Grieving Gardener

Visiting The Palms yesterday, I hadn’t realized Taco Tuesday was a thing. The Palms is the sweetest little secret in my little town. Tucked in the back corner of a tiny Casino, I’m becoming a regular there, planning to support more Taco Tuesdays.

Morning Bible study had given me a lot to think about. Focusing on a woman’s role in the world, the words reflected the values and beliefs I grew up with decades ago. Watching successful marriages flourish throughout my family, Christian values brought the older generations of my family a sense of order in their families. After all, there can only be one captain in times of trouble. If not, mutiny would certainly follow.

Members of the Bible study reminded me of members of the farming community of my youth. Everyone being of Senior Citizen status, we shared our confusion over the state of the world today. Not that we could solve world problems as a group of ten. It was a comfort to realize others in the world share my confusion.

Not that the class participants come from similar backgrounds. Not at all. A married couple from Sacramento. Two sisters from an Asian country. Two sisters from a high Sierra mountain community. Two gentleman raised on the high desert. A Hawaiian. And me. Diversity is a complicated word. With similar skin tones, you couldn’t find a room full of people raised in more unlike environments. Each person had their own set of cultural values, slightly different from the next. God and our little town made us a mismatched family of sorts.

Sharing thoughts and questions brought such depth to an hour. I chose well in this little desert church. Like everything else in town, the simple weather-beaten building on Main Street doesn’t begin to reveal the warmth and friendship just waiting for those that walk through the door.

Ill-equipped with any deep Biblical knowledge , my time was spent absorbing background information on people like David and Job. During my youth, I learned all the main stories, riveting and wonderful. But, smaller, more delicate lessons I never heard. These classmates share Biblical names and their relevance as easily as they breathe. How magical to watch the Bible come alive during our study sessions, creating a morning pleasant and informative.

After class, I had a little time to kill before making my way to The Palms, so I stopped by a new boutique on 85A. Windy West is a darling little shop that carries a collection of casual clothing. In the darling store, I picked out a cute navy romper. I’m going to save it for my Girl’s Gone Wild vacation with Miss Firecracker in less than two weeks.

It was then a sweet woman entered the store, a counselor at a local Mental Health facility. It turns out her puppy has been driving her nuts. Five months old, her main complaints took me back two years to my experiences with Oliver. A puppy is like bringing a newborn into your life. I remember getting up every two hours for nighttime potty breaks for Oliver. Scared little whimpers brought me out of a dead sleep to race to his side. The night he was neutered, he and I slept in the rocking chair. I’m such a sucker for his superb acting skills.

In between laughter and true exasperation, we shared our frustrations about our little dachshund friends. We plan to meet for a puppy play date at some point. I hope that comes true because she was such a lovely woman. I can’t wait to meet her silly little puppy. A counselor friend sounds refreshing and helpful.

When the time arrived for lunch, I was famished. Taco Tuesday didn’t disappoint. Carnitas (pork) Street Tacos were delicious. The conversation was delightful and basic. Always fun to get to know someone new and different. Everyone has a story.

Once home, the nicest thing occurred. I received a review of a story I submitted to a contest. Entitled “The Dance”, it was a favorite story of mine about a young boy, bold and defiant, who became one of my all-time favorite students. I can see him in my mind’s eye, trying this and that to get my goat, which he did, many times. But, by the end of the year, through mutual patience, we became dear friends.

When entering my story, I chose to receive a review by professional writers. I was pretty sure it would be a computer generated review with a few standard remarks, lacking insight or personal reflection. Wrong, I received the following email. A one page review, the grammar and punctuation were irrelevant to me. The following words were worth their weight in First Place Ribbons to me.

“After reviewing your story, we wanted to let you know, we ALL LOVED “The Dance”. Although it wasn’t selected as a winner, we wanted to let you know it touched our hearts. Great Job.”

Not first place winner? Ha. Even better. Writer with fans.

Bible stories in my head, a new navy romper, and tacos in my tummy, yesterday filled my happy heart. It doesn’t get better than that! Have a wonderful day!!!

Since moving to the high desert, summer smoke has become a normal part of life. Not from fires in our immediate area, (it being a barren desert-scape), but from hundreds of miles away in California. Presently, there are two massive fires both north and south of the bigger town just west of here. Devastating fires are destroying beautiful areas as mature, dense forests are turned to ash. Prevailing winds blanket us with the smoke.

Fires I’ve experienced, vowing never again to live in an area prone to them. Forests are beautiful places to visit. But… When all your earthly good sit inside a little cabin or home, including your children, pets, and self, the risk of fire outweighs the peace of the pine-scented breeze.

In 2013, VST and I bought a little cabin. Quaint and A-framed, it was a postage-stamp-sized building with single walls. Without repairs for years on end, it was the definition of a “fixer-upper”. For five years, we did just that. Fix her up. Every waking moment at the cabin involved work of some kind or another. Rake the pine needles. Bag the leaves. Whip the weeds. Re-design. Replace. Refinish. Renew. Varnish. Sleep. Do everything again the next day. Having a cabin is a blast for those visitors, of which there were very few. Owning a cabin is hard work for the caretakers. In this case, VST and I.

Nestled on 1/3 of an acre, the owners before had done a great job with defensible space. That’s the cleared space needed to slow or stop the spread of wildfire, protecting your home from catching fire. This could occur from embers, flames or radiant heat, according to readyforwildfire.org. This involved clearing 100 feet around the entire structure. Many in our little neighborhood of cabins didn’t feel the need to do this, but instead, protected the manzanita bushes that rubbed up against their windows at night. Manzanita is a bush that is one of the hottest fuels around.

Cal Fire is one of the most amazing government agencies in existence. How they run so well is a puzzlement, but if Cal Fire is assigned a fire, it will be fought. Each year in the spring, notices arrive explaining needed improvements to bring your property into compliance. Through grumbles and mumbles, our property was always ready for the first spark. Inconvenient? At times. Especially when your wood pile needs to be moved 100 feet from your house. In deep snow, 100 feet might as well be in the next county.

On Saturday, September 14, 2014, we were enjoying time at our beautiful new home in Virginia City. We’d just purchased the house in May spending every weekend moving belongings from California to Nevada, with the final move the following summer. That afternoon, our phones rang with a fire alert for the cabin. With five hours between Virginia City and the cabin, we raced off, not knowing what we’d find.

Coming down the little hill towards Bass Lake, it was always a guessing game about the exact location of the lake and cabin. Not that day. Explosions of greasy black smoke shot high into the sky, one after the other. Above the tree tops, it was evident that cabins were burning, we just didn’t know which ones. Propane tanks exploded like bombs. Finally lakeside, a safe distance away, we found a picnic table and watched the fire burn to water’s edge by sunset. Freakishly surreal, we would not know for three days whether our cabin was ashes or one that survived. Thirty homes vaporized that day.

Lightning strike? Too simple and natural. No. A moron decided to light a deer carcass on fire. With gasoline. A Cal-i-for-nite city dweller. At the bottom of the hill, the winds that day carried the fire up the hill, through the neighborhood and back down to the water. The trees, September brittle, were fuel. The non-defensible vegetation, nestled between cabins providing sought after privacy, were the recipe for disaster. Our little neighborhood of Bass Lake Heights would never be the same.

For three days, the fate of neighbors and cabins was unknown. Finally, we returned by Sheriff car. Already dark, with proper documentation in hand, the kind officer drove us like perps in the back seat to see our little cabin. We weren’t allowed to use our own car due to downed power lines and debris. Driving through, the devastation was that of war footage on television. Cars sat burned out. Houses had been vaporized, with not even a hit of a dwelling left. Smoke drifted up in little tendrils while firefighters hosed hot spots.

And there, in the forest, in our little defended space, she stood proud. Not a singed branch. Not a burned leaf. Our little red cabin with white trim had been saved while cabins just hundred of feet away lay in ash.

Handing us a flashlight, the officer said, “I can’t let you get out. It’s the rules.” As he looked the other way, we hurried to the front door. Standing in our defensible space, through tears, we shared a hug of relief. There is no answer why our cabin survived while so many didn’t.

There were heroes that day. Our neighbor, Wynn, stayed throughout the fire. He helped get bedridden Harry out, carrying him, with the help of another man, to the fire perimeter because the ambulance couldn’t get any closer. Wynn spent hours hosing down houses until the community water system burned. He and a few other neighbors watched to protect against looting and gawkers. A true hero and someone we were proud to call neighbor.

In my china hutch sits a small piece of burnt bark. It was lying on our wooden deck, the only visible evidence the cabin had survived hell. After that experience, she was stripped of anything sentimental and sleeping there was never quite the same. The Courtney Fire had destroyed 30 structures, many vehicles, two cats, and a tranquil neighborhood in four hours. With only one road in and out, being trapped in a wildfire is something every mountain dweller fears.

The smoke in our area means something different to me. Fire fighters risking their lives. Destroyed beauty. Habitat destruction for humans and beasts. Scars, both psychological and physical upon people and land. Ugliness. Stench. Destruction. Devastation. Each time, something is lost that cannot be replaced, and surely, God must be weeping.

Desert fires are a different affair. Each summer, as predictable as the lightning that causes them, they come. Roaring across the plains, they burn hot and fast, whipped by winds. The difference is that by the next year, you can’t tell any difference. The sage and rabbit brush return, along with the peace of grazing mustangs under big blue skies. Natures way of controlling fuel.

Please send a prayer for those affected by the fires burning now. Send kind thoughts to the heavens that families are finding comfort from the angel caregivers of the Red Cross. If you are planning a trip to the mountains, be fire conscious. The forests are ours to love and protect.

Yesterday was so busy, I hardly know where to begin. Sunday, my new church offers a full schedule with Bible Study at 9:30 AM, Services at 10:45 AM, and an Evening Prayer and Study Service at 6 PM. Luckily, the plans left a little in the middle for vittles. Each time I attend, the congregation grows by a few more. A chapel of friendly people all searching for personal answers.

Most of the parishioners are long time members. There is another Joy in the group who I met yesterday. We both have December birthdays and like personalities. Young and willow-y tall, she teaches Vacation Bible School. Tall Women confident enough to wear high heeled boots with skinny jeans are refreshing. At over 6′, she embraces her height. Another new friend.

Hawaiian Tutu is an exotic and beautiful woman, with her Hawaiian accent flowing like the trade winds. At Bible Study, I chose to sit on the corner between HT and the leader of the group, Strong Girl. These two women could run the country, and yet both are almost deaf. SG, age 70-something, confided that she is working with 10% hearing out of one ear only. HT is 64, with beautiful long grey hair. Sitting next to her, I could feel Aloha spirits dancing around her head. Impressive women, these two, they’ve been through many more hardships in life than me and have much to share.

“Love in A Cookie” joined the group while bringing some homemade delicious-ness. Tiny tart-shaped cookies filled with fudge and drizzled with chocolate. Just one cookie was plenty to savor. My teacher friend, who I met the week before, appeared again. Everyone listened intently while applying the lesson to their own lives.

An interesting lesson it was. Our Body. God. Our Body and God. Respecting our body while respecting God. Fill in whatever blanks you think appropriate. A lot to think about in one short hour. Not exactly what I would’ve expected for a Sunday morning Bible Study, but perhaps a message I needed to consider. I’ll be rereading that chapter for further consideration.

The visiting Pastor should be on television. His choice of words, heavily infused with southern charm and wisdom, held everyone’s attention. Fluid in his knowledge of people in the Bible, he can talk for hours about practical applications to everyday life. Listening to him describe the Jewish people of more than 2,000 years ago, I felt they might walk through the door to join us. The human condition is the human condition, whether then or now. His mastery pulled me back for the evening service, just as rich and interesting.

That left a small window of time for vittles. For non-southern types — translation — Food. My meal at the Tee Pee Bar and Grill was a little brighter, as I didn’t dine alone, but with a “new-come-er” to our little town. The homemade bean soup was delicious, with just a cup providing a hearty lunch. Friendships are the one thing lacking in my life right now. Remembering my own loneliness during the last 15 months, I was glad to provide conversation and information to someone new to town.

Respect and reciprocal dialogue are refreshing. Getting to know a stranger one question at a time is similar to a jigsaw puzzle. Edgy questions create boundaries and the general shape of things to come. Then, slowly, the picture starts to form. In an hour, we found the corner pieces.

The waitress, normally sarcastic and funny, was reserved and professional, while giving me an inquisitive eye. She’s friendlier every time I eat there, now that I’m known as a local. Each time I venture into town, more connections are formed. My roots are sinking deeper. This little place is home, even though on some mornings, it feels as foreign as the day I moved in. One thing that has helped is exchanging first names with people. Such a lost art in the busy world in which we live, but crucial to begin any relationship. I’m learning all the players at the Tee Pee Bar and Grill because a girl can’t have enough connections.

Miss Firecracker’s absence is felt every day. With texts and phone calls, we’re keeping in touch. In two weeks, a spa vacation awaits us. Food, laughter, relaxation, and shared secrets late into the night, (complete with giggling, of course), will be delightful. I wonder if they call security for uproariously laughter? I guess. Every time I enter the Tee Pee, I fully expect to be holding a table for us. We shared a flashlight during the very black days of early widowhood. We sure did.

Today, there are no church services to attend. No Junior Rodeo. No lunch date or other activities. With smoke as thick as fog from California fires, today is a day to hunker down and process the events of the weekend while resting my brain. Melchizedek and all.

As days go by, I’m discovering more about the wonderful little town I call my own. This weekend, the Junior Rodeo is in town. Buying my first Cow Girl hat at hardware store early yesterday, I rodeo-ed, (at least until the heat got to me). Rodeos are a treat. So American. So real. Watching people and animals work together is fascinating. Animals read body language long before humans know they are completing sentences with their actions. The communication between barrel racer and horse is complicated, and yet, the most natural thing. Working as a team, the rest of us could learn a lot about mutual respect in we only paid close attention.

Fascinating to watch, the smallest children were on huge horses, racing up and down the arena. The competition included beginning steps of real rodeo events. Instead of racing around three barrel, children needed to weave through poles with their horses. And, horses don’t like wavy poles. More than once I winced at near accidents. These little kids were unflappable and patient with their horse partners. A job well done by their parents.

Bulls. You just gotta love them. Anyone who thinks bulls are bothered by bull riders has never lived on a farm. Bulls LOVE to mess with people. Hence, the word BULLEY came to be. They have a delightful sense of humor until they don’t. Bucking bulls are bred to do that. They LOVE the challenge of their eight second job. Just watch the best of the best in the shoot before the gate is released. They quietly think about planned twists and turns just as the rider focuses on concentration. Go behind the scenes and look at these guys in the eye. They are cool, calm, and collected before or after their workout. It’s what they do eight seconds at a time.

For the children, no bulls were involved. Instead, the littlest of the the kids rode sheep. Not an easy thing to do, either. These were tall brawny sheep. Of interest to me was how they get the sheep to cooperate. The dominate sheep of the flock was on a leash on the opposite side of the arena, obviously a pet. When the gate opened, the released sheep run to get to the dominate sheep with a tyke hanging on for dear life. These kids, 5 and 6 years old, did their best. All but one fell off inches from the gate. But one plucky youngster hung on for dear life, making it across the arena. He got a standing ovation from the crowd. His mom and dad hoisted him high in the air as he held his cowboy hat to the heavens. He’ll enjoy wearing his First Place buckle.

The older kids rode Holstein steers. For those of you city folk, that is the male version of the black and white dairy cows. A farm only needs one or two bulls. All the male calves are castrated, becoming steers, and ultimately, hamburger. These “calves” were teenagers, weighing 300-400 pounds. Feisty as any teen, these steers gave the kids a good ride. I certainly would have fallen off. No injuries to kids or animals occurred, while the ambulance and vet waited, at the ready if needed.

Modern day, Wild-West cowboys have jobs involving roping, riding, castrating, and birthing while living in the saddle. Participants in the Junior rodeo are often part of long time ranching families. They’ve been on horses from the time they could walk .

One of the most fascinating days of my life was in the early 1960’s when my family was invited to attend a spring Round Up. In the California foothills, this was a time young calves were vaccinated, castrated, and separated from their mothers. We, as flatlanders, were invited to something I won’t ever forget. A real working rodeo.

Swirling dust, dripping sweat, squirting blood, flying testicles, vaccines, singed hair, braying, bawling, and more of the same. Hot brands lay in the open coals, marking cattle for life as property of the Broken R Ranch. These cowboys roped the calves, stretched them out between two horses with ropes, and went to work. Now, for those of you that don’t know, these “babies” weighed between 200-300 pounds, being much bigger than a Great Dane or Mastiff. Brought in from mountain pastures, they’d kick you in the head quicker than a lightning strike if their momma didn’t get you first. These are not the docile creatures shown on television.

The calves were handled with precision and respect by professionals. There was no pleasure in causing distress to any animals on site. Just part of a day on the ranch. In minutes per calf, the job was done and they quietly munched hay in a holding pen, wondering what just happened.

Being small fry, we could have easily been kicked or trampled. We could have been hit in the head with a flying testicle, or worse, bitten by a grouchy cattle dog. There was a plan for the kids.

Banjo.

Banjo was a nearly-blind ranch horse who was in the twilight of his days. He must have been over 30. A beloved member of the team, Banjo would be our babysitter. All the littles were stacked on his massive back from mane to tale, numbering five. Told to sit and not move, we could watch everything from our vantage point. We could talk or even argue, but we were not to move off Banjo. So, we didn’t. Banjo would find a nice morsel of grace or move us to the shade. He understood completely the valuable cargo he carried. I noticed him watch the activity with sad eyes. Getting old is tough, even for horses.

Watching today, I recognized Banjo in the participating horses. So evident it was that parents had selected horses that knew the importance of their rider. When not in the arena performing, the horses stood like docile beasts babysitting their cargo. Learning horsemanship is a skill. When you are five feet, 70 pounds, brain power is needed to control a beast that weighs 1,500 pounds. Respect and communication between the two are essential to perform the task at hand. All those points were fascinating to watch.

Sitting on the top of the sun-kissed bleachers, I smiled with fresh happiness while remembering farm girl experiences I was lucky enough to live. The Wild West is alive and real, folks. Deeply woven into the high desert of Northwestern Nevada.

Winterpast provides a new lesson every day. Just when boredom gets a stranglehold on my throat, up pops something else for attention or consideration, all in the confines of my sweet home. We’re struggling through each day here in the high desert, Winterpast and I. When I get too complacent, life throws something else my way. Life is like that.

When I’m gardening, I appreciate the breathtaking beauty Winterpast is. In every single inch of ground, the decomposed granite paths wind this way and that all circling back to my covered patio. The hot tub bubbles while the new fountain trickles softly by the back door. The bird families continue to hatch and peep. The sink hold might or might not be an issue, but with enough fill dirt, anything can go away for a bit. The lawn is showcase quality and new plants continue to recover with water and love.

With no way of knowing the hours and hours of planning, design, and backbreaking creation of my oasis, I can only promise to tend to it, preserving a dream born 17 years ago. Trim. Dead head. Water. Fertilize. Repeat. That is the way of summer in the desert.

Now, I’m finding time to interject some wonderful new activities. Soaking in the hot tub at sunrise. Focusing on the traffic patterns of the jets overhead, zipping East to West and back again at 30,000 feet. Watching clouds form, grow angry, and turn into afternoon thunderstorms of the best kind, booming and zapping as they race across the sky. I’m finding time to breath in the fresh air while concentrating on doing so. My neighbors, on the other hand, have another lifestyle.

Mr. and Mrs. Fuss Britches live around the corner and to the right. They are frail and elderly. I am YOLD (Young Old). They are OOLD (Old Old). Mrs. FB is the slave. Mr. FB is the master. I hate to judge, trying to live as a loving and non-judgmental Christian. But from observations, this is so. Mr. FB runs his house like the tightest of military installations. Every Single Rock Will Comply. They are placed exactly the same distance apart, each weighing the same amount and being of the same shape and color. These surround 1/2 acre. I first noticed the rock placement about a month ago.

A tip to desert gardeners. One never starts serious gardening in July when the afternoon temps push well past 100. This is not good for YOLD people, let alone the OOLD’s. Every day, Mrs. FB is out on her knees on sharp, pointy gravel, pulling weeds barely visible to the naked eye. The painters came to paint the trim. Everything in the unfenced yard is placed perfectly. The travel trailer, washed and waxed. The garden area, fenced with glistening white pickets. Most recently, an incredible thing started to occur.

Every few days, as I traveled on errands, I noticed that large, expensive vegetation bushes and trees were appearing around the house. A tree over here. A bush over there. In July. In the worst heat storm of the century. Insanity at work from city folks that honestly do not have a clue. My front yard estimate for fake lawn and 15 plants was $20,000. At that rate, these folks have spent double.

I’m not talking small trees from Lowe’s. Full grown trees with guy wires to hold them in place. Fifteen foot trees are arriving slowly. I’d love to witness the process.

In summer’s unforgiving heat, the new bushes are already dying. Mrs. FB is out with a watering pail, without any drip to support this temporary “Oasis”. As the days have gone by, more and more vegetation has appeared. Thank goodness the creators of Winterpast knew what they were doing, creating something beautiful that’s taken decades to come to maturity, like me. I wish Mr. and Mrs. FB well. Someone would should save them frustration and let them know the desert will only be tamed on her terms. It can’t be regimented into a summer’s project.

With my weekly gardening done, and Friday home chores completed, I’m off to have some real fun today. The Junior Rodeo has come to town. Today and tomorrow, Nevada’s finest horsemen and women are going to show their skills, all competing for the coveted First Place Buckles up for grabs.

With a first stop at the local hardware store, I’ll enjoy the morning hours watching horses, riders, steers, and bulls strut their stuff. My little town. Deceptively simple. Delightfully complex. Just a wide place in the road on the high desert of Northwestern Nevada.

Hopefully, troubles are gone for awhile around here. With Oliver safely home after a delightful visit with his buddies, we return to our routine. Finding in necessary to work on my patience in times of disaster, I’ve realized frustration only costs me valuable minutes when minutes count. I’ve been praying for a softened heart and the ability to accept this crazy world as it is. It’s a far stretch to accept so much of what’s happening today. All aspects of healing during this Post-Pandemic nightmare is going to take some time.

When VST became ill, the first 90 patients had just died in a Washington convalescent home. His 9-week illness progressed so quickly, there was no time for the news. The night he died, I turned on the television and saw that 20,000 people had died from something called Covid. Grieving in a widow’s fog while packing and moving, if I wasn’t coughing up a lung, I obviously wasn’t dying of this virus. I had no time or mental energy to watch TV. And so, the months went. I couldn’t tell you the headlines of 2020. That wasn’t my focus.

Now, I realize it was a blessing I wasn’t wrapped up in the news. When I do watch anything about Covid, my heart hurts for the victims. So tragic. My tactic for survival? Stay isolated as much as possible. Continue a healthy lifestyle. Wear a mask if the numbers start to go up. Shop online. Common sense things to keep me apart from anyone sick. Similar to things I’d do if there was an outbreak of the flu. The sheer terror that gripped the nation is lost on me, because, I faced a terror much worse. Cholangiocarcinoma. Like a mouth full of marbles, that word. Cancer of the bile ducts. A Virus? I’ll take my chances with that any day over what VST faced.

In addition to those things, I spend time in the garden with Oliver. As I brown to a glowing shade of bronze, my body works on Vitamin D production. Sunshine sterilizes everything. Any vintage model mother knows this. That’s why we hung our cloth diapers in the sun. Our healthy babies spent time playing outside, something lost on many parents and children today. There is nothing healthier than enjoying fresh air and sunshine. Good for the soul.

Every business in my little town struggles now, needing help. Nothing runs at it should. Just last Sunday, the Tee Pee Bar and Grill shut their doors. Broken AC with no company available to come repair it. When they did re-open, customers were leaving because of the wait. A big HELP WANTED sign sits on Main Street, while customers continue to flood in. Sweltering, the chef and staff worked on Monday in 100 degree temperatures at the stove while waiting for necessary repairs. They’re down to only two servers and a dishwasher. The managers help as much as they can. Patrons are patient as the restaurant limps along.

If I were younger, I’d waitress a bit. But, I’m set like an arrow, ready to fly off into the wild blue yonder. Being tied to a rigid schedule of writing, gardening, hot-tubbing, practicing lazy, and taking care of Oliver has me pretty busy at the moment. The most I can do is contribute to the economy by eating out at the Tee Pee once in awhile.

My heart needs to soften while I wait ten minutes for a glass of water, or find myself a little warm eating my “Lil’ Mo Bet-tah Burger” and sweet potato fries. I need to breathe and count to ten when things cost more than they did the week before. Remembering all the wonderful things that happen to me every day, I need to find forgiveness for the pot-holes in the road of life and carry on. This presents a challenge most days.

Yesterday, with my mutilated teeth still in there temporary jackets, I hit the wall. It’d been weeks since the dentist, in his adorable need to “Do No Harm”, drilled the wrong tooth when preparing my new crown. Solving the problem with two-crowns-4-the-price-of-one, my confidence in the outcome wasn’t great. Then, the wait for the new crowns went on for weeks. Until yesterday. With increasing frustration, I wrote an email to the office manager.

Mind you, it was a very pleasant, heart-felt plea for help. Had they forgotten me? When could I expect to receive the crowns I’d paid for in full? Quicker than a cricket, the phone rang, and the sweetest voice offered a spot at 2:30! Just like that. Now, the normal person might question how long the finished crowns would have sat in some cupboard? Five weeks more?????? But, the new and improved butter-soft heart of mine focused on the excitement of finally getting back to normal.

The new teeth look great. They seem to be a perfect fit. Dr. B and Nurse A were as adorable as I remembered them from before. After consideration, I think I’ll return for the rest of my dental needs. Perfect place? No. Is there such a thing? No. Nice people working in my mouth? That counts for a bunch. And these crowns are beautiful, fitting perfectly.

With my teeth fixed, I turned to the hacker that was still at it. Taking matters into my own hands, I went to work opening “Settings” in the control panel of my blog to find something I might try. Three lone boxes in “Save Yourself From Hackers Here” were unchecked. I checked them. Low and Behold!!!!!!!!! The hacker was frozen in his computerized steps. The nightmare stopped.

For now.

Two big problems solved, as I continue to work on a grateful heart. I’m so blessed in a million little ways. Yesterday, I celebrated the life of a husband of which women would only dream to love. Such memories of years of adventures with the man I would’ve rather been with than anyone else in the world. The one who could finish my sentences before I began them. The one who was an Alpha Male matching me, his Alpha Female, the two of us forming a Power Couple. Not completing or competing, but joining hands to take on the world. My beloved VST. Don’t Worry, Be Happy!

Broken AC — Replaced.

Broken Sewer Pump — Replaced.

Thousands of fallen apricots– Cleaned up an done for the year.

Oliver — Well again.

Two old crowns — Replaced.

Hackers — Stopped in their tracks.

Dishwasher??????????

OHHHHH NOOOOOOO.

A story for another day here on the high desert plains of North Western Nevada.

Happy Birthday, VST!!!

Today is a day for reflection and remembrance.

I’ll return tomorrow!

Some days are complicated just enough to make one want to return to bed. Yesterday was such a day. In our town, we have a Rant and Rave Facebook page. Today would be heavy on the rant side, as things have been sliding a little south here. South, in the heat of the desert, is just a little worse than north where happiness lives. After all, Death Valley is just a little south of here, and they have their share of troubles with this heat. I was hopeful yesterday as I jetted off to the the bigger town just West of me. Traffic was tricky, which was good. Keeping me on my toes, I hurried to meet my 10:00 appointment. I chose 10AM to avoid commuters. The interstate on which I travel can be a death trap, especially with people racing to get to work on time. It’s for that reason I made the appointment at 10 AM. Mr. Shiny-Toed-Short-Pants funeral director agreed to this. I find it interesting that in a bigger town than mine, there are no headstone fabricators. Not even one. It seems everyone turns to online shopping for funeral needs.   Funeral directors are just the  middle men these days.  I was told by Shiny Toes that he had plenty of samples from which to choose. His credibility was shot before I ever got to his postage stamp office in El Barrio.  First and foremost, he assured me we made the appointment for 9 AM. Funny. I would’ve NEVER agreed to that, due to above mentioned reasons. But, the male version of a Pony Tail wasn’t worth the arguing. In the office, smaller than my closet, sat three computer generated headstones.  Aversion to putting VST’s name and information on anything as permanent as a headstone probably colored my first impression.  Paying thousands, I could have the Grieving Angel monument to end all monuments.  But, this is reality.  VST is no more here if I create a simple stone or an elaborate display. It was obvious this funeral director in shorts deals with the internet for funeral needs, which he marks up x2 and sells to the public. After all was said and done, a flat headstone of the plainest granite would be $1,000.  A color photograph was 1/2 of the cost.   By the way, the price was a bargain because I’d be picking up the 106 pound headstone, carting it to VC, and throwing it on the spot I chose on Monday. Correct. No installation needed. Just toss it out there. All $1,000 worth. Well, as VST would say, “Homey don’t play that game, Shiny Toes.”  Who suggests a widow go set her own headstone?  Yes, Farm Girl can do it.  Surely I can.  But, where is there room for my own grief in this?  My own moment to take a breath and go to see a finished headstone remembering VST?  Non-existent in the High Desert of Northwestern Nevada in the year 2021. So, back to the beginning. A perfect plot with no headstone. Driving back in disbelief, I marveled that any moron would tell a widow to go set her own stone. The insanity of youth baffles my mind. At least this little Shiny Toed boy with his solutions for every problem. Upon arriving home, I went to open my blog site, and Horror of Horrors, I was being hacked. I could watch the little entries stacking up in comments. I would erase 5 and 10 more would show up. Erase those and they kept coming, rather like exploding popcorn. In a little panic, I Bluehost to ask if someone could check this out. Didn’t I know? A real pony tailed asked this time. I’d need to buy protection. I swear, I thought the Mob died out long ago. Yes. Protection that didn’t come with my site. Nice to know, since I’ve been blogging ten months now. What’s a girl to do? I bought protection. Very expensive protection. At that point I went on about my business, after being told the first examination would take upwards of three hours. But, in the end, they would get the bad guys. I would be safe. Typing on my book was a nice relief. 4,500 words later, I decided to check on my little hacker friends. It’s odd that when eyes are hemorrhaging as one sees more hackers, that one doesn’t see red. I’d just paid for “Protection” and the little visitors continued their work right in front of my eyes. More phone calls to the same pony tail. “Ohhhhhhh. You need to call the company you just contracted with this morning.” Dryly, I asked for the number. She would not receive the negative response sitting in my brain waiting to fall on my tongue like a gumball. Upon calling them, a youngster answered, not even saying the company name. When I asked her if this was the company that offered “Protection”, she perked up and gave me a professional, “Yeah.” Oy Vey. “Oh My, you have a breech in your file wall. I’ll make up a ticket. Repairs might take a while.” There are just no words. None at all. So, to cleanse my brain of negative thoughts, I went to gaze upon the Gardens Winterpast. It was then, I cringed. I wanted to cry, but didn’t.  I wanted to jump up and down and break something, but didn’t. For there, in the middle of my beautiful garden path, was a sink hole. Not a little sink hole, but a rather deep sink hole. 3 feet deep to be exact. With water running into it from the hose in the potato box that I’d forgotten to turn off.  In reality, a good thing, because the erosion located yet another major leak hidden underneath Winterpast. A leak too big for me to handle. A leak for a irrigation repair specialist. A leak that will cost plenty.  Just like everything else. Some days, it’s better to just stay in bed and watch a good movie. As long as the sink hole remains in the middle of the yard, a shovel and irrigation knowledge will get me started on this project. Somedays, it IS just better to stay in bed. Stay tuned.

And a delightful time was had by all. Such a strange line, considering yesterday could’ve turned into a tearful and solemn occasion. The hunt was on for a tiny plot of Virginia City (VC) real estate on which to memorialize VST. Never having lost a husband before, I didn’t quite know what to expect. I did know that VST’s favorite Masonic Brother would never let things get too complicated or overwhelming. Brothers from his lodge made a solemn oath to me just a year ago at the Memorial. They would ALWAYS be there to help in time of need. Today was a perfect example of Masonry at its finest.

With an 8:30 AM meeting planned in VC, my morning started earlier than normal. Oliver begged for a few days off with his buddies, and how could I deny such a good puppy? These days, Oliver is coming into his own time of life. He enjoys napping as much as I do. We have a lovely routine of after lunch naps, both curled up in our respective sleeping quarters. He loves patrolling the grounds, keeping Winterpast free of fallen apricots or toads. He cares not in what order they appear. Either are fair game. He is starting to ignore plastic emitters and lighting.

Oliver knows how to sit and wait for a treat now. Just like that, he learned and is proud. He knows that when on a leash, he needs to walk slowly if Mom-Oh has a coffee cup in hand. A hundred other little details Oliver has finally slowed down enough to learn. With that, I’m beginning to enjoy my little dog, like never before. Maybe I’m learning better behavior, as well. That being said, this week is filled with details time consuming and emotionally charged. A party at the kennel was just what we both needed, so, off we went.

Once he was safely in the hands of his loyal minions, serving his every need, I headed up the mountain to Virginia City. Taking a route I try to avoid, memories attacked from every angle. This was the route to and from Lowe’s. To our favorite dining places. To Lake Tahoe. To the coast. How many times we had driven this road, both in the light of day and on the darkest of nights? We’d taken the road when happy or angry, excited or exhausted. Winding up the steep grade, there was only one difference. When VST was alive, I was always in the passenger seat.

Going up the hill, one thing was certain. The terrain reflected the ugliness of late August, not mid-July. The drought’s stolen every bit of moisture away, leaving the hills brittle-burnt-brown. Autumn is a 1.5 months away, with daily afternoon thunder storms spitting out bolts of lightning along the way. A sad time for the wild mustangs which will surely be on the hunt for water.

Familiar memories swirled in my head as the road twisted and turned towards the Canvas Café. There, VST’s Masonic brother would be waiting. A good friend to us both, he was the liaison between the Virginia City Cemetery and me. A welcome visitor to our home on many occasions, he’s a true friend. Easy to confide in and always at the ready with sage advice. I looked forward to his company on this difficult task.

When I arrived, another gentleman joined us, representing the VC Cemetery. A gentleman whose kindness and soft spoken responses made our breakfast table a safe one. Visiting over coffee was a time to catch up after many months. It was as if a day hadn’t passed since we had last talked. Just the way of VC. Wild, ragged places seem to make people appreciate their friendships more. You never know when a wayward wind or snow storm might create a need for neighborly support. Mountain people remember what it is to be friendly and respectful. Masonic Brothers even more so.

After breakfast, we rode to the cemetery to choose the spot for VST’s headstone. Being in the company of those that ARE “The Rules” helped. With the day beginning to boil on high, we took our car through the cemetery to the top of the hill where other Masonic brethren lie. Plots are not laid out in endlessly neat and tidy rows. Rather scattered in wild fashion like the rest of the place. Bedrock makes digging in some spots impossible. VST’s headstone would need no digging. Just a respectable place to settle in and stay awhile.

After a short time, I found the spot as if it had been waiting for an eternity to hold VST’s memory. With a view of the DunMovin House (our last home together), our beautiful A Street neighborhood, besties D and B’s home, and Masonic Brother J’s house, all nestled under the “V” on the side of Mt. Davidson. The entire town was there to see right from THE chosen spot. There was no need to look further.

I’d visited that part of the cemetery often in the company of VST, long before there were any thoughts other than living a very long and healthy life. Mr. Barrow’s grave was right across the path, with Mrs. Barrow being my elderly neighbor who grew the most beautiful spring poppies in her flowerbeds. This spot was surrounded by Masonic Brothers I knew as VST’s good friends. His next door neighbor would someday be Masonic Brother J with a beautiful headstone saving his spot. Dean and Jan were right across the path, also ready with their pre-planning.

As I stood looking towards the peak of Mt. Davidson, I knew I’d found the very spot VST would’ve chosen. A settled peace filled my soul as I realized I’d held my breath a bit until I’d found it. This would be his spot for all to visit and remember. This manly man of men. My sweet husband would be remembered here forever more.

Today, the quest continues for a proper headstone. Drawn out, I know exactly what it will say and how it will look. With the proper craftsman, VST’s memory will live on, now part of a rich history of this, the wild, wild West. This, his beloved Virginia City, Nevada.

Yesterday, my little country church didn’t disappoint. Rising extra early, my routine changed a bit as I selected an outfit appropriate for church after washing and drying my hair, which is getting longer every day. As it does, I look forward to the day I have 12″ to donate to “Locks Of Love”. Cancer affects so many parts of life, including hair loss. This is most distressing to kids. I’m blessed with thick straight hair that grows quickly. It will be my pleasure to donate it when it’s long enough. Until then, I’m enjoying long hair once more in my life.

A Hawaiian print dress in black and white, with black flats and a light sweater were the perfect outfit, and out the door I went. Bible study was scheduled at 9:30, but in their excitement, the group started a little earlier than that. By the time I arrived, almost 20 sat around the table. The book chosen for study is entitled “Who Am I In Christ” by Neil T. Anderson. For an hour, we discussed Chapters 2 and 3, and I learned a lot about the people in the group.

Diverse and intelligent, everyone was respectful, listening to each other intently. They followed along as the leader read the text, stopping for our input. It was through the group that I learned there was another teacher present.

Later in the morning, she joined me in the chapel as we waited for the main service to begin. Teachers have a way of finding each other. Special needs teachers even more so. We have our teacherly ways of dressing, standing, and speaking. Not that we try to be this way, we just are.

This teacher wasn’t just a teacher of one grade or level. Through the years, she taught Kindergarten through 12th grade, just like me. She talked about her at-risk students and things she did to help them learn to read. While we talked, I realized we have much in common as educators, both leaving the profession because teaching changed into something foreign and unpleasant. It was she that asked for my phone number first. Exchanging numbers was like an exchange of life lines. She lives on the other side of town, and it seems we are similar in age. We plan to have coffee soon.

During the morning, other friends I’ve made during Bible Study and actual services came to give me a hug and say Hello. The music is becoming more familiar. The rhythm of the service comforting. Quiet time in which to pray faithfully is different in this tiny little chapel. So very still, you can feel the presence of God.

One of the most precious things about the chapel ties it to the region. Near my town, there is a mysterious lake, massive and wild. I’ve only heard tales about giant wind storms creating waves as big as the ocean’s. The lake is on an Indian Reservation, complete with folk lore and spirits. I’ve been warned more than once to not ever go out on this lake, and not knowing anyone on the reservation, that chance will never come to me. It’s a beautiful and mystical place which glows in colors only seen in paintings. It’s represented in this little church.

The chapel interior, rectangular om shape, holds red cloth covered chairs aligned in rows. The front of the chapel is raised two steps worth, leading to a stage. On this stage, the musicians of the congregation play songs with a piano, guitar, tambourine, and drums. The words of the songs are displayed on screens on either side of the stage. The Pastor delivers verses and messages from his podium. It’s the middle of the stage that’s so gorgeous.

There’s a false wall with a window in the center. Through the window is a most serene mural of the mystic lake. It’s as if the lake is within our view as we worship. It’s beautiful in every way. But especially, because it is a painting made of love. Recognizable as the the nearby lake, but also as a painting done by members of the church with patience and skill. It’s truly lovely.

Everything about the morning visit left me glad that I took time out of my day to go. My father always said he found his week by sitting with God Sunday morning. This morning, I found that to be an inspiration. This week, I’ll need God’s help to guide me through.

Today I return to Virginia City to meet with a Masonic Brother to make very sad decisions. The last time I saw this man was almost one year ago on July 15th, 2020 in my back yard at Winterpast. There, he helped eulogize VST as only a Masonic Brother could. Today, he’ll help me choose a spot to memorialize VST in the cemetery.

A fitting tribute to represent my “bionic cowboy” in the little town that chose us. A larger than life guy that walked four miles a day in cumbersome knee braces, cane, and his trademark Stetson. People might not have know his name, but, they all knew the inspirational Bionic Cowboy that roamed C Street.

The sights, sounds, and smells of Virginia City jar me in unpleasant ways when I return. Haunted by the happiest of times, the Red Dog Saloon is no longer the inviting place to eat pizza while listening to live jazz. The Bucket of Blood with its long bar leading to the window with the 150 mile view. The Roasting House for a quick cup of fresh brew. Mark Twain’s Saloon, where we went out in the snow for a late night date. The Silver Queen with Clint and Ila on the night they found they would become three instead of two. Then, with a glance upwards, adorning A Street like a magnificent jewel, The DunMovin House, where love created a home just for us even if only for the smallest window of time. All painfully difficult to revisit without VST’s shared memories of what it this hometown meant to us.

The spot must be just right. A place for VST’s headstone to remind people he lived there. That he was a wonderful Doctor of Psychology, Mason, and Knight Templar. A man among men. That he loved farming and ice cream. That he skipped to the heavens from atop Mt. Davidson, while I needed to move on. A place for me to remember he’s no more there in spirit than I’ll be when my time comes. VST found his rewards in heaven.

Pray for those that have gone before us. Pray for us as we make our way towards our own eternity.