Grieving Gardener

Yesterday, I woke to the normal darkness that is 5 AM. After getting my coffee, feeding Oliver, and completing my daily blog, I went outside to tend to the gardens of Winterpast. Just when I think there are no weeds, here they come, fast and furious.

I pulled them both out.

Watering, while snipping this and cutting that, I decided it would be a great day to visit another local church. Being alone in a strange town is not for the faint of heart. With Miss Firecrackers advice, I’ve joined The Red Hat Society, but the local chapter has yet to phone. With a real need to build a community of friends, I went inside to prepare for my visit to the local Catholic Church. Deciding it would be most appropriate, I wore a cute floral sundress with sandals. I even ditched the fanny pack, taking a purse instead.

The drive up to the church was quite impressive. On the side of a mountain, the structure is ten years old, with the main chapel and classrooms designed to showcase the surrounding mountains. Thirty foot ceilings made the interior of the church grand. Floor to ceiling windows behind the alter filtered beautiful light into the sanctuary, blue sky Nevada as the backdrop. Everything was crisp, clean, and new.

A gentleman at the front of the church was reciting the rosary with a few parishioners.

When I entered, I noticed no greeter or even a single person to notice that I was new. Asking if there was a program, the gentleman at the door looked at me as if I was from another planet and thrust a paperback book into my hands. I went to sit towards the back of the church. It was then I realized that church this might not fill my spiritual needs.

The entire service was scripted in this little book. Yesterday’s service, as well as those for three months. It was as if I was teaching 3rd grade again, with scripted lessons that needed to be delivered precisely as written, day, after day, after day, without any deviation. All the words to be delivered were pre-planned, and I could just envision an entire country with every Catholic priest delivering the same exact prayers and sermons at the same time. Orchestrated religion.

The priest himself had one simple problem. Being an Indian man from India, he had a thick accent. So thick that I could only understand every third word. I was so thankful for the book I’d been given. This man was a good man. A man of the cloth. Kind. Sincere. Observant of visitors in the pews that morning. But, I need to be able to understand the message delivered.

He spoke of Job, and every few minutes used the phrase, “Let me make this simple for you.” A strange phrase to add, when all I wanted was understand the message through his heavy accent. Continuing on about the necessity of severe pain and suffering in life, the focus of the message was heavy. Searching for a place of hope and healing, his message, although full of truth, wasn’t something especially helpful in my situation. Listening, bricks were added, one by one, to my already sagging shoulders.

Strange as it seemed, an offering wasn’t asked for or collected. However, the priest WAS collecting money to send to an Indian community ravaged by Covid. All very confusing, considering our own community has fallen on very hard times, as well. Elderly veterans living alone, homeless people, and hungry children struggle right in my town. No mention of them.

All in all, it was a beautiful morning. Two guitar players shared their talents. A spiritually uplifting building full of very quiet guests provided a place to pray and reflect on God’s blessings, so numerous and beautiful.

A mask-less communion seemed tone deaf, in spite of the ravages of a virus from which we just now heal. I cringed as the gloveless priest handed each parishioner a broken piece of an unwrapped wafer. People waited in a line of 100, one after the other. Not being Catholic, my participation wasn’t allowed. Grateful, I took the time to pray for everyone’s safety.

A search for a little spot of community will continue. I didn’t find a personal sense of family today in my visit to a very beautiful church in the desert, but a visit with God is wonderful in any situation. I hope the Priest finds help for his hometown village in India, but with limited funds, I need to support my own community.

Such was a Sunday in the hottest little place in the Northwestern Nevada Desert that I call home. Gardening awaits. It’s going to be a scorcher today.

And on the eighth day, God looked down on his planned paradise, and said, “I need a caretaker.” So God made a farmer. And through the years, young boys became men and those men became farmers. VST became one of those strong, brave men to farm. I was lucky enough to be the farmer girl that stood by his side caring for our 40 acre vineyard for 6,385 days.

God said, “I need someone willing to get up well before dawn, repair a tractor, work all day at a real job, race home, eat supper and then pull a disc a past midnight to get ready for irrigation water.” So God made a farmer. In his infinite wisdom, knowing the farmer needed help with the more delicate matters in life, he made his wife. Because her muscles could not perform heavy tasks, (even though she wanted to believe she could), he created this wife to prepare delicious meals, launder the clothes, grow the garden, pay the bills, help kids with their homework, and order supplies, while waiting up for him on very long nights as he worked on. She provided optimism and encouragement during the darkest of storms, when his muscles were so tired, he thought surely couldn’t go on. Yin and yang- opposite forces gave rise to each other as they interrelated. Together, a force to be reckoned with.

God said, ” I need somebody willing to sit up on a September night with a year’s crop of raisins on the ground while holding onto his weeping wife while saying, ‘Maybe next year.’ I need somebody who can shape a knife blade from an old piece of metal, fix a spray-rig with duct tape, or weld a raisin shaker out of scrap and discarded parts. One who’ll finish his 40 hour week by Tuesday noon, and then, painin’ from ‘tractor back’, put in another 72 hours.” So God made a farmer. He made his wife to irrigate in 105 degree weather, while walking down a dusty avenue kicking up dirt as fine as cake flour. A wife that could chop weeds with the best of hired hands, because they couldn’t afford one. A wife that was all in, all the time.

God said, “I need somebody strong enough to repair the broken-down fork-lift and move raisin bins, yet gentle enough to teach his sweet daughter to drive and his young sons how to become men. To care for the vineyard’s tendrils of spring, the growing bunches of summer, and the drying grapes of autumn. A man who would stop the word for an hour to sit on the porch and laugh with his mom and dad.” So God made a farmer. He made his wife to bake the best apple pies and have dinner ready at 6 PM sharp. A wife that could work the fields along side him, but also join him for a Waikiki sunset surrounded by his arms. A wife that could stand up to nature along side him, while they accepted everything thrown their way.

It had to be somebody who’d plow deep and straight and not cut corners. Somebody to seed, weed, feed, build, repair, disk, plow, and plant, while laying down the grapes to deliver a raisin crop. Someone smart enough to be a doctor, and wise enough to know what he didn’t know. Someone who loved ice cream anywhere and any time. Somebody who’d bale a family together with the tender yet strong bonds of sharing and love. Who’d laugh, and then sigh, while replying with smiling eyes to his God who was so proud. Standing tall, this farmer and his wife loved God, Family, Country, Neighbors, and each other. God made a wife that was just for him and he for her. God made quite a fine man. God made a farmer.

****Together, we farmed our little spot of paradise on earth for seventeen years. I’m grateful that God let us.

For everything obvious, and things not so obvious, be thankful there are men and women that work physically and mentally challenging jobs every single day as farmers. Without those that toil in the heat and till the soil, life would be much different for all of us. Happy Father’s Day to all the wonderful Dads out there!

PS–Eat Raisins. Nature’s best sweet treat. Thank a farmer!!!!

Summer Solstice Eve has arrived with a flare, as in solar. The heat is on. Waking early, I’ve been gardening before the sun becomes to intense. Oliver’s outdoor antics have become very short. He loves going outside to harass the birds and patrol for a wayward toad, but after a few minutes, he’s begging to come back inside.

Extreme weather calls for preparation for the “What If’s”. Winterpast heats up quickly when the air conditioning is off. With a power outage, a rapid drop in my comfort level would follow. For this possibility, I’ve been planning.

Household refrigerator/freezers these days are pretty amazing and can stay cold for hours during a power outage. A spray bottle of water is a nifty tool to stay cool. Wet washrags can help, also. Find some shade and mist away until things return to normal.

Covid has shown us all how quickly panic buying can change the landscape of our town. Now, the gas tank on my Jeep is never below half full. Non-perishables are stored in the garage, including extra water. My pantry is inventoried, with an array of meal possibilities that could be prepared on a small propane BBQ. Outside of those things, there isn’t much more one can do.

The other day, a News Jackal was reporting about the weather in my old home town in the San Joaquin Valley of California. This valley was a desert before irrigation. After irrigation, it became the bread basket of the world. Everything grows there. From kiwi’s to garlic, it’s possible to grow anything your heart desires. This reporter, who was too young to remember 1990, reported all activities for the area were cancelled due to the extreme heat. Shake my head in wonder.

As a child, nothing was cancelled. From Memorial Day to Thanksgiving, there was one temperature. Hot. Night temperatures often hovered in the high 80’s to low 90’s. It never cooled off and nothing stopped. Football practice was a 4:00 PM during the summer months. Kids didn’t fall down dead. They drank lots of water and carried on. Tractors didn’t have cabs, but tilling continued. Farmers farmed and children played. None of us ever died from the heat.

The News Jackal went on to report the day’s temperature of 110 would be the hottest in history. Hmmm. Not sure about that. The July day my son was born in a town 45 minutes south of mine, the temperature was 115. Friends and family were so envious that I was in a chilly hospital with my warm little bundle. They all encouraged me to stay there as long as I could because of the heat wave. The Central Valley of California is hot. Period.

These days, people seem so fragile. You can’t be in the sun without sun screen. Forget the fact that when you’re in the sun, your body produces your very on Vitamin D in the correct amounts. Hmmmm. Vitamin D is a deterrent to the virus, if I’m not mistaken. You can’t be in the heat. Stay out of the cold. We’ve all become hermits surviving in artificial habitats of 70-something degrees. Believe me, if I could live in 70 degree weather for the entire year, I’d be so happy. But nature is a wonderful place to hang out in any weather.

Take some time to make a plan if the power grid in your area goes down. Crazier things have happened. Stock up for your pet, giving consideration to their needs. Remember that walks on hot pavement can burn paws badly. Oliver, being white, can sunburn. Yes, doggie sunburn is a thing. His outside water gets very hot by mid day, here in the desert. Be sure to provide shade and fresh water if your furry friend lives outside, where dogs lived my entire childhood.

Even though upcoming days may find us with inconveniences, focus on the wonderful things we do have. Get out and have a blue-sky kind of day. Forget about the hand wrenching News Jackals. Let’s hope they get out for some fresh air, too. They need it.

Time is a most precious gift. Given 24 hours each day, they’re a perishable commodity, taking me the pages of my life’s story. Minutes to sleep or work, read or watch television, walk or rest under the shade of the apricot tree. Time marches on, no matter the chosen activity.

Through my life, the worst thing I could imagine was not making each minute become a product of my intentions. VST was of the same mindset. An un-aimed arrow always hits its mark. So, I’d make a bullseye of goals, ready for completion. One by one I’d finish each, crossing them off my list. By the end of the day, the feeling of accomplishment was satisfying, if nothing else.

When I first moved to Winterpast, there was no choice in the matter. I needed to work as hard and fast as I could to get settled in. There wasn’t anyone else to do the things necessary to make a home. Just me. Some days, there wasn’t even time to breathe, let along find enjoyment. Preparing for a Memorial in July 2020, it was a race to the finish.

My lists were long, including all forms of unpacking, cleaning, organizing, planning, and contacts. Time was allotted for grief and rest, because anyone that’s been hit by a Mack Truck needs time to recuperate from gut wrenching devastation. Cancer is no less than that. Through the days, things came together as planned.

These days, my life is a bit different. I schedule in categories instead of by minutes. Making sure there’s time for spiritual, physical, and emotional health, my time is split equally between household tasks, gardening, and necessary outings. By dividing my time in this way, life is a balanced ballet, while I roll forward. When things are going pretty well, I can add another spoke to the tire. Lately, I’ve been sprinkling the entire experience with love, friendship, success, and lots of fun.

My God-Mom, being so very wise, told me long ago of the importance of practicing lazy. A valuable truth. Months ago, if an hour was spent doing nothing, I felt terribly guilty and unproductive. I SHOULD have something to show for every waking moment. However, an hour of meditation or napping IS something very important for the mind and body. I’ve been working on relaxation techniques and the hot tub has been helpful in that regard.

Sky watching has become one of my favorite hobbies. Being under the jet stream between East and West, as well as being near a huge US Naval Airport, the jets and their fluffy trails crisscross the sky right over my hot tub. Clouds, puffy and white, blow this way and that, showing me wind direction and speed. The sun makes its daily trail from my right to my left as I sit facing, as I face True North. The day time sky is as fascinating as the night, both mesmerizing.

Add in the daily activities of the bird families happily creating more of their own, and there’s an entire show going on right in my own back yard. One thing missing here at Winterpast are stray mammals. Random cat visits are non-existent thanks to a healthy coyote population. There are no opossums or skunks that make it over or under the white plastic fencing. A random hawk will take out a dove or robin, leaving the murder scene covered with feathers. But, that’s about the height of the mammalian drama in these parts.

I do long for travel, but that will need to wait. Doggy Day Camp is full, with no room at the Inn until after August. Oliver and I need to make the best of it and enjoy the daily routine that we enjoy. Summer camp is in fully swing with the summer solstice in two days. With Autumnal Equinox in 96 days, the extreme summer heat won’t last forever. Thank goodness.

I’m happy to report it seems Oliver is finally finished eating plastic. At least for now. The number of small lights on my pathway are holding steady. The drip system no longer under attack, Oliver is now focused intently on the ripening apricots. This is the new worry of the day, as apricot pits can be harmful to dogs. Well, plastic pathway lighting isn’t part of the normal canine diet, either. He waits by the back door each morning ready to hunt for fallen fruit. I sneak out before him to clear them away. We’re both enjoying our fair amount.

Sometimes my allotted lazy time is eaten up by tiny little disasters. Happily, I report that I’ve located the sprinkler line leak. In a major line for my drip system, it was buried 18 inches below the surface, probably leaking for a very, very long time. Now exposed, I’m going to try taping the crack with electrical tape until I can get someone to come fix it. A hack I found on the internet, it sounds brilliant. I will keep you updated on the success or fail.

Someday, it won’t be necessary to schedule my life in this way. Eventually the journey will carry me along, balanced in a little boat of happiness. For now, paying attention to the individual parts of my life is helping things run smoothly. Remember, time is a terrible thing to waste.

Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about lifelong values. In 65 years, they’ve served me well as a rock solid foundation. With Grandparents that were born in 1902, the beliefs values of first generation German-Russian immigrants were passed on to me. Simple beliefs and values like honesty, determination, and integrity a strong foundation for everything else to come. In my life, strength to withstand the storms has come from faith. Not a belief, but a knowing. There is such a difference between believing something is true, and knowing there is no other possibility. Without faith, I’d have given up decades ago.

Since becoming a widow, the choices in life are overwhelming at times. Remaining optimistic in the middle of the firestorm of cancer is no small challenge. Finding the courage to continue through the vicissitudes of life, I trudge on. Some days it would be easier just to pull the cover’s over my head to wait for the next. However, with morning, comes a new day and a chance to find opportunities for growth.

I’m so blessed that VST left me within the secure walls of Winterpast. While sharing adventures through our lives together, the things that mattered the most were our friendship and love for each other. We enjoyed health and wealth through the years, never forgetting to be grateful. So many times, VST would look at me and say, “If not now, when?” There wasn’t an hour to be wasted as we raced through a happy and productive life.

Many are not as fortunate to have the trifecta of Health, Wealth, and Time. Enjoying those things in retirement is truly a gift I’m so thankful for. Now, Covid has changed the ability to enjoy spontaneous travel. Every day, the freeways around my town are packed with campers and RV’s. I can only imagine the challenges these road warriors are facing with crowded conditions in the great outdoors. Turning to the big desert sky and the gardens of Winterpast, I’ve decided I’ll wait just a little while longer for travel adventures that will surely come. Besides, I have a broken sprinkler pipe to fix.

Achieving a happy life has been a journey of determination. Some days I had to fake it until I could make it. Those days will certainly come and go again. Striving the the illusion of perfection is a silly game. At the end of the day, if you can smile at the small successes, it’s been a great one. Hoping for peace, while trusting in the love and kindness of mankind, snuggle into dreams of a world we long for. Differences that seem to be tearing the world apart are not a productive focus. Love, peace, and tolerance begin with a single heart.

Days of Viral Insanity are coming to a close. Although storm-weary, there are always inspiring stories from those that carry on under the most adverse conditions. Those that struggle with physical and mental health issues. Those that have lost loved ones. Those that find themselves working diligently to find their own values and truths.

Take a few minutes each day to think about beliefs and what you know to be true. Think back to what helped you get through each day. Perhaps through the struggles of 2020, important values became clearer. They did for me. A very wise person once said, “Value what you know, and you’ll know what to value.”

Winterpast is in full bloom. A correct watering schedule is a beautiful thing. With everything getting the correct dose, I have little plants emerging that weren’t in sight last year. In fact, remembering July and VST’s memorial, the yard is more luscious and green, now. Far more than last year. Hence, the rose blooms are here and gone, requiring the tedious but rewarding task of deadheading.

Deadheading encourages more blooms in the garden, by removing any blooms that are dead. With my scissors in hand and the trash can at the ready, I bend and snip away anything withered. The results are stunning. Last year, I wasn’t sure if the roses would ever bounce back. With a severe pruning and the correct amount of water, the results are amazing. Blooms, well shaped and intense in color, are abundant.

My dad loved roses. As a farmer, he had no extra minutes in the day. But saving minutes from each day, he tended his favorite rose garden in the front yard. He made sure the roses had the proper water, fertilizer, and insecticides. Being in the middle of the San Joaquin Valley, the soil was the richest in the world. His roses were magnificent. Every day from Spring to Fall, my mom had one fresh rose sitting in a vase by the sink. He would bring her this rose over breakfast and give her a morning kiss. Just the way it was.

His favorite rose was called a Peace Rose. This rose was the palest of yellows with a hint of pink at the base of the pedals. It had a oily rose fragrance that was rich and full. These roses were so large they could fill a dinner plate. When I moved to Winterpast and began with my own roses, I searched everywhere for a Peace Rose to add to my collection. Things change over the years, and unless I wanted to order one online, it wasn’t to be found.

Then, the strangest thing happend.

Like everything else, the roses struggled in 2020. They hadn’t been groomed, partly because I had a million other things going, like moving it. They also weren’t all getting the water they needed, because the sprinkler system needed adjustments. But, late in the summer, this one struggling rose bush was almost ready to bloom for the first time. Not really paying attention to things, when I finally noticed the variety, I was overjoyed. For there, the one little bloom told it all. It was a Peace Rose! In my very own back yard.

If you are given a miniature rose bush remember that they are as hardy as their bigger cousins. When the blooms are done, plant it outdoors. With the right water, fertilizer and care, they continue to grow.

Along with deadheading the roses, be sure to top your bulbs after they’ve finished blooming and dry back. They need to be dug up and separated every few years, for a fresh start. By doing this, your bulb stock increases and you have more flowers all over the yard. I have a beautiful crop of Iris bulbs that need to be moved. That project will be on hold for a bit, do to the latest little problem.

I have a major sprinkler line break. I started digging yesterday in the front yard. Long ago there was a lush, green lawn in the front, since replaced by white rock. Under this white rock, garden cloth, black plastic, and remnants of the sod of yesteryear, there is a major leak. With a shovel in my hand and a song in my heart, I must leave you to dig, rather like the human mole. I worked on it a few hours yesterday. Perhaps today, I’ll reach the source of the problem. Thank goodness I’ve located the break. It’s just a deep line that will take patience to unearth.

Have fun in the garden. I hope you’re lucky enough to have an apricot tree that is producing fruit. Pass the fruit and keep deadheading!

While living mindfully in the moment, second guessing decisions can enhance or ruin a good thing. Trust and blind faith have strengthened me during some harrowing parts of my journey, while common sense sets me on the right path in the first place. Following one’s own True North can’t be ignored. Some truths glow so bright, they blind you from reality.

Life threatening situations often arise so quickly, there’s no time to react. Like bears attacking your tent on the shore of Skilak Lake in Alaska, or suddenly finding yourself in the belly of a whale off the coast of Massachusetts. In my case, the bear attack would be more in the realm of possibilities, although the whale scenario would definitely be more interesting.

I have a game I play from time to time that’s called, “Never Gonna Die That Way”. Over the years, it’s provided laughs as news stories become more ludicrous with every passing day. I know, without a shadow of a doubt I’m not dying in the following ways. From an outbreak of Giardia on a television show set. From being hit by a scooter in New York City. From being sucked into a stump grinder. From scaling Mt. Everest. From being swept to sea by a rogue wave in Florida. From being impaled by the bill of a swordfish. From being trampled while running with the bulls in Spain. From running into a tree while snow skiiing.

Each day, there’s usually at least one news story about an untimely death. The more bizarre the situation, the better. It’s a comfort to eliminate the cause of one’s demise, little by little.

The diver, sucked into the whale’s mouth, brings many questions to my mind, even though his story is now in doubt by some. Going for his second dive of the day, a man from Massachusetts claims he was sucked up by a whale, held there, and then spit out, living to tell the tale. Although suffering bruises, he had no broken bones and supposedly never lost consciousness.

There are some stories that are so fantastical, logical thinking keeps us from believing. If I had, indeed, spent even one second in the belly of a whale, it would be a story about rich with literary details. Describing textures, sights, and smells would be enough material for a book. Wearing oxygen, the diver could breathe, but do little else. Was he compressed? Being sucked this way and that? Just what did the whale think about the entire situation?

Of course, doctors are questioning the validity of the story, along with logical folks. There are more reasons it couldn’t have happened than reasons it did. But, strange things happen every day.

In the case of the campers mauled by bears in Alaska while tent camping, the situation was different. According to a park ranger, “It was a short, in-your-tent-attack.” Sleeping near very hungry, newly awakened bears, humans become a mere snack. The territory is theirs and theirs alone. Tent-camping imbiciles will lose every single time.

In life, people forget their common sense when venturing into the great unknown. The sheer beauty of nature lures one into an invincible state of mind. The stars and moon cloak everything in the softest black-blue shroud, while the night sounds make a wonderful lullaby, until they involve the huffing and screaming of a bear attack. No. A bear attack while tent camping in Alaska won’t fill the last page of my story. My True North may lead me to Alaska, but tent camping will not be involved.

Of course, the bizarre deaths don’t need to involve huge mammals near stunning lakes or in the depths of the sea. An untimely demise can involve plain old stupidity. Texting and walking don’t go together. Distracted walking leads to all kinds of injuries and deaths. A careful driver these days needs to watch their speedometer while predicting the direction of low-functioning pedestrians and texting motorists to the right or left. It’s a concrete jungle out there.

As everyone, I hope my last breaths are decades away. On my last day, I’ll be outside taking in fresh air while being surrounded by the flowers and trees of Winterpast. Adventures complete, it’ll be a new kind of journey, exciting and unknown. Until then, I’ll keep up with the crazy ways people exit this old world. Remember to follow a trusted guide, but, in the end, check your compass. Your own True North will never steer you wrong.

Something bad happened a few days ago. Really bad. To someone I used to know. At least, I thought I did. Long ago, we were all full of edginess, clawing our way to the top of the nearest heap of dreams. Some of us had moral boundaries, while others just did anything necessary to realize their desires. Something really bad happened a few days ago. Not to me, but someone I used to know. Hearing the news, I realized I never knew him at all.

His mug shot, displayed for the world to see, revealed a man in trouble. Not the spicy young executive with a life of possibilities ahead of him. A lost soul staring through a shatter life into the lens of the law. His emperor’s clothing exchanged for a white t-shirt and emotionless expression. The same exterior I used to know. However, the young man I knew vacated the premises years ago. His chickens have come home to roost. Karma does that sometimes.

There’s an old saying I’m trying to remember these days. “A truth told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent.” In this case, truer words have never been spoken. Knowing so many things about this man and his poor choices, gossip perches on my lips wishing I had a friend that remembered the past as I do. But alas, that part of my life ended when I moved to Nevada. The stories were from years ago, although they remain delicious to this day. Looking back, the direction he chose back then paints the mug shot of his today.

With internet connectivity, my phone blew up with texts. Okay. Okay. I had two messages, which for me is blown sky high. I’m pretty quiet. One of the messages let me know of this really bad thing that’d happened in my childhood town to someone I used to know. The other came from the most unexpected source. An old friend.

Friendship is funny like that. Some people come into our lives, bringing messages, laughter, and comfort for a time. Some stay and some disappear for days, weeks, years, or forever in either case. But then, some return. A return it was in this case.

Braveheart, she shall be called. Because, brave she is. Not many have a bigger heart. Liking her is an easy thing to do. Beautiful and willowy-tall, she becomes even taller in heels. She’s the mom to a baseball team of children and shows wisdom and grace on a daily basis. Smart, witty, compassionate, and truthful, she stepped into a very public arena for the good of others. She sacrificed much at the hands of a few. It was during those dark days our paths crossed first, and our friendship grew.

At the time, I was a teaching very ill children who were experiencing some pretty bad things on their own. Some got better. Some did not. Through all of it, I taught them, so they wouldn’t get behind in school. Over five years, the richest hours of my career were spent with my precious students. Braveheart found herself in a supporting role as a watchdog over my bosses. She did her best, anyway. It was in that group the man I used to know found himself. It was in that position, Braveheart and I weathered a ruthless storm caused by greed, power, and politics.

During those years, Braveheart was the only supervisor that joined me whenever I asked. She was the only one that sat and visited with my kiddos, as sick as they were. She cried with me. She held my hand. She helped me be strong. She taught me about grace under fire. She loved coming for visits, while bringing her brilliant smile and kind eyes. She loved my students and they loved her as much as I did.

So, you can understand that on a morning a couple days ago, when this really bad thing happened, seeing a message from her was amazing. We’d lost touch over the last few years. I filled her in on the sad events of 2020, while she filled me in on her life. It was just as if we’d never missed a day.

Both being relieved the very bad thing didn’t involve either of us, it brought back memories of things we shared. Experiences no one else would really understand. We did, because we survived that ruthless storm years ago, although a few ruffled feathers remained.

As for the troubled man I used to know. He’s Smart. Resourceful. Powerful. Resilient. Cunning. He has connections to high places. Already, he’s posted bond and the “Channel 32 News Jackals” have moved on to juicier topics. The talk will die down. Things can be made to disappear when you know how to play the game and he plays it very well. Hard to believe he was someone I used to know. However, the real truth of the matter is, I never knew anything about him at all.

Through this reunion, Braveheart and I have been sharing laughter and stories. Just like that, an Old Friendship is New again. Look through your address book and call someone you’ve lost along the way. Your voice might be the one they need to find their way back. Look for new friends, but, for heaven’s sake, don’t forget the old ones. They know all the stories. And, old stories are best shared with friends who know the endings.

It’s my summer’s goal to learn three new skills. Not quite sure of my focus, I’ve considered things I need to learn. The options are so broad it’s a little daunting. Learning a new skill doesn’t necessarily involve becoming the best in the world. It just means learning a little more than I know today.

Physical Fitness–

Uncoordinated, beyond reproach, I need to accomplish something in the area of physical fitness. Even if it means attending a senior citizen aerobics class for 12 weeks in a row, it needs to include the movement of my body in a meaningful and productive manner. As I garden, I often sit on the ground to repair sprinkler hose or pull weeds. Getting back up is a bit of a show. Rather like a leggy giraffe, I rise. Not gracefully, it takes quite an effort. How wonderful it would be to leap to my feet like a playful gazelle. I would even be happy if it wasn’t such a darn struggle.

There are some options in town that sound interesting. One is the community pool, lovely, and indoors. There is a community swim time that sounds refreshing and a possible source of hours of writing. I need to check it out, as this chick-a-dee needs to get out and move. There are also some fitness clubs in town, however, I’m still a little virus leery. The thought of breathing other people’s evaporating sweat isn’t very appealing in this, the second year of the virus.

Spiritual Fitness-

The Bible has been a fascinating mystery to me for many years. Verses written long ago, inspire and comfort in many ways. How interesting to listen to others and their interpretation, while considering the relevance to my own. I’d like to read at least one chapter and begin to think about personal applications. There are many churches in my little town yet to be visited by me. With at least twelve that I know of, visiting one church a week would be a good summer goal.

Intellectual Fitness–

In 12 weeks, I’ve plenty of hours to publish my first book. Deciding on which one was the hard part. As originally planned, I’m self-publishing my first book, Widow, later this year. Looking at available webinars on that very subject, plenty of tips and tricks on the subject are available online. Google Kindle Direct Publishing and go on their cyber tour.

A wonderful new option called kindle vella is available. Serial stories. Amazon is now offering writers the option of continuing a story, one day at a time. The first day is free to the reader. The next the readers are charged a certain number of tokens per day. The writer receives 50% of each sale. I’m really considering this option for a few of my stories, such as the train ride. Too short for a book, but, perfect for a 5-7 day serial story.

Just spending 30 minutes a day searching the internet for information on a new hobby can provide inspiration and information.

Creative Fitness–

There is a tiny shop in town that specializes in pottery and creative painting. Each week, they offer a class that will leave you with a personally crafted work of art. Following a set techniques and patterns, while listening to the instructor, you create. During this time, wine is consumed, as well. The finished paintings could end up a little more abstract than intended, but definitely original.

Painting has always appealed to me. I’ve attempted a few projects that did turn out quite nice, so this may be an outlet that leaves me a little more skilled.

Culinary Fitness–

I want to learn to cook one gourmet meal that I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, will turn out amazing. Every time. One I can cook to “Wow” company. Just one. My cooking skills are very basic. I wonder how in the world I ever raised children to maturity with my limited knowledge of food preparation. At any rate, I did. With most dinner plates empty over the years, everyone must have been farm hand hungry.

Earlier in the spring, I purchased the Julia Child cookbook, “Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume 1: A Cookbook”. I’ve gotten pretty good at reducing recipes to an amount for 1, with a little left over for the following day. Preparing a French dish will stretch my comfort zone, as I’ve never actually eaten anything French that I know of. I do know I love Brie and butter, so there’s probably a really good chance this will be valuable knowledge.

Old Apparel In The Barrel —

Need I even explain this again? I live on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Although there is a city thirty miles to the west, anything more than shorts and tees in the summer is really overdressing. In my younger years, I’d wait for the Fall issue of Vogue to pine for new Winter fashions. Just knowing the colors for the upcoming season was helpful. Window shopping inspired, as stores usually carried similar styles.

I’m in dire need of a fashion make-over. Perhaps there was never anything to make over in the first place. I’d be the perfect candidate for the show where a clueless woman’s chosen. She has no idea. All of a sudden, the cameras are in her closet and her favorite sweats and jeans are in the dumpster. With a credit card, they send her to create a new wardrobe, all her own. Her hair is revamped and makeup customized. Yes! Please! Someone nominate me for that. Otherwise, that may become another summer goal.

So, there you have it. Wanting to improve in three areas of knowledge and fitness, I’ve thought of six needing my attention. I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface. Nothing stays the same, nor should we. Retired days are full of hours to learn, experiment, and grow. Times a wasting.

From birth, I was surrounded by music of one form or another. My sisters had their record player and 45’s, of course, being more than a decade older than me. But, they also played instruments. Mom made sure that we all had our turn at learning about musical notes, reading music, and proficiency at least one instrument. One sister was great at the accordion, while another was just okay at the clarinet. A third sister was a beauty as she strutted and twirled in front of the High School band, keeping time with the marches as she spun and caught her wand.

When I was finally of age, my mother hired the local school music teacher to drop by for piano lessons. It didn’t go that well. For starters, there was something off about the man. Not sure if there was alcohol on his breath, or that he was the first un-manly-man I’d ever met. But, trust him, I did not. He was just plain weird. Therefore, the lessons didn’t last very long.

Long enough, though, for me to read and enjoy music. As for an instrument, I attempted the guitar, but finally got stuck in the percussion section playing the bells. I quickly lost interest, never learning to play an instrument well. When choir came along, it was a fun place to read music and sing. That I enjoyed due to my good friends, one of them being VST, whom I would marry years later.

Movie scores are of special interest to me. How often are we gripped with a visual scene in an old classic without realizing the equal effect the soundtrack is having on our emotions. I love old movies for that very reason, knowing that the musical score was produced with a real orchestra playing real instruments, not computer generated sounds.

To this day, I love music. Any kind. Any time of day or night, music adds magic to the feelings of the moment. Tears can flow with the saddest songs, or your soul can sour with an insprirational tune. Music can also get people in trouble. Serious trouble.

Visiting Auntie TJ is always a time to be cherished. She lives a long distance away, and I miss her terribly these days. But on this particular day, she would be a bit devious. It was the first or second night of a week long visit at her beach house. There is no better music to sleep by than the ocean waves crashing on the rocks. I was in the middle of such a nice dream, not realizing that the sun had already been up for a few hours.

Just then, a most horrendous noise woke me out of my peaceful slumber. It was a march. John Phillip Souza’s “The Stars and Stripes Forever (1896)”. It came blaring through the door, slightly ajar, and shook me to the core. Of course, it starts out with a bang and then there are the unassuming little piccolos in there. Some horns, some tubas. And then……..the drums. I flew out of the Murphy Room (named so because of the Murphy bed on which I slept soundly, until then) to find her exploding with laughter. At this time the chipper little piccolos were in full swing. It was hilarious, looking back. But at the time, it was just not right.

Some songs cause tears to flow. The song that reminds me the most of VST is Neil Diamond’s “Play Me”. It could have been written from either of our points of view and still been accurate. Whenever it plays, I succumb to tears.

Anything Joni Mitchell speaks directly to my heart. We are surely kindred spirits. It was that way from my college days, when ballads were heavy with beautiful words crafted with deep messages. Joni Mitchell was with me through my isolation while in Russia. I knew her so well, I could tell a note misplaced. I could also have written many essays on a single Joni song pertaining to how it applied to my life at different stages. Such a talent. Such beautiful story telling.

While VST and I drove 50,000 miles together, RVing, I finally realized the depths to which he loved Country Western music. His “go-to” channel was Willie’s Road House. Often, an old song that he remembered from time with his beloved grandfather would play and he would turn up the radio and sing with the tune. It was happiness personified as he would tell stories of memories with his Grandpa. I know that heaven is having a hoe-down now that the two of them are hanging out together again.

Last night, casually looking through headlines, I noticed that Carrie Underwood had again won top awards at the Country Music Awards. I smiled, because, her star rose on American Idol, as we all watched. Such a beautifully rich voice in a dear human package. She was the whole deal in one young woman. The article spoke of an award for her new duet, “Hallelujah”. Looking it up and listening, my heart found Christmas in the minutes the song played. Such a sweet message. Good to listen to her at any time of year.

When the days get long (and they do), or the nights don’t bring sleep (sometimes they don’t), turn to music and enjoy whatever you have. From Country Western to R&B, decade-grouped selections, or instrumentals. Music heals. One of life’s little gifts that enriches us all.