Grieving Gardener

Isolation in desolation. Some days, the reality of my situation leaves my heart racing. What. Have. I. Done? Here I sit in a town in which I really KNOW no one. Yes. I have my beloved Ninja Neighbor next door for whom I am so thankful. Otherwise, I have a variety of acquaintances. A lunch date here, a friendly chat there. Oliver and I are alone, and he doesn’t have thumbs or a voice.

Being a party of one does have its benefits. I won’t deny that. Watching My Beloved God Mother through the decades, I envied here so often. A faraway life facing the Pacific Ocean, with a husband she adored on a wild little stretch of California coastline too remote for anyone to take seriously except a Billionaire publisher.

When my God Father passed away, she was alone with long time neighbors and friends in her tiny little community. I often wondered just how she became so strong. Now I know. Widows have no choice. Strength bubbles up within all of us. With no audience, you simply carry on. You raise up and fly right. Also a widow, her bestie neighbor, Cambria’s Goddess, sings in the choir and lets the wind blow through her beautiful hair as she drives down the coastal highway in her convertible embracing her Goddess status. Beauty on wheels, that one. Widowed, but not being restricted by that status. Independent and strong as nails.

God Mom always had little jokes with the neighbors and involved me, making me feel as if I lived right down the street. Nurse Girl and the Writer lived next door to her. The perfect kind of neighbors, they respected their fence line and privacy. Great friends, they all shared a similar sense of humor.

Fences don’t last forever, and the one between them was failing. Ocean air takes a toll, and the fence lasted as long as fences do. For months, discussions flew back and forth about shared replacement materials and costs, (in a very neighborly way, of course). Until. The conversations took a new turn. Instead of leaving this costly little project dry and uninteresting, it was named The Erection (of the fence of course). Eventually, it became the reason to hold An Erection Party. As you can imagine, the puns and conversations were laced with innuendos, leaving giggles and laughter to surround a situation that could have been painfully serious.

How I wish I had a failing fence with anyone right now. Winterpast fencing will live on for decades more, being made of rugged white plastic. Wonderful material for desert life, the fencing looks as beautiful as it did on day one, seventeen years ago. A neighborhood of perfectly white fencing does look pretty sharp.

Surrounded by Winterpast, new relationships are growing. Slowly. I could recognize 10 people at the Tee Pee Bar and Grill if we both dined at the same time. There are two waitresses at the TPBG I know on a first name basis. A handful of friends from the political group. The ice cream maker, Steve. My minister and his wife. Strangers that haven’t yet become good friends. And so it is for me.

The other day, I decided it was time to visit my favorite little country church again. Bible study begins promptly at 6 PM on Wednesday evening. After attending the 5PM City Council meeting, I arrived to be greeted by a lovely congregation. I felt like the High Desert Rodeo Queen, as everyone was eager to say Hello. The bible lesson was interesting, giving much to consider for application in my own life. It was towards the end of the lesson a visitor arrived.

The class had run late and was just finishing up, when a slight lady walked through the doors. Finding a seat in the back, she quietly picked up a Bible and followed along as we listened and discussed verses.

Unremarkable, she was someone I’d pass at the store, not even to give a second glance. Being at least twenty years my senior, her skin was wrinkled, weathered, tanned. Petite and trim, she wore a desert girl outfit of white cotton pants, sandals, and a cotton blouse, pale in color. Her white hair added to a ghostly appearance. Although she might have been at one point, she was no longer crisp and fresh, but slightly disheveled from head to toe. Eyes, milk-y in appearance, made me wonder about blindness, but she carried no cane.

After the minister had wished us well, in a frail voice, she startled everyone.

“I’d like to play a piece on your piano. I wrote it when I was a girl.”

In a flash, she was at the piano, announcing it was terribly out-of-tune. But of course, a little church in the desert wasn’t the place for any thing other than an untuned piano.

Just then, her concert began, stunning us all. This woman, an unknown, gave a Carnegie Hall presentation. A concert pianist in every sense of the word. The notes ran together in a flowery piece, drowning out her small little singing voice at times. Every key and chord were used with a flourish. After two minutes of beauty, the last note sounded and applause rang out.

Without missing a beat, she rose and declared, “I’m 86. I’m driving to Oregon. I can’t drive at night. I need a place to stay.” Five little sentences, played as skillfully as her original song. Smiling, she waited, looking at the entire congregation twitch with nerves.

In church, one needs to stop and think back on the two hour Bible lesson. Think hard. What would Jesus do? Covid. Loneliness. Nefarious ideas. Isolation. Murderers. Kindness. Thoughts, like dissonant chords, played through in my head.

Just then, a young man stood up and said, “I’ll find you a hotel room.”

In a room of 30, we all had our own reservations and reasons she couldn’t visit our own home, lost and puppy-like. Leaving that night, I had a lot to consider.

I surely had the space with an empty guest room. Extra food sits untouched in my frig. I could have been helpful in the situation. Someday, I’ll be traveling the country to unknown places. When I’m 86, I’d hope for the kindness of others to help me in a pinch. Heck, I do now at 65..

But, 2021 is a different time and place and it couldn’t be me. It wouldn’t be me. It wasn’t me. She’d need to find help in a different life raft, because mine is having a hard time staying afloat with one. Coming from a house of God, I know Jesus understands this. Maybe he would’ve chosen differently, but maybe he would have done the same.

At church today, I’ll find the chap that offered the hotel room to find out the rest of the story. Give him $20 towards the expense. Thank him for helping The Visitor. A special pianist, a very long way from home.

The second year without VST is proving to be a journey all its own. After the first year, the journey through widowhood should settle into the quiet rhythm of my forever. Or so, I thought. Just as many surprises arise as each day passes, as I now find myself at the threshold of another first anniversary. That of VST’s memorial.

Growing up in a tiny Volga German community, death provided a strict set of guidelines. From a child’s point of view, your status in life was indicated by the funeral home your family chose when a loss came. Never even knowing there was more than one in town, when it was time for a funeral everyone met at Loyal’s Funeral Home. A majestic white mansion rich in dark woods and heavy draperies. There was a large parlor in which a widow, if she chose, could sit with her beloved during visiting hours. Visitations were equal to church Sunday, and respectful attire and behavior were expected. Nothing less would be tolerated. The guest of honor lay in open casket for all to view.

Cemeteries were segregated by groups. Not intentionally. It was just the way life unfolded. The Germans wanted to be with Germans. The Italians with Italians. The Hmongs with Hmongs. Through the years, the groups cluster in perfect definition, telling a story of the people of a little farming town grown big. Our cemetery is now in the worst area of my old town, with monuments and headstones from the 1900’s in an arrested state of decay. Each time I visit my Great Grandparents, Grandparents, and Parents, the hunt for their plots is tricky. After trial and area, there the six are, nestled together in their little family unit. Lined up and tidy, together forever, they’re surrounded by their Volga German friends and neighbors.

Walking around their plots, names of the past ring out. Scheidt. Klein. Schneider. Leider. Geringer. Weber. With a large family, my Grandparents bought many plots. A small buffer surrounds their graves, awaiting the arrival of more. There’s always room for one more, but VST and I moved away to move on. Putting a headstone there wouldn’t be a fitting period on his life.

There were so many MUSTS, SHOULDS, and NEVERS back then. A death occurred and, within three days, the minister was praying over a mourning widow, her family, and friends. A casket, front and center, held the deceased, dressed in suit and tie, or church dress. Decedent’s hair was coiffed. Makeup perfectly enhanced by the chapel’s pink lighting. The list of accepted protocol was endless, down to appropriate music. There were no video tributes or current music. Tradition. It all followed Tradition.

Privacy. That’s something that’s gone by the wayside through the years. At Loyal’s, the family sat behind a privacy curtain. Rather veil like, it provided the family a place to be separate and mourn in private. Grief is a very private ordeal for me. Proud farming stock don’t need the eyes of the community on them as the ugly cry commences. Folks were judged on how quick they were back on the tractor or weeding the garden. At least to a child of long ago, those were the takeaway lessons. Farm life is brutal. The favorite dog dies, you bury it quickly. You eat the animals you tenderly fed for months. And, when a loved one dies, you accept the truth and move on. Unless you don’t.

I delivered VST’s eulogy on July 15th, 2020. The kids each had a part in his service. His Masonic Brothers mourned the loss of their friend in a back yard VST never got to enjoy. So different are things today.

Living in a new state and town, the customs of long ago couldn’t apply even if they would’ve been a comfort. Three days after VST died, I was “Covid-Alone” frantically signing documents, packing, discarding, and crying all in the same hour. The move to Winterpast was 14 days my future. I don’t know that I even owned something appropriate for public viewing three days after VST left. It took five days for the funeral home to cremate his remains, and ten for them to return them to me. Three days? That would have never worked. For me, it took three months, and even after that much time, it was the worst day of my life.

Throngs of visitors? Covid dictated a “NO” on that. Winterpast held 40 of our closest friends and family. That many more couldn’t come due to Covid restrictions and health worries. A funeral in the back yard under morning sunshine on the high desert three months after a death? In the 1900’s, NO. Something acceptable and beautiful in the year of 2020.

Monday morning, I’m returning to Virginia City on a very sad mission. VST loved our home and new city. After so many years of farming and helping others, HE chose his new adventure and wrote the last pages of HIS story. He never laughed so much. He swelled with pride at his improvements made at the DunMovin House. He made life long friends and Masonic brothers as his days passed. Walking miles, back and forth on C Street, he stopped to talk to new and old friends alike. VST found HIS home, and home meant Nevada to him. He’ll be remembered on a headstone of granite in the Masonic portion of the segregated cemetery. Not to close to Stink-e. His headstone will read

Sir Knight Terry Lee Hurt, Psy.D.

July 15th – April 8th, (spanning 65.75 years).

Faithful Son, Father, Friend, Brother, and Husband

Don’t Worry, Be Happy

I’m just now able to publish his real name in type, after 15 months. How did widows do this in three days? While blogging, I’ve kept his name private, just for me. He remains VST from this point on.

I’ll pick the best spot available in Virginia City’s forlorn little cemetery. The Masonic portion is a place we visited more than once. He had great respect for Captain Storey, a historic and heroic leader. Maybe there’ll be a spot near him. At any rate, he’ll be surrounded by heroes and Men’s Men that lived and loved in the Wild West. Men with scars and the stories that went with them. Heroes. VST was a hero in his life, setting goals and winning at whatever he chose, including the capture of my heart. It’s there he’ll be remembered on a headstone of granite.

The journey towards a September 1, 2021 publishing date began with a first step this week. ISBN# 979E8533J533H106. The number above identifies my 1st book from now into eternity. Plain and simple, that number is the International Standard Book Number (ISBN#) found with a bar code on the back cover of any modern paperback. Learning to publish is my #1 bucket list item being realized.

Deciding to self-publish was an easy for me, discovering the process is one of following steps toward a finished product. With the push of a button, the computer does the hard work of assembling information into book form for purchase. So far, the entire dream of blogging and publishing has been free. Every bit. Organization, editing, proofing, and more proofing of the material now begins. My book will join tens of thousands of others for sale on Kindle and Amazon. Only the best work rises to the top, so others will need to make room.

Watching a webinar yesterday by L.J. Ross, (a very successful author), I took her words to heart. We are our own worst critics. There are winners and losers. It’s just as easy to join the winning side as the losing. Winners never quit. They may fall down and skin a knee, but they slap a bandaid on, get up, dust off, and keep going. I plan to be on the winning side at the top one day. Why not? Someone needs to take the top spot. New authors are born every day, having taken the risk of publishing their newborn words in a way all their own. It’s my turn to climb that mountain and plant my flag.

If your dream is to begin the journey of writing, just do it. Journals are as simple or elaborate as you choose. The information kept inside is up to you and you alone. Ranting or raving, the words on the page are cathartic and an authentic representation of growth, day after day. Your personal life line into the next day, when Widowhood’s path travels through the deepest and darkest forest.

In my case, blogging became my beacon of hope and direction, with over 32,000 readers cheering me on along the way. Readers in countries I’ve only dreamed of visiting in six of the seven continents. A Nepalese bibliophile will never know how much their continued support helped a little Red Necked Woman from the high deserts of Northwestern Nevada cope with a loss so deep. The identity of my readers is not what matters. It matters that Provo shows up every day. And Concord. Washington, Virginia, and Amsterdam. In the early days, if anyone read my blog during the night, I was squealing with delight the next morning. Five daily readers doubled to ten while blog grew along the way.

Since September 24, my blogs have been written with the intent the words would find their way into my first book, WIDOW (by Joy Hurt). Did I mention it will be out September 1st? Just a little excited here. Yesterday, all printed copies of the blog, held in large white binder, were separated into 15 piles. Chapters began to take shape. Hours later, the binder was reassembled into a crude form of my first book. The very first one of many.

Just thinking of the cover had me on pause for months. How could I create a cover on my own? What picture? What to write for the Bio? How to compel readers to buy the book with a catching synopsis? All those creative paths were shut tight, like a rose bud that is in the early stages of swelling before bloom. Each time the urge came to start, another nay-saying voice popped up in my head telling me why it wouldn’t ever be possible. I went back to the day I wrote my essay to win the Morgan horse. Failed then, I would fail now. I heard this until a very brave, unwavering Viking Woman voice stood up and said, “Listen Sistah,” (my Viking woman inner voice often speaks this way to me in slang), “Believe you are already doing it and it will be done.” I love that Viking woman voice. She’s rarely wrong.

With an empty house and fresh AC, yesterday was the day. Flicking the switch, my new computer sprang to life. Visiting the publishing site, I filled in a few boxes and in the blink of an eye, my new cover became a reality. For my first book, I’ve chosen to use Kindle Direct Publishing, which dovetails perfectly with Amazon. Cover Creator was the imbedded program I used to create the cover, taking form in less than an hour.

There’ll be two choices for you, my precious Readers. E-book or Paperback. At least one paperback copy will sit proudly on my bookshelf. The realization of a life long dream. So many troubling things have occurred in the last 18 months. The thing that kept me alive and well were my words, written before dawn in the safety of Winterpast with Oliver snoozing at my feet.

Please continue the journey with me. I love hearing comments. If there is something you’d consider a must for inclusion in the book, drop me a line. Hawaiianhurts@att.net. I promise, a real editor will correct grammar and spelling before it hits the market. If you want to help with that, drop me a line. I can use all the help I can get. 54 days and counting down. Publishing my first book on September 1st, 2021 , a wonderful dream will be realized, with two more books completing the trilogy. Nothing can stop me now.

Just when things were at a pretty warm spot with AC problems, up bubbled the sewage in my front yard. AGAIN. July 3, 2021. High Noon with temperatures hovering around 95. Nothing like scents from the dark side to brighten ones day when all I wanted to do was retrieve my mail. There it was. A pool of liquid in the front yard, thanks to a failed sewage lift pump. Not every home is lucky enough to have one, because, quite frankly sewage runs downhill. If planned properly, there is no need for such a device. If your house is lower than the main trunk of the sewer line, you are a lucky duck to have one in your yard, like me.

I rode this pony just a few months ago, so I knew what to do. I had the “insider” direct phone number to call. It wasn’t a home owner problem at all, but the City’s problem. They’d come to the rescue faster than a speeding bullet and right the sinking ship that Winterpast was becoming.

Upon entering the house, fright and panic again stirred in the pit of my gut. No matter who thinks otherwise, a widow is ALONE. After 32 years of not being ALONE, it’s a new obstacle to overcome. Sewage can’t be ignored for some other day. Saved from my past experience, I’d call the secret number given to me by a neighbor to get this fixed, Pronto. Special powers aren’t only for Super Heroes, but for very strong women that can create another person while magically making a house into a lovely home. She who can solve Common Core math problems after creating a nutritious dinner. She who can run a home like clockwork, after hours working in her chosen profession. And, she who keeps good records of WHO to call when the sewer pump breaks.

My city’s website held information, as well. “In Case of Sewage Emergency, phone Sheriff Dispatch”. In black and white, there it was. Call Sheriff Dispatch. Even better. They’d arrive with flashing lights and sirens blaring. Nice!!! With a trusty cell-phone, I was on it.

“Hello. I would like to report raw sewage in my front yard. I need a technician to come ASAP.”

“You’re calling the Sheriff’s Dispatch. Don’t call this number for this type of problem,” the cold hearted little girl hissed back at me.

Now there was a problem, alright. It had just turned into hers.

“The City Website instructed me to call THIS number, H-O-N-E-Y.”

Ponytail.

A dear, dear, dear friend and I are politically incorrect at times. We enjoy being politically incorrect. A Lot!!!! She came up with the name “Pony Tail”. Having now been nick-named a “Karen” by many who aren’t, I have the right to sling back the term “Pony Tail”. A sing-song-y opinionated young female that has the world by the balls in her little realm of useless knowledge. I was speaking with a “Pony Tail” Dispatcher. I’d need to set her arrow straight on this.

“You need to report this to the Public Works Department, H-O-N-E-Y. I’m sure you have their number. This is a CITY health issue. Raw sewage is bubbling in my front yard. Read the Public Works website.”

She wasn’t amused.

“I will report it, but, NO ONE will come. They’re off today.”

Hanging up the phone, terror clawed at me as I tried to find my faith. It was a crap shoot. They might come, and they might not. The bottom line, realized again and again. I AM TRULY, 100% ALONE. I can cry, stomp, curse, rant and rave with no one to see but Oliver. At least he promises to keep my secrets. All I could do was wait.

Faster than a speeding bullet! More powerful than a locomotive! Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound! My City Public Works department rolled up within 20 minutes. No sirens, but there was an amber strobe on the top of the truck.

“What’s the trouble, Ma’am?” “Okie Dokie!!” “We will fix you up with a brand new pump!” In less than 30 minutes they had dug, sucked, pumped, lifted, replaced, and sanitized. The sewage problem was repaired before the clock struck 2 PM. Those guys are unsung heroes.

Bottom line here. When you live ALONE, don’t let the “Pony Tail” get you down. Stand your ground. Widows are a force to be reckoned with. Sage Crones of Senior Citizen Status have earned our stripes the hard way.

I do plan to mess with her a bit. Today I’m going to call the Dispatch headquarters to have a chat with the supervisor.

“A young woman was working Saturday at Noon. She took my call. I have something to say about her service.”

Pause. I know what you’re thinking I’ll say.

Surprise.

“She was efficient and did her job so well. Help arrived quickly because of her. As her supervisor, I wanted you to know she saved the day. Thank her for me.”

“Pony Tails” need love, too. Some day, she’ll turn into a “Karen” standing over a puddle of sludge, just like me. She’ll know true terror. Then, she’ll understand.

The biggest story around here all started on Friday, June 25 at 4 PM when the air conditioner stopped. One can’t fully appreciate the desert until the AC dies. When even your spice cabinet is at 90 degrees, things become desperate. No Worries!!!!!!! So brilliant I have been to buy a home warranty policy. Right?????????

And so the story begins.

For all the years of home owning, I’ve had a home warranty. The best “home warranty” I had all those years wore the pants in the family. VST was magical in his repair skills. He never really knew how sexy that was! With his southern drawl (unknown origin, as he was a California boy), he would simply look at the problem and think awhile. Retreating to the shop, he would come out with exactly the perfect tools and supplies and within a very short time, any problem was fixed perfectly. A real-life hero in overalls.

In his life, VST reroofed many houses to code, rewired several houses, jacked things up, made things straight, plumbed jammed toilets, and made things beautiful. He never threw tools or cussed. He just spent time analyzing and fixing. In 33 years together, we never called “The Guy” to fix anything. VST WAS the guy.

One of his talents was Air Conditioning Repair. He had a license, Freon, gauges and hoses, and the knowledge. If VST had been here through this nightmare, he would have known what to do. I’m sure he is in heaven discussing the problem with Baily’s and Cream. They would have fixed me up in a heartbeat. Yes, Miss Firecracker and I were lucky in that way. Two fix-it guys supreme.

Well, VST isn’t here. I am. I’m alone. No matter who drops by or calls to check in, all this stuff is on me now. Another widow understands what I mean while others can’t begin to know what this is like. Women alone are on constant alert, as jackals are hiding everywhere, just waiting for a misstep. Again, widows, you get what I’m saying. We must use our “Girl Power” to stay strong!

A home warranty has given me the sense of safety that someone will come riding up to the rescue in a big, shiny repair truck, eager to fix the broken. For the first time in my life, the home warranty company left me in the dust to figure this out on my own. I have yet to deal with them, but to call them worthless would be putting them above their place in life. The underside of lying cheating scum is more like it. With absolutely no help from them, I began to sweat mentally. The AC is the most expensive home appliance we own. Mine was broken.

After waiting four days for the home warranty company to flake out as they promised from the trees of India that they were diligently looking for help, I took matters into my own hands. For $129, I had a diagnosis. My AC was dying. Not from a lack of freon. That would have been easy. From internal decay. Old Age. 17 years of desert life. The gig was up. Electrical hints never lie. Now things were getting fun.

To add insult to injury, with the flick of a tripped breaker, the AC roared to its last days of life. But, the writing was on the wall. Its useful days are unknown. Could go out again tomorrow, for good, or could last another year or two. As the lights dimmed every time it started up, I knew he was being truthful.

As the technician put away his gauges he gave me the hard truth.

“Ma’am, the entire AC unit needs to be replaced. It’s failing. Ball Park estimate — $12,000 to $13,000.”

From there, I don’t remember anything else he said. I pushed the $129 at him and told him I wouldn’t be doing that.

HAHAHAHAHAHA

STUPID WOMAN. What else could I do????????? Live in a 90 degree house every summer? I made a difficult call to eat my words and accept my new reality.

With a bit of “Let’s Make A Deal”, and a flash of the “Widowed Senior Citizen” card through a tear, I got the price down to $10,500. Still a heart stopper, but in today’s world, a fair price. No wonder the home warranty crew were never going to get back to me. They don’t replace items for old age. And, really, I can’t blame them.

A week later, on the hottest day so far, two wonderful young men drove up in the morning and left a little before 5 PM. Skilled, polite, and adorably Grandson-aged, they removed the old and put in the new. Such a class act. VST would’ve approved, if it was necessary to hire “The Guys”.

My heart palpitations are clearing up now. Nothing like writing a check of that size to wake a person up.

I definitely won’t be going on a cruise for Christmas, or any other time until I recover from the AC episode.

That’s the story of the day from the high desert of North Western Nevada. Remember to service your AC units and pray to the heavens they run for one more day. Stay cool!!!

Plenty of lemonade, no AC.

The air conditioning unit, the finest of heavenly inventions, died at 12:03 PM yesterday. With the help of a box fan, the house temperature hovered at 80 degrees last night. Of course, this would happen on a Friday when repair shops close for the weekend. Murphy’s Law at work.

Comforting it is to know this problem will cost me a flat $75, thanks to my home warranty. The problem must be fixed, and if it can’t be, the unit must be replaced. So, I can easily wait out a weekend. After all, it’s summer in the desert and AC repair people are in high season. Patience. Patience. Patience.

Today will be a day filled with misting, full speed fans, and naps. A good day to watch some movies and lay low. Ace has the knowledge, tools, license, and Freon to help me out, but he has weekend clients. As soon as he is finished, he’ll come to the rescue, if a repair shop hasn’t contacted me by then.

To compound the matter, Oliver is not feeling his best. Not sure of his issues, but we’ll visit his vet on Monday if he isn’t feeling better. It could have to do with his sneaky ingestion of apricots and their pits. But there are other indicators it could be even more serious.

Oliver is such a strange little creature. He’s so very intelligent, having spatial awareness. He knows the world is in three dimensions. He will sit under the apricot tree gazing at fruit yet to fall, contemplating the best way to get into the tree. He knows the countertops in the house are rich with everything yummy. He never forgets what he’s seen, having a photographic memory. If there is a crumb of food anywhere, he won’t stop until he finds it. He would make a great working dog, as his energy is as limitless, unless he is not feeling his best.

When Oliver came to live with us, VST and I were in the midst of RVing. Oliver was housetrained on the road. He is the only dog I’ve ever met that uses only pee-pads. Yes. I have lawn, but he’s just learning what that’s for. Being neutered at a young age, he never began to lift his leg. He’s a squatter. One benefit of pee pad exclusivity is that I know what comes out of Oliver. In the last week, the amount of liquid has been increasing.

Along with that, strange new spots are growing on his abdomen. Tan in color, they are flat, brown spots. Rather like the age spot on my arm. These could be absolutely nothing, or they could be the sign of something very serious, common in dachshunds. Hyperpigmentation. Two kinds exist. Primary and secondary. If primary, it could be a symptom of many troubling issues, with no cure.

The internet, vast with information on every subject, is not a place to sit and read about your furry friend and possible illnesses. Especially when said friend is peeing more frequently, while restlessly looking into your eyes. Dachshunds are prone to many health issues, but this is a new one I hadn’t heard about. I’ll be emailing his breeder to get his thoughts on the matter.

With that, I bid you “Farewell” this morning. I need to retrieve more fans from the barn and get this air moving. Expecting 100 degrees, today. I love the desert. Patience. I love the desert. Patience. I love the desert. Patience. Etc. Etc. Etc.

“Home-owning” isn’t a static situation, but wildly fluid. In my case, literally fluid. Just when you sit down to enjoy a cuppa coffee, a septic pump blows or a pipe bursts. Every day with no breakage is a winner!

Enjoying my coffee on Tuesday morning while thinking about possibilities for the front yard, the perfect visitor knocked. The Landscape Architect arrived to give an estimate right on time for his pre-planned visit.

Now, some things should be obvious. Unless you own a mansion in the Hills of Beverly, the skills of a Landscape Architect might be a bit much. In my town, this is certainly true. As houses sell in my little neighborhood, young families move in. Busy young families, dreams overflowing, don’t have time to fret over yardwork. Face it. Keeping a landscaped area looking beautiful is hard work. Slowly, yards around me are reverting back to a natural state of weeds and sagebrush.

Retired, with nothing to do but garden, the elders of the neighborhood continue to weed, mow, fertilize, clip, chop, trim, and dig. My front yard was overgrown with junipers. Being difficult to even see the front door, they were removed. Everything lays in an arrested state of decay, awaiting the execution of a plan.

Years ago, a beautiful lawn grew in the front yard. Sprinkler pipe lay empty under the area, waiting for the day lawn will again grow. Surely possible. Stenotaphrum secundatum, Poa pratensis, or Cynodon dactylon, all deeply rich in color, would contrast beautifully against the harsh desert landscape and Nevada’s big blue sky. However, horses love lush lawn. Horses poop. A lot. My water consumption is high enough already. One solution, although not cheap, would be Engineered Poaceae. In other words, fake lawn.

These days, artificial turf has come a very long way. A variety of blades in various stages of growth and decay add to the illusion. After careful investigation, this product sells for $61 a foot, or more. Installation requires proper preparation. A 15′ x 40′ patch of green in front of Winterpast would add a kick to the neighborhood, which suffers from bland-itis with yard after yard of rock. Brown rock. White rock. Grey rock. Big or little. Rough or smooth. Any kind of rock you can imagine lines my street from East to West. I want green. Year round.

The architect, clipboard in hand, followed me from want to wish to dream. Explaining little things I’d like completed, his pencil flew across the page. It was quite a list when we were finished. Finally having a vision, he promised a prepared estimate within hours. Leaving me with a picture in my head and a song in my heart, I returned inside to finish my coffee wondering how much this would set me back

“$5,000 – $8,000 was my guess and as stickin’ to it.

Now, there was no way I’d pay that much. Simply eliminating tasks one by one, I’d trim that bill down to a respectable amount not a penny over $5,000. Green is the new Happy! Returning to the gardens of Winterpast, I continued assembling the new fountain.

Later that day, I received a phone call from the Landscaping Engineer. The estimate was complete and ready for e-mail consideration. I understood once it arrived. They couldn’t bear to hear the uproariously laughter that followed. Clearly, my yard would remain lost in the sea of rock that is my street. No lush green carpet of plastic would replace the perfectly great white rock (current cost — $0) covering the formally lawn-covered yard.

$21,000.”

Autumn is a great time to play in the front yard. Tote that white rock, I can, while preparing the spot. $3,000 is the new budget. With some decomposed granite and my gardener’s help, that will work.

Note To Self—– Landscape Architects are for the Hills of Beverly. Not for the Beverly Hillbillies. Yee Haw! Have a wonderful day.

This has been a crazy week. With the full moon shining down on my little piece of heaven, things have been hopping. Tuesday was especially crazy.

During the morning hours, many things happened. A Landscape Architect stopped by to give me an estimate on the front yard. The loyal and realistic gardener arrived to fix the sprinkler line once and for all. $40 later, it was obvious he’d need to return on another day for more digging. The old line continued to crack with every repair he made.

A ringing doorbell announced the Fed Ex delivery of meat right to my front door. Steaks in a white ice chest of deliciousness had arrived a day early. The morning was rolling along, busier than most around my retirement haven.

Then, the phone call of all phone calls came in the middle of this flurry of activity. The dentist had an opening. Would I like to repair my crown at 2:50PM? This was the call for which I’d been waiting. Finally, my 20 year old gold crown, the last of its kind, would be replaced. At least the process would begin. This brought both optimism and dread because at some point, the tooth WILL fail. It’s a given. I hoped for one more save at the hands of a skilled dentist, only 30 miles away.

My teeth are a disasterous fail. VST always joked that he should’ve examined my teeth before marriage. It’s true. Born with very poor teeth, they’ve taken me on a carnival ride through the worst hairy-fingered dental hacks known to human-kind. All teeth have received multiple crowns. They’re short timers now, like me. Old.

It amuses me when people recommend their dentist. My first question is this. How many hours have you sat being drilled, filled, capped, polished, straightened, or extracted? If it isn’t well over 50 hours, you don’t know. So the office has the cutest pictures on the walls, or a beautiful fireplace and leather chairs. So the dentist has a computer and 3-D printer that spits out a crown while you wait. So what??? Is your dentist competent???????

My last dentist had that very expensive office. Soothing music floated through halls. With 20 foot ceilings throughout the brand new building, original art adorned every wall. Every employee was trim, tanned and perfectly model like. The chairs were the newest and most comfortable. Headsets for music were offered while your dental service was completed. A computer generated a beautiful crown while I waited 4.5 hours in the chair. All in all, the experience was perfection for the mouth and teeth. OR SO I LET MYSELF BELIEVE.

The little office I’d be visiting this time was different. It was a dental office with no artwork on the walls. The floor tiles betrayed any fleck of dust, utilitarian and white. A big office, the clientele were desert folk. Coming for many different reasons, they needed a dentist that would fix what was broken. There was no Keurig machine on the counter with everything from hot chai to hot chocolate. Nope. This was a PODO. Plain Old Dental Office.

Now, let’s get this straight. I don’t fear anything dental. Being knowledgeable after hours of treatment, I can read x-rays with the best of them. My concern was that the gold jacketed tooth would need pulling and and medication might compromise my drive home. I’d deal with it if the need arose.

Once settled into the extremely clean, modern, and functional treatment room, the fun began. A digital x-ray of both the gold crown and the computer generated beauty were displayed on the wall. Side by side, the old technology and the new. There was one glaring defect staring me in the face. Between the two teeth, there was trouble brewing. It was an obvious problem, easily identifiable. Either decay or a fracture was visible.

Dr. Mike finally appeared in the doorway. Adorably dental doctor-ish, he was ready to rock and roll. After a painless shot, we were on our way to done, until we ran aground.

After drilling for seconds, the assistant stopped him. He was drilling the very expensive, computerized tooth. Removing it, actually. The defect on the x-ray was decay under the improperly formed $2500 computer generated crown. The crown hadn’t covered the tooth’s surface properly. It was a fail before I ever rose from the very expensive dental chair five years ago. A computer is only as precise as the man running it. Obviously, Dr. Dimwit hadn’t practiced enough, because he generated a defective crown for me.

As a patient, learning that the dentist is drilling on the wrong tooth is a chilling event. This happened to me once before when I was 28, and it now it was happening again. I was there to repair the worn out 20 year old gold crown. Not my beautiful new computer generated marvel, now unrepairable.

“I came in to replace the worn and torn gold crown,” I stated.

“But this one has failed and you have decay underneath,” he defended.

“I signed an agreement to replace the gold crown,” I repeated.

“Hmmmmmm. Well, then. I guess today you get two for the price of one,” he said, solving the problem.

More wonderful words were never spoken! Just like that, this dental genius became my hero. If I couldn’t have seen or read the x-ray, I might’ve felt differently. But, the decay under the computerized crown was so obvious. He was right, it needed repairing immediately.

Of course, the procedure was not without added fun and frivolity. There just wasn’t a lot to work with considering how many times these two crowns have been replaced through the years. I got to see pictures of the active decay and pictures after the decay was removed. Dental impressions were made and gum tissue burned away. Nothing like BBQ in your own mouth. All in all, just more procedures added to my list of dental experiences.

Two hours later, I was done. Dental work is a strange experience. Although you feel the same, your mouth doesn’t respond in the fashion it should. With lip and tongue drooping to the side, I drove myself home.

To Dr. Mike’s credit, I did get two crowns for the price of one, fairly priced from the beginning. With temporaries and pain meds, I returned to Winterpast, exhausted.

The moral of the story is this. Pay attention to every service hired. Medical. Dental. Automotive. Even the Beauty Shop. These days, you need to be the Dentist, as well as the gardener, landscape artist, and chef. You need to be in the know, or else, you won’t be when the wrong tooth is prepared for a new crown.

Do I blame the dentist? No. He looked up , saw the serious defect, and got to work. When he saw his mistake made with the best intentions, he made the situation right. With the cleanest and most modern dental techniques, I’ll return to Dr. Mike. Fireplaces, leather chairs, and expensive artwork don’t qualify someone as a good dentist. Caring for patients, while working through unplanned detours, does.

People are the most interesting subjects to watch. Truly fascinating, some of the more colorful characters live in the same wide spot in the road as me. Scary to think we’d have anything in common, let alone our choice of home town. I hope the similarities stop there, because there are some mighty interesting dudes around these parts. Last weekend, Joan I  returned after Oliver’s grooming and our little visit to the gun range. Zigging this way and zagging that back to Winterpast, we were slowly approaching our last sharp right turn. To our left was the most interesting sight. The houses on that side of the street sit high above the road with extremely steep driveways. At the bottom of their steep properties, there runs a fairly deep drainage ditch. With frequent flash floods throughout the year, the ditches help prevent flooding. Wedged into the bottom of the ditch was a newish SUV, grey in color. Pointing hood up, bumper down, it seemed pretty obvious what’d happened. The car had rolled off the top of the hill, slamming down and coming to a violent stop in the ditch. Next to the car stood a heavily tattooed 20-something boy with a man-bun. This short clad boy was on the phone to the man of the house, his dad. At 20 years of age, every one of our five children were no longer boys and girls, but adulting and doing quite well at it. Today, things are different. Distraught and confused, he was deep in a conversation we overheard, now that our windows were open as we drove past him at a snails pace. “Daaaaaahhhhhhhhdddd, what do you want me to do? Tell me right now! WHAT DO I DO????” There are times in life that one must look to the heavens with a grateful “Thank-You” that some problems are not ours. This falls into that category. His Daaaaahhhhhhhhdddd deserved a very nice Father’s Day, but something tells me this kid has lots more grief to give before he launches. Perhaps a lesson about the different gears in a transmission and what the “N” represents might be in order. Because, most likely, he left the car in “N” instead of “P”, leaving him in this conundrum. No doubt, he’d need to look that word up on his phone, not owning his own Funk and Wagnalls. It appeared the car was driven to the top of the hill. Perhaps still in neutral, the car rolled off the hill and slammed into the ditch. By this time, we’d used up our neighborly amount of time staring at the wreckage, so we made our right turn and proceeded home. Without a tow truck at the ready, we could be of no help to this poor lost boy. Later that evening, I felt like an ice cream sandwich from the local gas station. Jumping in the car, we raced to the Chill and Grill Jiffy Stop off 85B. It was especially busy for an early evening, but it was the group of friends parked just outside the front door that caught our eye. They were three together, with one car that didn’t run. One man, two girls and a pair of jumper cables. It was obvious from the moment we arrived who was in charge. SHE took command of the entire situation, calm, cool, and collected while wielding her jumper cables. Knowing where to connect the positive and negative charges, SHE was familiar with the workings of a battery. Another friend pulled in with a donor car and the two hoods were placed in the up position. Now they were four, one car running, one not. The young woman in command, also was in control of all eyeballs at the station. I think people were going back to fill gas a second time just to sneak a peak. I, already being in the store by the ice cream freezer next to the window, had a front row view. It took him longer than normal to make my ice cream selection. You see, this woman was wearing swim wear, not of the normal type. For the longest time, swim wear has been getting skimpier and skimpier. In my childhood, it was forbidden for women to show their naval in movies. As the years passed, it didn’t seem anything could get smaller than the Brazilian thong string bikini. But, our “Cable-ette” with her mechanical knowledge had gone one step further. Her bathing suit covered the front only. Just tiny strips of torn fabric went across the lower back. Plenty of space in between them. Nothing else. The front was torn strips that strategically covered important areas. This was her bathing suit. A vertical maze of torn fabric that obscured nothing from the rear, including the rear in its entirety. Like a torn t-shirt retrieved from a lawn mower accident, this suit covered very little, quite possibly having been designed by Edward Scissorhands. Oh My. She WAS in charge of the jumper cables. She certainly knew what to do with them. After two such entertaining episodes, I realize that trips out to various parking lots in my little town are in order. Forget evening television shows that I used to find amusing. My town is far more interesting than those. These are richly diverse and outlandish people that dance to tunes I’m unfamiliar with. I plan to investigate this new type of bathing suit, although I prefer a little more modest version when hot tubbing. These days, I continue to check the “P” for Park and set the brake before exiting my vehicle. Things work out a little better that way. Having no DAAAAHHHHDDDD to call for answers, avoiding the problem in the first place seems prudent. Happy People Watching.

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.