for community shindigs. With over 60 in attendance, everyone was delighted to see old friends and neighbors after sheltering in place for over a year. This was a happy event.

Finding a seat next to the club chaplain, I soon realized how many people I could name. Two county commissioners. A city Councilwoman. The chapter President, whom I consider a personal friend. The Secretary. A high-powered realtor in the area. A few neighbors. Not bad for a recluse like myself. Everyone coifed and put together, even though the heat left us melting and sweltering. Panty hose and high heels being requirements of the past, at least we could all relax a little more. My floral dress and flats were practical and yet stylish.

The table decorations were so country I wanted to do a little jig. Mason jars with the tiniest strands of twinkling lights reminded me of springtime fire flies. An evening of fire flies is still on my bucket list, having never seen one. Burlap runners were topped with red and blue ribbons of varying widths. Star striped red, white, and blue. Everything chosen with function and guests in mind. A professional display of patriotic respect for our country.

Within minutes, the darling, intelligent, and oh so bubbly Miss Ninja Neighbor made her entrance. A new member, she’ll be hosting the Annual Yard Sale in less than a month. I’m offering my RV barn for furniture and larger items. Joining me, it was nice to get caught up. She’s one of the busiest people I know, enjoying her own real estate career. Time spent with her is precious and never dull.

To one side, a large silent auction stretched the length of the room. Country at its best, useful and practical items were up for bid. Boxes of bullets worth a premium. Bottles of Crown Royal. Photographs of cattle. An Invicta Watch. Very special wines in bottles (with corks, not screw tops). Hand made this. One-of-a-kind that. Every item waiting to go home with the highest bidder.

BBQ was the centerpiece of the menu, but you probably figured it would be. From a local company, it was delicious. Rolls, homemade beans, and slaw complimented the Brisket and Chicken.

Outstanding in her courage and strength, it was the guest speaker that stole the show. What a gal! Hard to say those words about many public servants. She’s one of the good ones. Working in the State Legislature, she’s had quite a year. Nevada had a great system for many years. Representatives and Senators met once, every other year, for four short months. During that time, new laws were presented, debated, and voted upon in orderly fashion. Those were the days when things worked properly. Both sides worked to make a better middle for everyone, striving for respectful compromise. Sadly, things have changed.

This young profile in courage wouldn’t accept anymore pointless and controlling demands. In chambers, she defied some restrictive rules and paid a heavy price, being censured because she didn’t obey, in lock step with the rest of the sheeple. This gal can think for herself and doesn’t need anyone to do it for her.

Traveling to Washington, DC, she wanted witness the peaceful transfer of power to our nation’s 46th President. Innocently attending the January 6th rally with her family, she enjoyed the day. Sadly, she’s since been singled out as an attendee of the rally. She and her family were not part of the group who rushed the capital, they merely stood in a crowd at a rally. And yet, she now pays a heavy price.

Her days are now filled with “friendly” and continued visits from the FBI and false public narratives about her character and intentions. All this because she was brave enough to love her state and represent constituents in her tiny county. All this because she visited Washington, DC as regular citizens do every day.

As she spoke, strength, courage, and love of country came across in her message. A plea for peace, patience, awareness, thoughtfulness, and courage were included in her words of hope. She’s a public servant who isn’t typical. I won’t forget her beautiful message and smile any time soon. Prayers for her family’s return to normalcy.

The evening ended with a desert of brownies and cookies.

I left that night feeling my healthy roots growing deeper. This is MY little town. Friendships take time to develop, and mine are growing. Small town friendliness warms the heart and soul. I’m so blessed to have found this dusty, weather beaten wide spot in the road I call home.

Not being a fan of lotions and potions, sunscreen is worthless to me. Farming for so many years, lotions interfered with my natural, God-given ability to perspire, evaporate, and cool. I had no desire to hinder a deep rich tan, even if it was the farmer variety. I was lucky enough to have skin that wasn’t prone to sunburn. My tan deepened while working each day, not from hours of idol sunning at a lake or ocean beach.

VST and I were always representing his company by attending various fund raisers. These events were lavish affairs in which one was expected to dress appropriately. In my retired world, I hope never to endure the boredom of another fund raiser in my life. Perfect smiles showing pearly whites, peacock-y princes protected their plastic princesses. Bodies occupied seats for charity while enjoying the booze and tax write offs. I detested these events, but as a supporting wife, I would go as VST’s arm candy.

After a week of waking at 4:00 AM to irrigate 40 acres, teaching twenty 3rd graders, wife-ing and mom-ing, an evening EVENT of any kind was the last place I wanted to be. This was complicated by the dreaded question. What to wear? Hob-nob-ing with the elite of the San Joaquin Valley was stressful. My department store duds couldn’t compete with their polished San Francisco designer looks. Knowing that, I stayed with winter black on black, and summer colors to complement my tan.

That presented another problem. Irrigating for months in the blazing sun, I did have a lovely tan. Not prone to alligator skin or moles, my skin turned a rich golden bronze. The kind of tan the rich ladies bought at the salon. At the time, I had great legs and arms from walking the avenue and helping with farm chores, while they got theirs from repetitions at the gym. The difference was my with tanning pattern. I had a Farmer-Girl Tan. To the ME in my late 30’s or early 40’s, this became more problematic than I find it to be in my present day Age of the Crone.

Farmer-Girl-Tans are troublesome when you want to show off great legs with strappy little kitten heels. My usual farm footwear was sensible sneakers with low socks. This created feet as white as as the driven snow. At Size 11, that’s a snowdrift of blinding whiteness. T-shirt sleeves protected really great shoulders and décolletage just as white as the feet, (I’ve been told mine is FLAWLESS by my lecherous old dermatologist). Longer shorts kept the thighs from tanning. Chosen attire would need provide coverage to these unpigmented areas.

In the winter, the tan faded and clothing covered those areas. Summertime was another story, adding to the stress of planning. VST had exactly the same problem, but, being a devastatingly handsome man, his clothing hid all the white, and his bronze tan, fabulous physique, and stunning grey hair had heads turning.

These days, spending so many hours in the hot tub, my tan is fabulous, with not a mole or blemish anywhere. Using similar one piece swimsuits for uniform coloration, there’s no t-shirt tan or snowy-white feet. Just bronze arms and legs that look great in sundresses and sandals. Aside for a wrinkle here and a bat wing there, one small issue has arisen. I’ve developed a new tan, referred to as The Shark tan.

Sitting in the hot tubs for hours and hours, the front side of everything is nice and tanned. But the back isn’t as bronzed, because of the sitting position. Hence, some parts are tanned, some parts are less so, similar in appearance to the Great White. (Google an image of a Great White and you’ll more easily understand). Obviously, I have way too much time on my hands to even notice this. But, notice it I have. At a quick glace, from head to toe, the tan is lovely enough.

Relaxing in the sunshine, I produce my own Vitamin D, a vital ingredient in the fight against Covid. Vitamin D also helps our bodies absorb calcium and phosphorous. A lack of Vitamin D can cause soft, weak bones or worse, osteomalacia. Who wants that???

Certain sunscreens were pulled from the market this week, containing identified carcinogens like Benzene. Bad stuff. I’ll take my chances with Mother Nature as I bulk up on Vitamin D. With Size 11’s to trip over, I want my bones to have every chance of survival in case of a trip and fall. For one more summer, I’m enjoying sun dresses, sandals and my long hair. Tanned, even if a bit shark-ish, the new look makes the desert heat a little more bearable.

With just a little more than a week until Miss Firecracker and I enjoy our Girls Gone Wild Reunion, Summer 2021 is proving to be full of escapades. Stay tuned for news on the latest.