Grieving Gardener

Onward and upward on my search for summer camp activities, a new thought crossed my mind. Even though I don’t fit the stereotypical mold, I am, indeed, a Senior Citizen. I’m retired, with plenty of extra hours on my hands. I don’t wear my hair as many older women might, finding I like it long these days. I do wear shorts and tees more than I should, but then, I have really nicely tanned legs. Ace tells me so.

I don’t carry a big purse, because I prefer a fanny pack. “Both hands free, Don’t Mess With Me.” Period. I like my Sketcher’s athletic shoes. My fingernails are gardener short. The next time I wear make-up might be when I am laid out for a final viewing. I just don’t fit the mold of old. I guess I could be considered YOLD. Young Old.

Thinking of Miss Firecracker, so far away in lovely new life, it’s always been obvious she didn’t fit the mold either. Neither of us will ever be Moldy Oldies. The truth of the matter is, I need another Thelma to run with my Louise, and so far, I haven’t met one. Of course, there is only ONE her. Period. Thinking deeply, the brand new Senior Center just might be the place I could find new friends. I decided to give it a try.

The building was nearing completion last spring when Covid hit. Finished and empty for months before it actually opened, there would have been time to make this space adorable and inviting. It was Institutionally perfect. Any young relative would love Mom or Pops to hang out in this brand new space. Mom and Pops might feel differently, as it lacked humanity of any kind. It also lacked any sort of welcoming leadership giving direction to the program. What had they done behind all those months behind locked doors? A golden opportunity lost.

The old Senior Center was in a cozy house. Well loved, and a little rough around the edges, it spoke to the years of friendships built there. Often, aged things have value lost on the young. I’d only driven by once with Miss Firecracker. We found it was already closed by then, in anticipation of the bright new building on the other side of the tracks. Interesting and private, it was a private space for seniors to share themselves with other seniors.

Yesterday, shining up a little, I prepared for action. My shorts were replaced with black capris. My tee-shirt was replaced with a black and white blouse bling-ed just a bit. With new sandals on my feet, but still sporting the fanny pack, I was off. Today, I planned to visit the new Senior Center, expecting to find something totally different than that which I did.

The building is functionally sturdy, similar in structure to a pre-fab design. With no extra charm, the front doors lead to a large desk that should be managed by a receptionist. There was none. This entry way seemed to be shared by Seniors and Social Service Clients. This is not the most comforting combination of clients that could be paired.

An entire wall of glass separated the waiting room and the Senior Center. Two institutional glass doors were closed behind the receptionists desk. In my mind, thinking as an old teacher, the thoughts of privacy and safety came to mind. Inside, with the capacity to hold 100 people, you would have the most vulnerable citizens, distracted and trying to have fun. Right outside the glass wall, clients waiting for mental health, child protective services, or welfare. Nothing would ever go wrong. Until it might.

Thinking of the private little house on the other side of the tracks made me a bit sad. As I investigated more, I realized I’m not quite at the age to appreciate the Center. About thirty round industrial tables and brand-new plastic chairs filled the room. There was not one ounce of creativity or welcoming feeling coming from this space. To one side was an industrial serving area where people could get their daily meal for $2.00. Yesterday’s meal was spaghetti and meatballs, but, I’d lost my appetite. In all the time that took, not one employee came up to say “Hello” or ask if I had questions.

Being “Multi-Purpose”, the use could be changed at the drop of a hat. They could show ponies in this barn. House homeless. There is nothing specifically dedicated to Senior’s and their taste.

Sitting very near the kitchen sat five old friends. I believe Poker was the game of the day. They never saw me enter, as they were into a hot game. This cavernous room with 20 foot ceilings did not scream WELCOME or YOU’LL BE COMFORATABLE HERE. It’s cold walls perfectly new and white repelled me and I left as quickly as I’d entered.

Leaving, I noticed sign up sheets with the names of friends I’d not meet on that day. They’d all signed up for the new Watercolor classes to start next week. At the bottom in red ink-ed block letters –CLASS FULL. That sealed the deal. Searching for summer camp activities, I’d continue to look elsewhere. I wasn’t ready for this place nor it for me. Not yet, anyway.

The library was Monday closed. Dropping off donations at Sassy Second’s, down the road, I realized my summer camp would remain within the confines of Winterpast for a few more days. Water aerobics at 10. BBQ hot dogs at noon. Afternoon nap. Free Swim at 2. Dinner under the stars with a light show that is new and exciting every night.

When camp doesn’t come to you, make your own. Just don’t let the old lady in (as Willie Nelson would tell you). No matter, what. She will find a way in sooner or later. Until then, keep on the search for your own summer camp fun. Others are waiting to join in, you just haven’t met them yet.

I own three very large flat screen tv’s, two iPads, and a phone. Lots of screens display absolute garbage, if I get bored enough to turn them on. It’s easy to surrender one’s brain to a image on the screen, replacing real human activities and interactions. Yesterday was an all time low.

A school board meeting in Virginia was televised to the nation. A parent paraded their little girl and boy to the front of a very hostile group of people and expected her to read off a prepared speech. The child wasn’t even old enough to understand the meaning of the words she was reading. Parents in the audience were making rude comments as she tried to read. This was live.

What kind of Superintendent, School Board, community leaders and parents would allow this to happen to two small children? What kind of country are we becoming? Has all decency left the building? I turned off the television in total disgust. I am a retired teacher. No one would have ever been allowed to treat one of my adorable students in such a manner. Ever.

The rest of the night, I found other things to do. This morning, I’d already prepared another piece to post, but something really nice happened. Turning on the computer, there are always a few news headlines. One caught my eye. It was about a contestant on the show “America’s Got Talent”, so I clicked on the story. It was then I met Jane Marczewski. I need to share her words with you. They are beautiful and uplifting. For once, SOMEONE on television had SOMETHING IMPORTANT to say in addition to sharing her amazing talent. I hope you Google her name and hear the original song she sang for Simon Cowell. More than that, listen to her real message. Time is short. “It’s Okay.”

Her words for your consideration.

“There are times when I wonder what I must have done to deserve such a story. I fear sometimes that when I die and meet with God, that he will say I disappointed Him or offended Him, or failed Him. Maybe He’ll say I just never learned the lesson, or that I wasn’t grateful enough. But one thing I know for sure is this. He can never say that He didn’t know me.”

“I am so much more than the bad things that happen to me. I have a 2 percent chance of survival (cancer), but 2 percent is not zero. Two percent is SOMETHING. I wish people knew how amazing that is.” Nightbirde. Jane Marczewski — Cancer Warrior, Cancer Survivor In The Present.

Jane’s uplifting spirit and voice are something worthy of watching.

Sing on, Jane, Sing on!!!!!

In these past few weeks, with springtime in full bloom, I’ve certainly enjoyed being out and about. It seems that a year’s flown by under lock and key, and now, it’s up to all of us to rebuild our communities. little by little. Working on plans for my personal summer camp, I’ve compiled a list of things that would be fun to try. Even something as simple as going to the library to get my very own card is on my list of “To-Do’s”.

I’ve felt an increasing impatience at being trapped at home. Not that Winterpast is a bad place to be trapped. On the contrary, it’s a lovely oasis surrounded by beautiful mountains and the bluest sky. But, “plane watching” in the hot tub can only amuse one for so long.

Changing the name of almost every single place in town is something I do for privacy’s sake. This is just too rich to alter. In my little town, there are three parks. Not lush, or well manicured, but heavily used for all kinds of fun activities from dog walks to Little League Baseball. One park is named In-Town-Park. Another is named Out-Of-Town-Park. The third is between Main Street and the railroad tracks, which could be Between Park for all I know.

These are names engraved on signs in front of both parks, and quickly became one of the reasons I fell in love with my little town. Indeed, the I-T-P is IN TOWN. The O-O-T-P is OUT OF TOWN. Brilliant in simplicity and functionality. The names speak of a time long ago, filled with picnics and children flying high on swings. Neighbors munching on fried chicken and potato salad, while visiting, mask-less. You just social distanced from those you with whom you chose not to converse.

The fact that Sheriff Smith or Rancher Ron hasn’t insisted that the park be named after them speaks volumes to the type of people that live in my little town. They are townsfolk, not egotistical morons. The parks belong to everyone.

The carnival had pulled into town on Friday morning, setting up in O-O-T-P. It looked suspect. There were six adult rides that were too shiny and new to be really exciting. The best part of roadside carnivals was the thought that you really could die, or at the very least, lose a finger or foot. That was, if you made it back to the car before being snatched by the Carnies. These were brand new, shiny rides. The town-folk were a-twitter with excitement for the weekend event.

At 4 PM, I drove over to the little carnival to look for funnel cake. Never having tasted it, I had a hard time envisioning what it would be until I brought up a picture on his phone. Interesting. I would much rather have cheese curds or a slice of pizza, but, I would be up for trying funnel cake, which I had heard was a food created by angels.

Under the big cotton wood trees, the high school was holding Sober Grad Night. Graduating seniors look younger every year. Right? There were balloons and squeals of laughter from the mechanical bull, set up to the side. It looked like their celebration would be a very long and fun night, free of masks and social distancing.

Continuing towards the midway, there stood six adult rides, two children’s rides and some games of chance down the middle. Somewhere in the mix, there would be funnel cake. With a Ferris wheel calling to me, I went to buy tickets. Until I stopped. Six rides — $30. EACH. Had no one told them this wasn’t Disneyland on wheels? These were little carnival rides that would be packed up and moved Sunday night. A one minute ride on the Ferris Wheel would cost $10. Floating up into the air with a chance to die just wasn’t that important, so I changed course.

Turning to the Games of Chance, I could win this little lady a prize. These games were obviously set to the house advantage, ruining the fun. Besides, each try cost $5. Each TRY. No “greased plate dime toss”, or “glued together bowling pins” ready to tumble if you hit them just right. The games were all computerized for controlled outcomes. Huge prizes hung overhead for gullible victims. Certainly, not me.

Well, there was always the funnel cake. Until, there wasn’t. Nope. There were corndogs, caramel apples, cotton candy, and popcorn, but, fresh funnel cake was not sold at this carnival. They only sold ready made food pre-sealed in plastic. The time? 4:30 PM. The travel and investigative leg work took only 30 minutes.

The Nevada State Fair (another carnival with the same silly rides) was the same weekend. They would have funnel cake. But the drive wasn’t worth it. I chose to stay close to home and visit the Tee-Pee Bar and Grill for a nice dinner before returning home.

Thinking back on carnival’s of the past, something precious was lost along the way. Cake walks with freshly baked cakes as prizes. Square dancing. Beer gardens. Animals, big and small. Rusty carnival rides that might or might not make it another night. Sparkling lights in big old oak trees, with shadows where the young lover’s might steal a first kiss. A place where family men could be the hero to their children and let them ride anything they wanted, all night along. A sense of community at an event people waited for all year long.

The next morning, the headlines were grim. At the Nevada State Fair, one hour’s drive to the West, three had been critically stabbed the night before. With no suspects apprehended, the thought was sobering. A decision to take a simple drive in search of funnel cake at the Nevada State Fair could have taken me to the very site of the stabbing. Something so precious has been lost. Freedom to enjoy a fun evening without fear.

See you Tuesday.

Boredom can create the need to dig around for new adventures. When first moving to town, I’d visit Walmart every Monday morning. Bright and early, with the doors opening, I would mask up and make my way around the store. In those days, the shelves were often empty, but as the year progressed, more items became available. I often thought about the olden days, when Walmart had every item known to man, AND toilet paper. As we know, Covid robbed us of that luxury, too.

So, last week, I visited the Walmart to the West. Noticing that Women’s Apparel had a better selection, I made my way around the store. It wasn’t much different from the one in my little town. Only larger. The shelves were just as disheveled as the ones I was used to. I long for the days when shoppers treated merchandise with respect.

Today, I visited the Walmart to the East. What a horse of a different color! I first noticed that the store was spotless. Glad that I was wearing dark glasses, the shine off the floor was dazzling. Walking by the produce department, the fruits and vegetables were fresh and inviting. Being a military town, the shoppers are a different breed. Respectful. Neat. Thoughtful. All immediately notes. But, I was on a mission. Walking straight, I saw what I had come for. Bathing suits.

The purchase of a hot tub is only the beginning of the expenses. Increased power and water bills. Chlorine. Weekly enzymes. pH Up. pH Down. Metal remover. Mineral replacements. Foam Down. Scent Up. Clarifiers. Test strips. All to keep the water sparkling and fresh. It’s a daily chore, checked every morning right after breakfast. Missing a routine water test equates to cloudiness, which is never good.

After all the chemicals are purchased, (keeping in mind the current chlorine shortage), we come to the next expense. Bathing suits.

There is some controversy in the area of swim suits in a spa. Living alone, I could easily slink out to the spa and slither in, rather like a moving shadow. So quietly, that no one would ever hear me enter the water, copying an Olympic high diver as they enter the water with pointed toes that don’t even make a ripple. I could do that. The trees are leafed out. Winterpast is a very secluded place in which I could soak undetected.

But, what of the unexpected knock on the fence? Ninja Neighbor stopping by to check on me? The next door gentleman returning mail delivered to him by mistake? The Jehovah witnesses hoping for a conversion? The Mormon boys on bikes? There I would be stewing in my own juices, so to speak. Unable to answer the door or open the fence, I’d be stuck.

The obvious answer is to amass an assortment of swim suits. A variety of suits, because, if you’ve just one, it’s wet for hours. A dry swim suit is hard enough to shimmy into, let along a clingy, wet one. The following is theater of the mind for your chuckles.

A week after the spa arrived, I found and ordered the cutest swim suit. Something I hadn’t even known was possible. A long-sleeved one-piece swimsuit. As a senior citizen, well weathered, plump, and ready for a harsh winter, I have arm-wings. Other women dream of face lifts or tummy tucks, while I would settle for upper arm reduction. Because of these wings, I seldom wear anything shorter than a 3/4 sleeve. These wings flutter in the breeze. But, in the new suit, I found them to be a younger version. Although still large, my upper arms were now in sausage form. Extremely sleek and dolphin-like, in the cutest suit. The suit has a front zipper, and getting into it reminded me of girdles of the 1900’s. I think today they are called “shape wear”. Whatever. The only shape I become in one is sausage-like.

The suit was adorable, although very, very tight. Feeling I should have scuba gear and a tank, I scurried out to the hot tube began my soak. For winter time, the sleeves were wonderful. Very relaxing. I did feel chic in my new suit and thought about the many other colors that I would order the next day. Because, as everyone knows, getting into a wet suit is miserable, when one soaks multiple times every day.

My new spa shuts off after 15 minutes. Big brother at work, someone has decided no one should ever soak more than 15 minutes. But, just like the alarm reset in the morning, I can reset the thing over and over. So, after a 45 minute soak in the tub, I slithered out and went into the laundry room to take the suit off. A comedy that should have been taped for pay-per-view.

Unzipping it was easy, although, my compressed torso sprung out, leaving the zipper quite strained. It was now that the fun began. I had no idea that the fabric was so clingy. Like a second skin, really. Struggling to loosen it from my shoulder, the struggle was real. I would pull on one side, and the other side would get tighter. Suction was not mentioned on the review of this suit. If I peeled it down, the other side was drawn more tightly to my skin. Add in the fact that my right arm doesn’t work quite right after an old injury, and I was a whirling dervish. I was whirling and twirling, while the suit became tighter and tighter.

I bent a little this way, twisted that way, prayed a bit, and then cursed my decision ever to buy this suit. I longed for the hanging bat wings, not knowing if I would need scissors to extricate myself. All this worry about me falling into the tub and drowning alone. What about my fate trapped in this god-awful suit, unable to move ever again. This went on longer than it should have, but finally, by the grace of god, the thing let loose and fell to the floor. I must add, this will never be my go-to swimsuit.

Back to the swim suit carousel at the Walmart to the East, we return. The selection of suits and cover-ups was dazzling. Just regular suits covering what one would expect. $19.99 can buy you a darling one piece these days. I found two more that I didn’t already own, now having enough to soak 7 different times in the day, while still having a dry suit left to put on.

The rest of the Walmart was just as delightful. Clean. Smiling Associates. Well-stocked shelves. Fresh produce. Just like that, they have a new customer. Driving 10 minutes to the one in my town or 25 minutes to the Walmart to the East is a definite no brainer.

I guess the moral of the story would be to plan for added expenses when splurge on something nice like a spa. The bottom line is that there is nothing more relaxing or soothing than sitting in a hot tub on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada on a beautiful spring night. Don’t go to exotic on suit types. Besides, in the dark, we all have perfect arms. Right?

The heat is on, on the street,

Inside your head, on every beat

And the beat’s so loud, dep inside

The pressure’s high, just to stay alive

‘Cause the heat is on……Glenn Fry

I wonder if Mr. Fry lived in the desert, because, for the last week, the heat’s been turned up. Summer is breathing down our necks here in Northwestern Nevada. Yesterday, I needed an outing. Finding myself lounging in the air conditioned nest that is Winterpast, days dwindle by without very much excitement. A bloom here, a baby tomato there. Just not much else going on. Laziness is great in moderation, however, there comes a point when a girl just has to get out.

Not factoring in the extreme heat of the last days of spring, I needed to travel to the garden center for a stroll through rows of dogwoods or mulberry trees. Classical fountains, or whimsical yard art just an hour away, there’s a delightful garden center that’s a great place to visit.

It was then Oliver looked up at me with his soulful eyes. I knew what he was thinking. “What about me, Mom? Don’t I ever get a playground adventure?” Oliver is not a “sit in the car and wait” kind of dog. I wouldn’t have a car left. Oliver likes to chew.

With a little thought and a phone call, I made arrangements for Oliver to visit “Doggie Day Camp” for the morning. He would lose his mind visiting with his old pals, Vinnie and Oscar, as well as the office cat, Jasmine. All his lady friends were there to pamper him, and I could run to the garden center to shop.

When we arrived, the morning was still on the cool side, and the camp counselors rushed to the door to scoop up Ollie and love on him. He didn’t even look back, already having a great time. I was on my own until noon, when I’d retrieve him and head back home.

First, I visited my favorite hardware store, “See-Al”. VST and I frequented this store when we lived in Virginia City. They carry everything from crafted jams and jellies to turnbuckles, nuts, and bolts. I drifted into the clothing section to find a country girl t-shirt in plum. Sure enough, they had a nice selection. Again, anyone who knows me well enough could tell you whether I’m wearing blazers, hoodies, spring dresses or shorts and tees. These days, shorts and tees rule. In the high desert, the dress code is breathable comfort, with many days well over 100 degrees.

Driving through the town, ghosts of the past haunted my thoughts. There are many days, still, I find it mind boggling that VST is gone. We spent hours together in the car running errands or picking up project supplies. These trips were always tied to lunch or dinner, as we ate out at least one meal of the day. Driving by our favorite restaurants and casinos alone was a strange and lonely feeling.

The Garden Center was to open at 9 AM. What? With summer just days away and temperature spiking, what “garden center” opens at 9 AM? Real gardeners are up at the crack of dawn and finishing their work by noon, looking for an afternoon siesta. But, this place opens at 9 AM. With a few minutes to spare, I took a parking spot right up front along with a dozen other cars. Real gardeners all, we waited.

And Waited.

AND WAITED.

I really don’t know the outcome, because I left at 9:20. Employees were leisurely watering the plants. Fountains tinkled. Windchimes dinged. The garden cat snoozed in the sun. All behind locked gates. When I left, 30 patrons stood on very hot asphalt, waiting. No dog mulberry is worth that. I’ll be traveling to the other, better garden center from now on. Besides, they’re normal. They open at 7 AM.

The rest of my morning was just as underwhelming. Shelves were sparse or empty. Merchandise looked trampled, repackaged, and still for sale from last year. Tired employees were stuck wearing masks because of company policy. An environment that made yesterday’s shopping something I don’t really want to try again any time soon.

I can only speculate how many more weeks the department stores I visited can stay afloat. Void of customers, employees moved merchandise around to make the shelves look full. The night before, I’d ordered supplies from a large online box store. My purchases will arrive today, fresh and clean. All without the trouble of traveling over an hour to a town I really don’t want to visit anymore.

After purging another closet and enjoying a quick yogurt for dinner, the skies opened up on my little town. A huge thunderstorm brought relief to the desert sands and the gardens of Winterpast. Rain’s a lovely gift at the end of a very long and hot day. Stay cool. Because…

The shadows high on the darker side

Behind the doors, it’s a wilder ride

You can make a break, you can win or lose

That’s the chance you take, when the heat’s on you…..(Glenn Frey)

Only in small town America can one experience drag racing down Main Street on Friday night. VST was a mechanical guy, plain and simple. Starting on any topic regarding automobiles, he could talk for hours. It would have been impossible to avoid absorbing mechanical knowledge while being married to him for 32 years while farming 17 of those. VST was a legend in the world of John Deere Tractors. Farmers from every part of the San Joaquin Valley in Central California knew of his expertise. He was the guy they called.

After a nice meal in town, I drove down Main Street, headed home. On either side of the road, small groups of people were gathering with lawn chairs and ice chests. Kids waved at us as we rolled down the street, barely reaching the speed limit. By the time i arrived at the stop light, a man was preparing a table and loud speakers for music. The local radio station would be broadcasting. Something big was about to go down.

With a skillful U-turn, I returned to Main Street and found a place to park. It still wasn’t clear what I was waiting for. Maybe an early Memorial Day parade? Lighted car parade? It was clear that an event would start soon. I was ready with a front row seat parked just West of the Fire Department on an empty lot. Only a sidewalk separated me from Main Street.

With curiosity brewing, I texted K to see if she knew what was about to happen. Funny, Facebook allows users to know everything before it ever occurs. Being old fashioned, I often to call K and ask her for updates in my little town 6 hours away. This had her stumped, too. Nothing was announced on town’s Facebook page “Chit, Chat, All About That”. So, I waited.

The group across the street from us was a prolific bunch, with at least eight kiddos under eight, and a couple more in strollers. Several parents were obviously enjoying their time with each other. Little ones were riding their small bikes up and down a wheelchair ramp leading to a small business. Totally joyous, it was testimony to how lonely and isolated everyone has been. Just visiting in a parking lot was reason to celebrate.

In the same parking lot, there sat a RAT car. Rusted, it looked like a mix-matched concoction of parts from many different old cars. Very wide tires in the back, smaller ones in the front. The car was small, resembling a rat, as well. It’s owner fit the car and my town. After a few minutes of visiting, the RAT car peeled out of the parking lot onto the street in front of us. Coming to a complete stop, it’s engine roared to life. All at once, the tires were burning rubber, until, we were choking on the thick black smoke. It then zoomed off at a high rate of speed, made an erratic U-turn and zoomed back towards us again. It’s comical appearance didn’t quite fit the power under the hood and the skill of the driver’s performance.

In the middle of a car show that started at that very moment, I waved and laughed as every kind of car you could think of cruised by. Not all at a high rate of speed, some just drove the speed limit. People were out to show off their rides and I was lucky to sit and watch. Cars from every decade drove by. Some muscle cars raced right by me right down Main Street. The best part was that everyone enjoying the night was having fun. No masks. No social distancing. No thoughts of deadly viruses or the horror of the last year. Just people enjoying the fresh desert air on a lovely spring evening. Visible smiles and lots of laughs enjoyed by everyone.

As the sun set behind Kathmandu, a few Jeeps turned on lighted flag poles mounted on their bumpers. There were cars with hydraulic lifts, and some drivers that nearly lost control of their rides. There were cars that were smeared with Bondo Body Filler, and others that had been perfectly restored to show room glory, even though they might have been a 1954 Bel Air or a 1964 Corvette. A show like no other, with the prize of a cheering crowd won by all.

At one point, a young father and two small kids parked on our side of the street. Immediate screaming began, coming from a pint-sized tornado, yelling to her little girlfriend across the street. Nothing would quiet this little diva. She wanted what she wanted right now. Her friend. Dad quietly walked his pre-K daughter down to the cross walk and across the street to see her bestie. They both ran full speed ahead and locked into each other’s arms. An adorable show of affection that added to the beauty of the night. I wondered how many years these two pint-sized besties would enjoy such a beautiful and pure friendship.

For a couple of hours, in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada, there was a happening. It didn’t make the news. In fact, it didn’t even make Facebook. But, it will remain in my memory as I watched cars drive up and down Main Street.

Always beware of crowds forming on the sides of your home town street. Pull over and wait for a bit. You just never know when a RAT might be coming to your town for a perfect Friday night cruise down Main.

There are some days when I embrace the fact that I live in the Wild West. There are other days, I realize the Wild West just isn’t here, it’s a new state of mind. “Grabbing hands grab all they can. Everything counts in large amounts” an old song says. It isn’t necessary to “Open Carry”, when we just need to rely on our brains, Spidey-sense, and vigilance. Gangsters flourish all around us, no matter the terrain or population. During the last few weeks, my blog site has been hit by some very bad people. As a writer, I enjoyed getting comments from fans. In the beginning, “Comments” were the first things I checked, hoping that someone would send a word of support. Squealing with happiness, I would hang onto every word. But, that all changed. In the last two weeks, the comments came in fast and furious, all with Arabic lettering at the top of each message. On the next line was a link to porn. Then, there were generic names and messages that camouflaged the entire affair. My blog has been read in over 60 countries, so at first, the Arabic lettering didn’t alarm me. Until it did. It became necessary to block comments from my daily blog. As a new member of my community, I’m isolated. As a widow, I’m more isolated. Add Covid on top, it’s isolation to the extreme. My blog and interactions with my readers were links to the outside world. However, the risk of hackers entering my personal world is too great. Another nice thing ruined in this crazy society thanks to ruthless minds out to do no good. In our world, I’m amazed at the amount of entitlement and corruption occurring on a daily basis, even in a very small town. My blog is so small and insignificant, one wouldn’t think it wouldn’t be worthy of a second look from hackers, but, here they’ve appeared. Attacking a widow, of all things. Jackals go for the jugular of the weakest, eh? Well, some jackals pick the wrong widow. To add to my frustration, a text arrived from a friend I shared dinner with last week. We’d decided to go to the “nicest” restaurant in my little town, even though it was on the pricey side. The food was usually just okay. The Tee Pee Bar and Grill is my go-to choice, with the Papoose Burger and fries for $8.50. But, this was a special night, and so, we chose the fancier place. Long story short, my friend, who doesn’t live in this little town, was charged a second time, (after the outrageously expensive dinner), for a second tip of $30. A generous tip had already been included with the first charge. Luckily, she is a business person, checking every charge on the banking account every day. Gangsters need not hold anyone up in person. No masked bandits need to burst in on horseback. Fraudulent computer entries make difficulties and complications for others. Along with false charges come blocked credit cards and reassigned numbers. All while the thieves continue on, day after day. May I make a suggestion to those new to banking due to widowhood, or any other reason? Check your credit card charges on a daily basis. Every card and account. Every day. Make sure you don’t fall victim to fraud after a very nice evening with a friend. A bitter after-dinner-mint to swallow. In the days of the Wild West, things were simpler. Everyone knew their neighbors. The bad guys in the village were dealt with, while the good guys in the village stood together to defend their space. The sheriff was respected, whether he’d earned that respect, or it was simply a respect for the title. Those that didn’t respect the sheriff or town faced consequences. Townspeople were kept safe. In times of trouble, people would circle the wagons and take turns on watch. The community banded together, rising above differences of opinions when things got tough. With a wagon train of one, here in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada, Oliver and I will keep our eyes peeled for the rat bastards of the world. Please, don’t mess with this widow. It just isn’t a nice thing to do.

The Molokai Airport, locally known as the Hoolehua Airport, was a short 9 miles from the hotel, with an estimated drive time of 16 minutes. However, the concierge had been very clear. High tourist season could ruin everything. Not sure how the traffic would interfere with our mission, we left with two hours to spare. Hurrying through the hotel lobby, nothing had changed overnight. Attendants and associates were standing at the ready to answer questions or fulfill any needs of the guests. The guests must all be sleeping, because, we saw none.

VST would spend the day driving around the island, looking for interesting activities. There was at least one golf course on Moloka’i, along with the complete rodeo arena, available for rent to be used for company team building. There were miles of beaches to explore, and a tiny town stocked with any supplies we might need.

Down the road, a little way from the hotel, there stood a lone bird. Just sitting there, motionless, with no intentions of flying. The closer we came, the more still it was. Just sitting there looking our direction, almost as if it had never seen a car before. We were the only auto rolling along on the clearest of days with the most brilliant sky overhead. Surely it would move. The closer we got, the more still it became. Closer. Larger. Closer. Larger. Closest….. Whoopsie….. We continued on, in quiet contemplation after that.

The airport was an open air venue, as so many places in Hawaii are. With perfect weather, windows aren’t needed. Just a roof to protect people from the sun. We parked within feet of the front door and hurried in. We had 1.75 hours to spare before departure. Inside, we found a complete crew at the ready. Ticket agents. Baggage handlers. A small kiosk in which to purchase a bag of candy or the latest magazine. A restaurant serving coconut milk and pineapple. The one thing missing was any additional passengers. We were the only ones needing assistance.

Once checked in, we now had 1.70 hours to spare until departure. VST was getting a bit antsy as we waited in very uncomfortable plastic chairs. The more we waited the more it was clear he was returning to the husband I knew and loved. The one that never in a million years would willingly visit Molokai. That one.

Finally, after a few snacks and a little patience, a small plane landed and pulled up within feet of the airport. Because there was no wall or door, the engine noise was deafening and silence appreciated when the pilot turned it off. The airplane door flung open, and out stepped a very handsome, uniformed pilot. An extremely small plane, it held seats for eight. Sauntering in with real swag and ego, he approached the ticket agent and they exchanged niceties.

“Just one. Right there.”

He turned to glance my way. After a few minutes conversing with the adorable ticket agent, he walked over to us.

“Ready to go?”

“Yes, I sure am.”

Quickly kissing sweet VST, I followed the pilot to the plane. He reached inside and threw out a cheap door mat, and then motioned for me to enter. Wiping my feet, I hunched over and got in. It was the smallest plane I’d boarded in some time. While I got settled and belted in, he grabbed a chipped clip board and penned a few numbers. I never saw him complete a pre-flight check of the plane. He just gunned the engine, swung around, and, in seconds, we were in the air.

The ascent was immediate and steep, as the expansive ocean and view spread out in all directions. Passing over the huge mountains, just as quickly, we descended immediately at a steep angle. Just like that, a $100 plane ride delivered me to the Kaluapapa Airport. I smiled to myself that the mule ride would’ve included three hours of saddle sores. I’d chosen well.

In preparation of my visit, I’d read a little about the residents. During tours, the residents prefer to stay indoors, away from prying eyes. There was one resident that loved watching the airplanes come and go. I could expect to see a rather old pick-up truck by the airport, with one lone man observing tourists from a distance.

The airport was by a cliff next to the shore far below. It was nothing more than a shack, with one solid wall and three open sides. Protection from sun or rain, it stood empty. No one worked at this airport. The pilot would have the roster of those he was taking back to town or Oahu. His roster showed he was transporting four away from Kaluapapa, and indeed, four waited.

In a flash, I was off the plane, the four were loaded, and gone as quickly as we’d arrived. At 3 PM, he’d return for me. For the moment, I stood alone. Other than the empty airport, no buildings were within my sight. Ocean waves crashed on the deserted shore below. I turned and looked in a complete circle. I was totally alone. Just me. In this very sad and lonely place known as Kaluapapa, there wasn’t even a bird in the sky.

Then, I remembered what I had read about the lone man. Sure enough, about 1/4 mile away, sat a pick-up truck, a single person inside, watching. A cold shiver ran down my spine. Just me, there, at this broken down “Airport”, waiting for the Father Damien Tour Bus.

I didn’t need to wait too long. Rolling in, squealing brakes trailed by a cloud of dust, it arrived and I flew out the only door in the airport. The very, very old school bus was painted navy blue, with “Father Damien Tour’s” stenciled on the side. The driver flung the doors open, and was making notations on a small clipboard.

“Hi. Sir? I’m supposed to take your tour?”

“Return to the airport and wait until I come for you,” he barked. He was a gruff, no-nonsense kind of person who wasn’t going to put up with anyone who got out of line. I scurried back inside the airport. For minutes I stood under this lean-to, while he sat in his empty school bus just looking at the ocean. Finally, I heard his footsteps approaching the airport.

“Come now,” he barked sternly.

I followed him quietly to the bus.

The driver was 6′ tall and trim, was true law enforcement. Estimating his age in the early 70’s, he had a tan, weathered exterior. Even in the heat, he wore blue jeans and a short sleeved shirt. Ruggedly handsome, I wondered how leprosy had scarred him. His face and hands were intact, unlike so many victims. Leprosy is caused by a bacterial infection of Mycobacterium leprae. It usually affects the skin, eyes, nose, and nerves. If caught early enough, the disease can be cured, or at the very least, controlled.

“Wait here,” he pointed at the ground outside the bus door.

Once seated, he pulled out his clip board and asked if I had authorization to visit Kaluapapa. I present the handwritten ticket and he took a long, serious look at it. How would I have come to this place unless I had authorization? It seemed an odd question. I couldn’t swim or walk this far. Hitchhiking wasn’t for me.

“It seems this is in order. You may board.”

With that, during HIGH SEASON, his one passenger boarded the tour bus. Making a large turn in the dirt, we rattled off down the gravel road towards town. He introduced himself as Richard Marks, the Sheriff, and a long time resident of Kaluapapa. His story unfolded as we bounced along an empty and barren piece of land. With sadness, he told me he had been diagnosed with leprosy as a young man, and was banished to this little town. Many adoptive relatives were buried on either side of the road on which we traveled. In this huge expanse of land, he explained, were thousands of graves of victims who died after suffering from leprosy. For a very long way, I didn’t know what to say or ask. As we rolled on, he finally told me that we were on the way to pick up the mule riders, and then, the tour would begin.

The old pick-up truck bounced along far enough behind us to avoid our dust. Indeed, it had been the man I’d read about. The one that longed to see the visitors come and go. Sheriff Marks knew him well, as they were old friends with one very sad thing in common. Leprosy.

Leprosy is a disease well-controlled in 2021. Effective medications and treatment had been discovered years before the residents were ever told. When leaving was finally a choice they could make, many decided to stay. According to Sheriff Marks, for the men and women that chose to leave, sterilization was mandatory. When I visited in 2013, a handful of residents still called Kaluapapa home, and could visit Honolulu for medical care. Some stores had special hours, providing the residents privacy from prying eyes. As Sheriff Marks told me stories along the way, I received my own private tour from someone that had a lot to say. These residents had endured not only the ravages of the disease, but true cruelty from a place that boasts Aloha.

The day was filled with walking and listening. Visiting the very land in which Father Damien provided the holy sacrament to so many unfortunate victims was overwhelming. Mother Marianne and Father Damien, through tragedy, brought people into a place of love, faith, and family fellowship. Both produced real miracles in the face of hopelessness for which they achieved sainthood in the presence of Man and God.

Father Damien ignored social distancing and face coverings. He ate with the residents, as well as provided them medical care. He dressed wounds and hugged the children. He held church services and gave last rights. For years and years, he remained strong and healthy, until he finally contracted leprosy and died from the disease in the spring of 1889.

Lunching on a shady cliff overlooking crashing waves underneath trees coated with Strangle Figs, Sheriff Marks told us that parts of Jurassic Park 3 were filmed in this most beautiful place. All the vegetation had been brought to Kaluapapa. When the first residents arrived, this part of the island was barren. Looking at the lush growth now, it was hard to visualize what hell it must have been for the first victims, thrown overboard in shark infested waters to swim ashore.

Driving through town to visit the docks, only one small store was open, selling ice cream bars. Other than that, the town lay quiet and empty.

Eight mule riders spoke of their journey down to Kaluapapa, criss-crossing the steep trail on switch backs. I was never so happy in my life that I had chosen the easy route. Soon, the visit was over, and it was time to return to the airport and back to VST.

Sheriff Marks and I chatted like old buddies on the way back. The canonization of Father Damien was occurring at that Vatican in the fall, and he’d been personally invited to attend, along with any other residents that could make the trip. Deciding on travel for he and his wife, he considered their advanced age and declining health.

Saint Damien of Moloka’i and Saint Marianne of Moloka’i attained the highest honors of the Catholic church by living exemplary lives. They had taken people without hope, faith, or even love, and created a thriving community, orderly and functional. A society cast away from others. That was the supreme miracle they performed, creating the legacy of Kaluapapa.

Just as before, the small plane landed on the bumpy strip. The same pilot jumped out, threw down the mat, and invited me aboard. Within minutes, I was back at the airport kissing VST Hello!

“How was it?”

There was no answer to that question. Although I’ve visited many beautiful places in this big old world, Kaluapapa is a place that will nest in my heart forever. Since my trip, the mule rides have been discontinued, and tours are not allowed due to Covid. Sheriff Marks passed on a few years after my visit, leaving a widow to grieve his passing.

In the most serene of moments, I was the only human on cliffs above the crashing shore near the tiniest of airports outside Kaluapapa, Moloka’i. No car horns. No laughter. No voices. No sounds except those of nature. A true adventure of the best kind, during the middle of High Season.

Everyone has them. My blog site is under repair today. I will be back tomorrow.

J