Grieving Gardener

Traveling alone, I’d be taking my first solo adventure in many years. Excitement churned in the pit of my stomach. Kaluapapa was only hours and a three minute airplane ride away. Memories would be carved in my heart, mine and mine alone. But, there were hours worth of adventures left on this day, as we returned to the main hotel.

VST wasn’t interested in visiting the little town of Kaluapapa. He had a real dislike for the stories of leprosy and the tragedy it brought to the islands. Although he had no problem with me visiting, he was not going to chance contracting the disease himself. He would stay at the hotel, people watch, and make sure that we had dinner reservations for the evening. He might drive around the island to look for more activities, but, he’d not be joining me on my little get-a-way.

With still no sign of any guests, we asked for some fresh pineapple and coconut milk upon our return. Three associates all raced away, finally having customers to satisfy, while VST and I sank into deep leather chairs with ottomans that sucked us into luxurious comfort. A quartet of handsome Hawaiians in flowered shirts and khaki shorts entered the room to play afternoon music just for us. The cavernous room, its high ceilings covered in wood, provided perfect acoustics. Hawaiian music drifted through the air, not to loud, not to soft, but perfect in every way.

The associates brought back a silver tray with two glasses of coconut milk, and one pineapple sliced into bite size pieces. Delicate purple orchids surrounded the pineapple. Another associate brought us warm, moist hand towels with which to refresh our travel weary faces and hands. We had at least eight associates that waited to handle our every need, because, so far, we were the only guests there.

The time approached 4 PM, and we decided to get ready for dinner. As we got up to leave, the musicians looked forlorn. An associate raced over to ask if everything was to our liking. Explaining that we were going to prepare for dinner, one had very helpful advice.

“Have you dinner reservations? It’s high season, and “Solitude Grill” fills up quickly. If you give me your name, I’ll try to get you a table by the window.” Giving them our name and room number, we continued upstairs. We had dinner reservations for 5 PM. Just enough time to get ready.

Upon returning to the room, we saw we had visitors while we were out. A crystal carafe of fresh ice water with lemon sat on the table, along with a tray of crackers and cheese. The bathroom had been prepared with even softer towels and a tray of wonderful soaps, oils, and refreshing sprays, in individual bottles. Directions for the multidirectional wall shower were on the counter, as well. A selection of bubble bath sat near the jetted soaking tub. Everything was sparkling clean and smelled faintly of hibiscus flowers.

On the deck, two light blankets had been draped over the arms of the chairs, because Hawaiian evenings can get chilly. The softest Hawaiian music played quietly.

The beautiful Hawaiian quilt had been put away, and the bed had been turned back, with at least eight down pillows fluffed and propped. On the desk lay two brand new iPad’s for our hotel use. It was as if everything we could have needed or wanted was anticipated and prepared for. We used the privacy wisely.

Wearing my newest Hawaiian sundress, and VST looking exceptionally handsome, as always, we headed out for the “Solitude Grill”. We’d been warned to arrive right on time, as the crowds could make it impossible to get near the entrance. And yet, when we arrived there was not another guest in sight. No one. Just us.

Waiters and waitresses stood at their stations in the restaurant. The glass doors slid and stacked at either side, making the far wall disappear. The ocean waves provided the music of the evening, in the open air venue. Waiters wore tuxedo jackets with tuxedo shorts. A nice touch to a beautiful and serene setting. We’d already decided on our dinner selection and wanted to order quickly. It was local movie night, and we didn’t want to be late for that either. We had been told the movie sold out quickly, being one of the few choices for evening entertainment on the island.

“I’ll have the filet mignon, medium charred, please.” On a tony cattle ranch in Molokai, the beef would be an excellent choice. I just knew it.

“Yes, Ma’am. I’ll need to check on the availability. With high season in full swing, we’ve been running low on provisions. Some selections might not be available. Could you please wait for a moment while I check?”

Looking around at the 20 empty tables, all set with the finest china and crystal, I shivered. This was becoming a bit creepy. Our room should have been noisy from the crowds in the restaurant, but there was no one to make a peep. Any additional conversations would have been welcomed at this point. But, there was just an occasional pot clanging in the kitchen. It was so quiet, whispering staff could be heard from across the room. Eerie, I began to feel like this was a new episode of the Twilight Zone.

“Yes, yes, we have two filets. Eight ounce and aged. Perfectly marbled. Grain finished. You should be very happy with the selection. Our beef is raised on the island, right above the beach, over there.” Indeed, we had driven by green pastures dotted with huge Black Angus. This should be delicious.

Dinner was served to perfection, down to the freshly baked rolls. Everything was the freshest it could be as we ate by the open windows, overlooking the beach. During dinner, there was never a sign of another guest. Just us, enjoying this most private and beautiful hotel.

After dinner, we walked to the community center where first run movies were shown once a week. Locals were paying their $2 a ticket and entering the building. With no one wearing more than a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, we were overdressed, causing a few to stare and smile. The community center had fifty chairs arranged in rows. There was a portable screen at the front of the room, and a projector in the back. We were going to see the premiere of a new movie right here in this dingy little room with no windows, because that is how things are on Moloka’i. Two local women popped popcorn in two air poppers, melting real butter on a hot plate. We ordered two bags and settled in.

With little fanfare, the movie played. A romantic comedy, the name I don’t recall. Another experience that made my love for Moloka’i deepen. Such a simple little place.

With stars high in the darkest sky, we walked back to our hotel. There were no strangers to fear or traffic to avoid as we walked down the middle of the street holding hands. The night breezes rustled the palm leaves and our hair.

Upon returning, the welcoming staff asked if we would like hot chocolate before we turned in. Sipping on whipped cream and cocoa on the lanai with the stars and the moon watching over us, there was nothing more a conversation would add. This was a place I would remember forever. Hours evaporated into dream filled sleep. An adventure beyond my expectations would unfold in the morning.

“Arrive 45 minutes before your scheduled flight. The pilot often leaves a few minutes early. Leaves a few minutes early. Leaves a few minutes early. Don’t be late.” The words played over and over in my mind, until I awoke to the alarm clock.

Oh no! Were we late, already? The airport would be bustling. We needed to get through TSA with enough time to board. We had to hurry! Adventure awaits……

To Be Continued……..

With only VST and I as passengers aboard the little plane built for eight, we could both look out the window at the vast Pacific Ocean. Within minutes, we were preparing to land at the tiny airport on Moloka’i. This island is not especially one that people beg to visit for the luscious beaches or personal cabanas. No night life or big city lights. No fantastic shopping malls or expensive luaus. Local people live here for a variety of reasons.

A very sad group of past residents had no choice to move to Moloka’i. In 1866, nine men and three women were dropped off and left to die there. Leprosy had come to the Hawaiian Islands, and these souls were the first to be banished from the general population. Thrown overboard and left to swim ashore among the sharks, they had nothing. Even worse, Moloka’i was a barren island, with little vegetation, and worse, no shelter. This was a death sentence of the most horrendous kind.

Over decades, thousands perished at Kaluapapa. Children grew up, their entire lives spent without the comfort of their moms or dads, grandmas, or grandpas. No cousins. Their new family all had one very terrible thing in common. They were victims of leprosy. Once it was discovered that a person suffered from this terrible disease, plans were quickly implemented for removal. Walked to the boat, with only the clothes on their backs, they were ripped from everything they knew and sent away. The family was left to hold a small funeral, because, they would never be together again.

Father Damien De Veuster, a young Roman Catholic priest from Belgium began his ministry in 1873, on an island in which there were no rules except those to be broken. Until his death in 1889, he and Mother Marianne Cope helped these souls build a functioning society among themselves. He was their friend, doctor, nurse, and confidante. He was a father-figure to the ailing children, as well as their school principal. He took people that had no hope whatsoever, and helped them find their way. In 2009, he became Saint Damien of Molokai. Mother Marianne reached sainthood a few years later.

Today, there are still a few residents that continue to live in Kaluapapa, which has been their home for decades. The little town is quaint, simple, and charming in a very Hawaiian way. Residents banished to this island were not allowed to make the choice to leave until 1969, although the “cure” had been discovered some time before that. Many decided to stay. The history of the tiny town is absolutely gut wrenching, and yet one filled with hope, showcasing the best and worst of the human spirit.

Kaluapapa is only one tiny part of this island. There are miles are beautiful shoreline, areas that are quiet and semi-tropical, and others that are agricultural or deserted. Importantly, Molokai is not for everyone. Don’t go there for the wrong reasons. Listen to your heart.

Traveling by taxi through beautiful countryside, we finally arrived at a beachside Sheraton hotel. We’d been warned that we were visiting the island during high tourist season, so activities that we might choose could well be sold out. Willing to take this chance, the beauty of the hotel reassured us that, even if there was nothing to do, we would find plenty of something.

While checking in, the most curious exchange occured.

“We apologize for the location of your room. It is directly above the dining room, and it can get very loud at night. It’s high season, and you were lucky to get a room at all.”

We were okay with that. As long as a mechanic wasn’t hanging from the ceiling, we would deal with a little dinner noise.

The hotel itself reminded me of going to visit an extremely wealthy cattle baron’s personal island hide away. Rich natural wood gleamed everywhere. The floors, walls, and ceiling were natural wood, stained a light color. Ceilings in the great room were two stories high. a beautiful staircase twisted back and forth to lead the guests to their rooms. Walls of glass faced the glistening ocean, and with a short walk past the pool, guests could be at the beach. Moloka’i shores are a little dicey for swimming. With a deep ocean shelf that quickly drops off, no lifeguards, and resident sharks, I didn’t feel the need to paddle into the open seas.

Our room was luxurious and understated. Fine bedding was freshly ironed and free from wrinkles. The faintest hint of hibiscus flowers scented the linens, all crisp, white, and new. The quilt on the bed was handmade and Hawaiian. A bowl of fresh fruit sat next to french doors and a deck overlooking the pool and out to the ocean. Everything was sparkling clean and inviting. There was no television or radio to bother with. With the french doors open and waves crashing gently on the beach, this hotel was becoming my favorite.

From the start, there was one thing I needed to do the following day. I would take a 3 minute flight to Kaluapapa Airport, followed by a day long excursion into town. I needed to see where Saint Damien of Moloka’i (born Josef De Veuster) and Saint Marianne of Moloka’i performed their daily miracles with hopeless souls, the victims of leprosy. Placing our bags in the room, we headed downstairs to the concierge.

The concierge area was actually in a separate open sided building. In this area, there were rows of bicycles, all brand new and waiting to be rented. There were kayaks leaned against one way and brand new surfboards leaned against another. There were walking sticks, beach towels, and sunscreen. Brochures on activities surrounding the island. Avis had a car rental booth. There was one thing missing. Tourists.

We had been warned twice at that point that this was the high season. We should expect that the last pineapple might be snatched from our lips. That dinner waits could be upwards of 30 minutes or longer. That all activities would be enjoyed by others who were crowding the beaches. But, as we looked around, this wasn’t the case. We could have walked off with a surfboard under each arm, while riding two bikes to the beach and there would have been plenty of activities left.

One loan clerk noticed there were two customers and came to our aide.

“Aloha! What activities would you like to do today?”

“I would like to visit Kaluapapa.”

“By plane or by mule?”

What an interesting question. The plane ride was three minutes. Down the run way, up over one mountain, descending to the airport, and landing. The mule ride was hours, descending the side of sheer cliff on the back of a mule. The return trip was that many hours going back up. Not some little cliff, but the tallest sea cliff in the world, measuring 3,600 to 3,900 feet. Hmmm. This was really a no-brainer for me.

“The flight, please.”

“Oh. This is troubling. I hope you understand this IS high season. I’m unsure of that possibility. We need to call to make arrangements, but it is possible that all mules or flights are booked.”

Looking at each other through side-glances, our gaze returned to her. Since arriving, we’d seen no tourists of any kind. No one tanning at the pool. No sign of surfing at the beach. No joggers. No bikers. No nothing. And yet, it was high season. The dining room had been set with the finest China and Crystal. At least 20 tables were at the ready. Bowls of tasty fruit were placed in the lobby. Employees, with crisp attire were everywhere, waiting to help. But, there were no tourists anywhere, except us.

“I know. I know. But, these people are only here for two nights. Can you check?”

The associate pleaded with the flight agent from her corded phone, looking off toward the beach as she did. After a small wait, the conversation continued.

“Wow. They are lucky. You know, high season and all.”

“You are extremely lucky. It is rare there’s availability on short notice. You need to report to the airport tomorrow morning at 7:00 AM. Please arrived 45 minutes early, because, with the added tourists during high season, the check-in process takes a bit longer. The pilot does not wait for passengers on their way to Kaluapapa. Sometimes, he even takes off five minutes early. Do not be tardy. Enjoy your flight.”

Again. High season. Walking back to the lobby, we made dinner reservations, just to be safe. Were all the tourists on some fantastic whale watching excursion? Golfing? Visiting the Menehune? All in Kaluapapa for the day? That remained to be seen. For now, we had the entire place, rich and luxurious, at our fingertips. What difference could a few tourists make anyway?

To be Continued.

Hope. Dreams. Visions of tomorrow. With retirement in full swing, I have all the time in the world to plan. True. The problem is that sometimes, the variety of choices are overwhelming and vast. With so many possibilities, temporary paralysis sometimes occurs. Rather like walking up to a intersection of several roads, all going in different directions. You can’t travel west to the beach if you are already going on the Eastern route towards Mt. Rushmore. Weather and logistics play a role in activity selection, too. Like I said, a vast array of possibilities.

Some roads simply can’t be taken anymore. Due to the virus, or old age, some routes are blocked, either permanently or temporarily. Do Not Enter Anymore. Being a lot like a wild mustang, I hate restrictions in travel, activities, or anything else. I fight them. Some fights, fights can’t be won and acceptance chips away at my spirit. Accepting age and the limitations it brings is a bitter pill to swallow.

Years ago, as a wife thinking about the future, I’d ponder the “What If’s?”. Mind you, I never thought the day would come when I would actually need contingency plans for widowhood. It was comforting to know that if something happened and I was suddenly alone, there were a few plans I could deploy. This was crazy, because, nothing would ever happen to VST. Right? Wrong! There was one plan that persisted year after year.

I always felt that if tragedy struck, I would simply pack my little suitcase and head for Hawaii. A place of healing and health. Our “Go To” place when life became overwhelming. So many times, VST and I ran to the islands with very little planning, becoming overwhelmed by life and our challenges. It was a place we could be alone to take a breath and regroup. Hawaii was our safe place.

If Covid hadn’t come to be, no doubt, I’d be an island girl by now. The last trip VST and I took together was one to be remembered. It was Spring 2013, and both of us were under immense pressures with our jobs. VST managed a huge staff of Child Protective Service employees. Imagine if one of your monthly duties was to participate in a Child Death Revue with crime photos included. By law, his case load and daily activities were not up for discussion, protecting the privacy of children and parents. His face and demeanor would reveal how bad his day had been. Coming home to the top of our mountain in the Sierra Nevada Foothills, he would lose his troubles in yard work or by becoming a make-believe villain at the local theater.

My students were sick. Very sick. I was the hospital teacher at the local Children’s Hospital. Just me and my aide would teach children that were hospitalized longer than the names of the diseases they fought. Every day, my roster would change, as kids, K-12, would fight their own battles, either caused by disease or accident. I taught heroes that taught me more. Some of my students died. But many, many more returned to home schools and real teachers. I just kept them safe at “base camp” until their journeys continued.

With the kids grown and gone, VST and I, in addition to our full time professions, were farming a 40 acre vineyard on our free time. Physically demanding, our 24 hour days had no time for frivolous dreams. We were flying through life, hanging on for dear life. VST had a favorite saying. “We can sleep when we’re dead, Darlin’.” Some days I felt like the walking dead.

When things got to crazy, VST would ask in his southern drawl, “Wanna take a trip?” I knew the destination to which he referred. Honolulu. Waikiki Beach. Oahu.

Always the answer would be “YES!” We’d gone so many times, we would just tell co-workers we were going to the beach. It wasn’t quite a lie. We’d just be taking a plane instead of the car.

With the ranch falling on hard times and devouring our salaries as quickly as we earned them, we needed to be thrifty. This time, we wouldn’t be on Waikiki Beach, overlooking the ocean with waves to lull us to sleep. We would stay at a run down hotel in need of renovations. Although it wouldn’t be the most luxurious, it was on the main drag in Hawaii. Right now, we needed trade winds to blow through our hair, while enjoying moon lit nights. We needed time to stop, as we found ourselves gasping for air. We needed Aloha in the worst way, while the Menahune would whisper some advice about our futures.

Menahune are funny little beings with great appreciation for humor and mischievousness. Quite shy, small in stature, and nocturnal, you can easily overlook them. Being very industrious, they surely had plans for VST and I, as we were kindred spirits in that way. Oh, I might add, there are those that don’t believe in the Menahune. Laugh at the thought, comparing them to leprechauns, or worse, trolls. Each to his own. I find them to be one of the very magical and lovely characters of island lore.

“Do you want to visit Moloka’i?” On the second day of our holiday week, his words shocked me.

Looking at VST, I wondered where my husband was, because that was not a question that would come from his lips. Moloka’i had called to me from first time I learned about the history of this quiet island. I’d often asked if we could travel there. My question was always answered with a blank, and then, negative stare.

Now, with our hotel room temperature reaching 95, as a hotel mechanic hung out of the ceiling, with only hairy legs showing, I needed to discern if VST had lost his mind. From the beginning of our trip, the tired old hotel had been riddled with problems. The only thing more tired than the hotel was the staff, and they were facing exhaustion. Unhappy visitors lined the cloudy pool. Maintenance men had long fix-it lists. Phone lines were down. The nightly entertainment sucked. The ice machine crashed. Both VST and I felt we should have brought work clothes to help these people right the ship.

“Well, do you?”

With that, flight arrangements were made, two carry-on’s were packed, and out the door we went. If you knew VST, you would understand conditions needed to be dismal for Moloka’i to be an attractive option. For me, this was a dream come true. I’d be returning home to a place I’d not been in this life time. This was arranged by the Menahune, who were, perhaps, responsible for creating the terrible hotel environment. They’re sneaky, in that way.

At any rate, standing at the private airport, awaiting own little flight to Moloka’i, I was ready to embrace whatever lessons were in store for me. My heart was open and giddy with excitement. VST had come back to his senses, wondering what the heck he had just agreed to.

“You may board the plane now. Come this way, please.”

Just like that, we were on our way to adventure. No TSA lines. No other passengers. No. Two private people boarding a tiny little plane capable of traveling over the ocean to a different kind of paradise. Buckled in, we took off.

To be continued.

4-H camp was something that I always looked forward to as a child. There were so many parts of camp that were just delicious. Leather crafts, canoeing, and swimming. Meals so good, plates were emptied in minutes. Camp counselors that were golden goddesses to us kids. A nurse that took gentle care with the smallest injuries. Campfires in which everyone glowed by firelight, as skillful camp leaders told stories that were just scary enough to give the group goosebumps.

Skits and jokes kept us all laughing. If letters arrived, the addressee had to perform a silly stunt before they could open them, sometimes expected to read them out loud. Laughter was a great part of camp. As new friendships blossomed, old friends enjoyed fun filled days. When lights went out, campers quickly fell into deep sleep, exhausted from the activities of the day. We grew in independence, resilience, and confidence as camp days expired, one by one.

Although I never saw a sign of any bears, our annual camp was held at a place called Bear Skin Meadow. Raised platforms held neat rows of metal bunks under a starlit sky, and for a few days each summer, life was magical in the high Sierra Nevada Mountains. Boys on one side of the camp, girls on the other, with camp buildings in the middle. Childhood wasn’t about gender identity, it was about age appropriate activities and making friendships that would last a lifetime.

My girlfriends Betty, Jackie, Linda, Sandy, Karen, and Susan were all there. The backdrop of the forest made us into new versions of ourselves. We grew in many ways during that week while trying new things. For some kids, it was a first try steering a small canoe on a big lake. For others, the terror of being away from home for the first time hit hard. But, for all of us, that magical week each year was an inspiring platform for growth. You couldn’t go through a week of camp and return home unchanged. Impossible.

This summer, I want to create the aura of summer camp, grown-up style. I’m pretty sure I’ll be safe from bears in the confines of Winterpast, however, I might be grossed out by an occasional lawn-eating toad. I want to lay outside in the night breezes falling asleep under the beauty of the night sky. Perhaps I’ll be serenaded with a whinny from a passing mustang, as he clip-pity-clops along. With the fire roaring, Ace and I will exchange campfire stories that help us to know each other better. There are probably a few camp songs we can sing for old time’s sake. With golden marshmallows melting chocolate between graham crackers in tasty Smore’s, the total camp experience will be achieved.

Sometimes, the importance of play is forgotten. The sheer enjoyment of breathing fresh air without a mask is now treasured. Looking up to the stars to identify constellations or see the first satellite of the night is satisfying. To dream little dreams of whimsy that came so easy as a child can happen again, if the brain quiets and we listen to our inner self. Those experiences create the perfect environment for creativity and inspiration to thrive.

Summer camp for me will include learning a new skill and practicing an old one. It will include crafts, friends, and acting. A disciplined bed time will assure that I awake at the crack of dawn to a hearty breakfast and some physical activity. Keeping the bunkhouse clean, I plan to tend to Winterpast’s gardens, so that she continues to look her best. It will include daily adventure walks to the mail box, hoping for mail from loved ones. At days end, stories shall be shared around the campfire with friends, even if it’s only Oliver and me.

The neighbors will probably wonder what the heck the Widow Hurt is doing in her back yard. That’s okay. They already know I’m a little different than the others. Who knows? With a little effort, maybe the neighborhood will join in with my Summer Camp Week!

May is almost over and the time for camp and dreams is now. Try leaving the rest of the world behind for an evening and find your own wilderness. Don’t forget the sunscreen and mosquito repellant. I hear the fish are biting and the water’s fine. Happy camping!!

I’ve stopped listening to the news. With gloom and doom surrounding every story, sometimes ignorance is bliss. Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of a slick, shiny-toed news pawn or politician and think to myself, “Could YOU survive a night in the high desert wilderness? Our even a trip through our little Starbucks drive-through? Really? I think not.” Have they ever been challenged by the wild in ways that tested their spirit? Some seem so fragile that a strong wind might blow them away. Perfect hair. Perfect teeth. Perfect eyes. Perfect points of view. If you happen to think their interpretation is perfect.

Wearing suits that cost more than a week’s salary for many, or shoes cost more than it does to feed a family of four for two weeks, Their images are displayed on American televisions. Smug and polished, they dictate the newest hair styles, clothing, and catch phrases. They hand out fabricated “facts” like Halloween candy to us, the little Trick or Treaters. And, we gobble it all down, hungry for more.

In my youth, news was something that came on for a few minutes at 7:00 AM and then again at 6 PM. At a very young age, there was no such thing as dinner time shows, because, there was no television. With the advent of TV, we would all watch the evening news with Walter Cronkite and soak up his every word. Each night, his program would finish with the number of dead soldiers in Vietnam. In a house full of girls, the news came to a group that really didn’t understand war or casualties. But, we listened, all the same, with quiet sadness as the numbers grew.

Now, it seems that anything qualifies as news. As the hands of the clock move, Tik Tok videos go viral. The silliest things catch the nation’s attention, becoming the latest rage. While Covid isolated elderly parents from children and grandchildren for over a year, the news marched on, showing images remaining in our brains long after the broadcast was turned off. Stories of horror, caused by something we can’t even see or touch. Something that has changed our way of life forever.

Microscopic evaluations occur on a daily basis of events that are parsed into small visual sound bites by news “professionals” that were not even there. Not knowing the before or after, we’re asked again and again to join a group or cause often without being told the entire story. Words are arranged to make tempers flare and rage simmer, all while individuals forget to do their own investigation to make informed decisions about their stand on a subject. Opinions are formed by the lead story. Passions flame over something that happened somewhere that someone told them through a game of telephone. Very few times is a story told in its entirety, without personal opinion and point of view added for impact.

Through all of this, those slick dressed entertainers sit in studios and offices with the perfect lighting to make their youthful skin glow. The pretty people write stories they spoon feed us like a baby’s formula. We lap up every last drop.

Yesterday, driving through the vast and barren high desert BLM (Bureau of Land Management) lands owned by us all, I thought about those people who seem to give us daily answers to questions we never thought to ask. How would they fare if placed any one of the many mountaintops that surround my little town with only water and a loaf of bread? How many of them would know that the sun rises in the East and sets in the West? How many would be able to come close to knowing the time of day by the position of the sun in the sky? How many would not be able to find their way off the mountain and perish before lunch? Even with an abundance of gravel roads to follow, most would die within ten feet of where they started.

Self sufficiency and critical thinking are life skills that seems unimportant to many in our country. Even making a home brewed cup of coffee is lost on millions of citizens. Watching commercials, it’s easy to see that some people have forgotten how to find a recipe or chop an onion, because it’s easier to wait for a box to arrive with a preassembled dinner inside. A microwave system reads a bar code on a prepared dinner, so even entering the necessary cooking time is an unneeded skill. More time for videos gone viral, or games on a screen. More time to showcase selfies to the world.

This summer, I’m looking forward to being outdoors. Visiting the local woods while reading a paper map, I plan to make my own Vitamin D while soaking up some sun. Maybe I’ll even continue to live on the wild side and walk outside without a mask or sunscreen. My bronzed skin has never looked more healthy. I can’t wait to ditch the internet for days on end while just enjoying the sky and wind with nature surrounding me.

Those polished types live in a different world than the one in which I thrive. They would never fit in the little town I call home. We are referred to as heartland fly-over country by the elites. Funny, here in the high desert, we’re relieved they keep flying wherever their itinerary takes them. News folk and politicians just may be missing what is real and true about our country. At the very least, they cause me to click off the television. There is always something more interesting to do in the high desert.

Pictures of injured or starving mustangs are disturbing. Every year, many articles talk about the struggle of the mustangs to survive on the outskirts of densely populated areas without obvious food sources during a drought. Living amidst the horses, I often wonder if these are stock photos are used to raise sympathy dollars. The mustangs I share the desert with are fat and sassy most days. The determination and will of a 1500 pound horse is awe inspiring, especially when they are invading a neighborhood at night breaking sprinkler pipes for a drink or ravaging a front yard for a tasty treat.

Not to say they don’t have their share of hardships. It’s true. The most obvious cause of death that I’ve observed is road related. Horses and cars are a terrible combination. It’s usually fatal for all involved and it happens more than you would think. Mustangs are always on the move, along with people. Picture postcard still, somedays they seem not to move at all. But then, I’ll be lucky enough to see them galloping through long empty stretches of BLM (the real one – Bureau of Land Management) acres. Picturesque and fitting, because that land that belongs to all of us as Americans. Public use lands.

Horses are hardy and resilient animals. When the foals are born, they must be ready to travel miles with the herd by the end of their first day of life. When newborn, their little tail are puffs of fluff. Little pointed hooves travel over hot sands and jagged rocks. They huddle close with the herd on cold desert nights. They wade through winter snows, growing up fast . In a very short time, the fluff is replaced by a real tail and their muscles grow strong. There is nothing delicate about a mustang foal. Even less delicate is the rage you can incite from the herd if you try to mess with one. And yet, idiot tourists do.

I’ve seen only a few terribly injured horses since I’ve lived in Nevada. Of course, the stallions are often covered with hairless hoof prints, testimony to territorial fights. They bite and kick each other with ferocity. On hind legs they strike with their front while teeth protrude and their loud screams complete the picture. This can happen anywhere, at any time. In the streets of Virginia City while on my deck, I was witness to one such argument. Violent, it came out of nowhere and made me respect these horses from a distance. The front and rear end, and, the teeth!

Bachelor herds form and roam together. In Virginia City, it was obvious these young stallions were either too young or old to have their own harem. Being horses, and liking company, at times they would hang out together. It was in these groups, often grazing below my suspended deck, on which I would see hunks of hanging flesh, slowly healing from the last major fight. Never anything more than superficial wounds, they looked gruesome, but didn’t prevent the stallions from walking miles while dreaming of their own harems one day. Seemingly docile and domestic, introduce a mare in heat, and the entire situation would change in an instant. The most fit, dominant, and rugged male always got the girl, or two or three of them.

Mustangs eat anything. They eat every waking moment as they plod along searching for food. Standing at the corner of Rabbit Brush Lane and Highway 85 when I run to the store, they’re docile and still. Twenty minutes later, upon my return, they’ve vanished into thin air. The topography allows us to see for miles, but, they disappear without a trace. They have no predators in the desert. Their only adversary is man. As more people escape city entrapment to move to the beauty of the high desert, habitats and the fragile desert landscape suffer. Some would insist the mustangs are an intruder, not truly native. but introduced to the desert way of life hundreds of years ago. There is truth to that, but, they find themselves in a wild state now. They’re as American as you or I, still enjoying their absolute freedom.

Last week, driving along Rabbit Brush Lane, a drama was unfolding. Vehicles lined the side of the road, all with similar markings on the doors reading “Large Animal Rescue Team”. Off to the south side, dwarfed by the tall sage brush and tumbleweeds, a group of eight people formed a human corral. Wearing yellow and orange reflective vests, holding orange boards, while being spaced at least six feet apart, they stood without speaking. I know this, because I stopped to watch, not sure what was happening.

They didn’t move. They didn’t speak. They stood with their 2′ x 3′ boards, horizontally, in front of their bodies. This made them appear larger than they were, still and quiet. Inside the very large human corral they formed was a lone mustang stallion. Chestnut in color, it also stood quietly. Make no mistake, it had every single person identified and under its radar. It chewed nervously while watching with intensely intelligent eyes. It’s all about the eyes with mustangs.

This stationary stand-off went on for minutes until the mustang decided to move away from these folks, just a little. Then, it was obvious. This guy was horrible injured. Not obvious if the injury was to hip or leg, the horse was in grave distress. As he hobbled along, the group took small steps forward, still not talking or making any quick movements.

Determined, the group moved towards a temporary and creative. The goal was to get the mustang into the old, beat up horse trailer, waiting with an open gate. When handling mustangs, the older and more beat up the trailer the better, because, it will surely be that way after transporting 1500 pounds of anger. Metal horse panels came out like a V from back of the trailer, tightly secured and creating a funneled entrance. More metal horse panels formed a small pen with the gates gaping, wide open. There was one way in, and no way out for this guy.

As the group waited, the stallion watched and chewed. Slowly, all of them moved towards the corral and trailer. As this was happening, no ropes were thrown. No taunting or yelling occurred. Only the wind disturbed the silence of the desert as eight men and women physically asked this injured mustang to head toward the trailer and medical help. He seemed to understand the situation. His body language seemed to say, “I really need some help guys, just give me a minute here.”

This was one lucky mustang. Suffering a severe injury, as his obviously was, the result would have been death by dehydration and starvation, as he was in no shape to follow his herd to greener pastures. With endless patience, time went by as the group approached the corral. With one futile escape attempt, he entered the corral, the gates shut, and the wild horse stood calmly, awaiting the next request from the group.

The gang of eight didn’t approach the corral, or even acknowledge that he was trapped. They simply talked quietly a little ways from the corral. They let him settle and think about the situation at bit. He needed a rest, and so did they. Job well done on all parts.

In observing these expert horse men and women, I was impressed by their knowledge, patience, and persistence with this stallion. There will would be done, but on his time. They showed respect and in return, he responded to their wishes. Simple. This procedure couldn’t be hurried along, or carried out in a disrespectful manner. That would have simply resulted in more injury for the stallion and possible the rescue workers.

The outcome for this stallion is unknown. Injuries involving hips and legs are extremely serious in horses. The High Desert Large Animal Rescue Team did just as they have been trained. The stallion has the best chance of recovery with them. That’s what they do best. But even with the best of care, leg and hip injuries are most serious in horses. This team will provide care with the least amount of suffering.

It seems our world could learn a lot from these amazing men and women. So many misunderstanding arise from forced will upon others. A lack of time to calm and think often creates disastrous outcomes in a world moving at warp speed. Sometimes, just standing still, while doing or saying nothing allows everyone time to think and make sensible decisions on their own. Yet another lesson to be learned here in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada.

The day is here when my happy involves living life while appreciating each moment.

The time is now when new adventures are not wrapped in fear.

The day is here when going on an outing can be spontaneous and organic.

The time is now that the devastation of cancer no longer dictates my weeping.

The day is here when something silly can make me belly laugh, loudly.

The time is now to realize the winter of intense grief has passed.

A peace is growing in the space between who we were then, and who I’m becoming right now.

Creativity blooms again, fresh and new, after the firestorm of a cancerous death.

Within Winterpast’s safe comfort, my life shines in technicolor.

God watches over me as I garden quietly and smile.

Dreams bloom as sweetly as fragile peonies, scenting the high desert breezes of spring with their delicate fragrance.

Happiness lives in my soul, where despair and loneliness have no lodging.

Adventure, travel, happiness, and love are mine to enjoy, chosen with sound judgement and care.

Struggles will undoubtedly come again and I’ll be ready.

For this moment, I dance under the bluest skies while rejoicing with the flowers.

Joy Hurt 5/24/2021

What a week it’s been here in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada. Waking up to the sound of rain refreshes my spirit. There are not that many rain filled spring days, so this week, I have enjoyed every single one. This morning, the wireless rain gauge reports we have had over an inch of rain in a week. There has been homemade vegetable soup simmering, Christmas projects at the kitchen table, and old movies on tv. A nice way to enjoy retirement, which I love more and more each day.

On Tuesday, I found the need to get out of the house. Everyone needs to see another human once in awhile, and Tuesday was my day. Receiving an email from a local political group, it seemed an interesting speaker would be visiting my little town to tell his story. I looked him up, online, and watched two of his speeches. I would be there to hear him in person.

Leaving a little early, I’d take $5 and try my luck with the one armed bandit at the casino where the meeting would be held. Well, I might as well have ripped the $5 in two, because my luck remains the same. A gambler I’m not. VST and I would each try our luck before enjoying burgers at a local casino close to Virginia City. Sometimes he’d win enough to pay for our meal, but more often, we’d just spend a few mindless moments feeding the machines before dinner. Luckily, gambling never had a hold on either one of us. You can hope in one hand and …. well …. you know the saying.

Covid-19 left our casinos dark, eerie, and empty places. Shiny machines twinkle in the dim light. Perky music plays loudly. The Bars sit empty. Employees, scrubbed and starched, smile amongst themselves, as no one enters. Since the relaxation of mask requirements, things are starting to return to normal. Thank goodness.

After my little gambling loss, I headed for the meeting room at the back of the “Big Bears in the Forest” Restaurant. Familiar faces entered the room, and soon, I was with friends. Not close friends, but people that I’ve met over my first year. No longer the new girl in town, I felt at ease and settled into my own little space.

Watching the crowd trickle in, I realized the group had dwindled in number, as I assume many political groups have. It mattered not to me. I was on a mission to listen to one man who had a message I was certain was meant for me.

Invited to a table of five, I declined. Although appreciative, protection of personal space is something that is automatic now. Finding a table near the window, I settled in. Sitting alone, I wished I had someone to talk to, and then, in she bounced. Bubbly and beautiful Ninja Neighbor! When you’ve lived somewhere long enough to run into a neighbor, you’re no longer new. She came to join me, immediately finding things to chat about. She’s such a blessing to me. Our of the corner of my eye, I kept watching for Captain Sam Brown.

The retired officer would be obvious. A very tall and lean war veteran, his entrance would surely command attention. County and State leaders filed through the door as I waited, until he appeared. In jeans and a pale blue shirt, he radiated kindness and self-confidence. Joined by his wife, the two made a stunning couple. Making their way around the room for introductions, it was obvious they had the makings of a power couple. No one could look away.

Sam had chosen his topic well. Suffering. It’s here I need to mention that Sam had been through more than a little hell in his life. As a WestPoint graduate and Captain in the United States Army, he had chosen infantry as his career focus. One day in the desert, his group was the unlucky one to hit an IED (roadside bomb), leaving him covered with burning diesel fuel and terribly injured. Yes. The suffering had left this handsome man with a different kind of face than you or I.

Sam talked about suffering in life. As he shared, many thoughts raced through my mind. Physical suffering. Mental suffering. Spiritual suffering. Loss of youth. Loss of career. Loss of a spouse. Loss of dreams. The list was endless. Through life we all live endure suffering, but how do we choose to deal with it?

Sam had no choice at that moment. Luckily, his fellow soldiers were there to get him to safety, to face a coma, unimaginable pain, and years of reconstructive surgery. Sam talked about embracing the suffering through his faith and courage. Internalizing his message, I could relate. So much of the last two years of my life took courage I didn’t know I had. Smoldering, it would flame to action when I needed it the most. Courage was always there, at my core, just like Sam and the rest of us.

Through the suffering and courage, bloomed character and optimism. Sam had to learn to do the simplest things all over again, while facing surgery after surgery. Through it all, there appeared, by his side, a sweet soldier that helped him through. Falling in love, they walked through his healing together and eventually married.

The one thing Sam never lost was hope for a bright future. It was there on his darkest days when thoughts of his tomorrows were unclear. When feeling all was lost, he kept looking for things that weren’t. He changed his course while walking past the things taken away, towards new opportunities that bloomed as he healed. He had to learn to smile again. And he did.

Looking around the room as he spoke, it was obvious. The collective suffering in the room was overwhelming, and yet, so was the character and sense of hope. You could feel it in the air and through quiet tears that fell as we listened to this brave hero’s story. Faith and hope are sometimes the only tools we have to get through when all seems lost.

Through the suffering and hope, as Sam told the story, character built the foundation for success. Each new sufferable obstacle was met as an opportunity for growth as he has continued to power through life, marriage, and fatherhood of three young kids. A few flames were not going to extinguish Sam’s life story. Faith and hope are carrying him through. Reflecting on Sam’s outlook on life helped me to reflect on my own. An evening well spent.

Inspirational? A resounding yes. Sam’s story is told in several videos on YouTube. Just search Captain Sam Brown. You won’t be disappointed. We should all watch for great things from this lovely couple in the future.

491.9 Kilometers of dreams took me straight into the worst nightmare yet. I’d slept 6 extra hours in an upright position. Perhaps I’d been awake here or there, but never when the train stopped in Tiraspol. For that little snippet of time, I was out like a light. No one knew where I was going or whether or not I had documents to go there. All very important information in a communist country.

Russian law in 1977 required that in order to leave a certain area, you must have the proper documentation and travel visa. Written permission to leave a home town’s border was required. Without a blessing from those in charge, you were breaking very serious laws, as I was now.

I had no permission to be in Kiev, arriving by train or any other method. I had no contacts in Kiev. The only word I knew was “TractoroExport”. This agency of the Russian government was our only contact. It was this word that I kept repeating over and over as a small viewing audience grew. It was obvious that this very distressed and young woman needed some immediate help.

On long taxi trips to the farm on which we worked, we would often get stuck on dirt roads behind prison trucks. The trucks themselves were modified box trucks with no side windows. The back door had a window with steel bars and no glass. To each side of the door, there were square steel platforms with railing. Each one of them held an armed guard and a huge Alsatian, bigger than ANY German Shepherds bred in the states. These dogs were magnificent with amber colored eyes that didn’t miss a move. Pair them with two Russian guards with AK-47’s that would stab and shoot you simultaneously, while laughing. Ice water veins, they looked straight past us into nothing.

As I struggled from the back seat to see prisoners inside, they jockied for position to look through the bars back at the taxi behind them. Crowded, the men, with their blank stares and shaved heads looked like prisoners of war. I can only guess what crimes they had committed. Jaywalking outside of a crosswalk? Not handing over a passport when it was demanded? Now, with no paperwork to be in Kiev, I could join them on their box-truck journey. Because, I had broken some big, big laws with my untimely slumber.

Led to a waiting car by a uniformed officer, the crowd parted and I felt very small and extremely important, all at once. Seriously in deep water, I got in the back with no more tears to cry. Not even a hiccup. Petrified and living my worst nightmare. It wasn’t a regular patrol car, but not a black Mercedes either. Somewhere in between.

“I take you. TractorExport. Now.”

I didn’t quite know what my fate would be. I hoped they would find some kindness in their hearts to send me back to Tiraspol or out of this communist hell hole to await my fate in Vienna. Pulling up to the TractoroExport building, I felt comfort that I could read the word, but also terror at what was to come.

Inside a plain but clean office, four very Russian men, all in black suits, white shirts, and grey ties, stood on one side of a desk glaring at me. I sat on the opposite side. In my experience, all government buildings and offices look exactly the same. There are multiple pictures of Lenin everywhere, sometimes even in life size. Pictures of Leonid Brezhnev, the Acting General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist party, were smaller in size, but also hung around the building. The furniture was all the same cheaply varnished, reddish wood. Every bookcase, desk, chair, or stapler was exactly the same in any office I had visited. Communist produced and government issued.

The four TractoroExport associates were not sympathetic to a lost American. The were judgmental and harsh. Peering into my eyes, they shared their disbelief that I’d been so stupid. I agreed with them on that count.

“And you did not get off at your stop, Why? Do you realize you are in very deep trouble? What REAL business do you, an AMERICAN woman, have in our city, KIEV? Does KIEV sound like TIRASPOL? “

The questions went on and on, and soon, I was again weeping. In quiet irritation they discussed the options for my return. Delivered to where, I knew not. They held my passport, my train tickets, and what little Romania Leu I had left.

“You will need to pay for ticket back to Tiraspol.”

This was great! I had the Leu. I handed it all to them. Just take it. Blankly they stared back.

“This is worth nothing. We need $100 American dollars for the six hour taxi ride back to Tiraspol. You will pay now.”

I had turned ALL my available dollars into Leu in Bucharest. It was then I found out the truth. Leu was not worth the paper it was printed on. I had zero money. I had broken serious laws. And now, it was up to these men to decided my fate.

An hour later, after many more questions and accusations, the four men escorted me to a waiting taxi driver. Just one. I was relieved. It was a little before noon, and they gave me a sandwich and soda to take on the trip. Each one shook my hand and dropped the angry Russian attitude just long enough for a Goodbye. The driver was given proper documents to carry his precious cargo to Tiraspol and return to Kiev immediately. With that, we were on our way.

For the first few hours, the driver would occasionally glance at his rear view mirror and me. Self conscious in the beginning, I finally ignored him and took in the countryside. I’d used the restroom before leaving, so, I was in no distress. But, at one point, he pulled over the car on an isolated stretch of road.

I really didn’t want to look outside, in fear of what I might see. It didn’t seem odd when he went to the trunk, opened it, and spent extra time in the back. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but as long as it didn’t involve me, I was okay with that. I was looking forward to seeing the translators and my husband, in that order. I’d have some choice words for Arten. On several occasions, he had almost cost me my life and liberty by suggesting this trip. He would hear about it, along with his superiors. I was ready for what I would need to hear about my ill-timed slumber.

After a good 20 minutes had passed, the driver closed the trunk and returned to the car. We were off. Just before sunset, a very tired girl was delivered back to a run down and ratty hotel, The Druz-bah. Two very excited interpreters came running out to the taxi. They held money for the driver and helped retrieve my belongings from the trunk. With heartfelt and sincere Goodbye’s, he was off in a cloud of dust and I was left in the arms of two true friends that had been worried sick ever since the men returned without me.

A few minutes later, there was my new-ish husband. Things really hadn’t been good for us that very long summer. It was just nice to see another familiar face. The four of us retreated to our hotel room with my suitcase and back pack. Shopping on our vacation had been fun, and I brought special souvenirs for the interpreters.

Opening my bags, the obvious was staring me in the face. One last slap from the worst three days I could’ve ever experienced. I. Had. Been. Robbed.

Thinking back to the taxi ride, I flashed again to the stop on the road. The extended play time in the trunk. The quiet demeanor of the thief. He had been thorough. Cameos from Italy–gone. Amber jewelry –gone. Gold cross and chain –gone. The list was as long as it could have been for two newlyweds on an impromptu honeymoon. Sentimental gifts and trinkets that together didn’t amount to very much to anyone except us.

Immediately, the interpreters were asking if we wanted the driver arrested. Needing only to have said the word, our belongings would have been returned. The driver would find his place in the box truck with the others.

“No. I think he needs those things more than we did. I’m safe. Can we leave it at that?”

So ends the tale of my fateful train trip. So many times through the years I have given thanks that it unfolded the way it did with angels at every turn to help me through. Politics and Covid have changed travel and customs forever. The names of the towns I rolled through are all changed, as well. The Orient Express is no longer the name of a portion of a train excursion. Like so many things in life, the best things held dear are the memories of a different time, place, and a very young American woman, living adventure one day at a time.

Traveling through communist countryside by train isn’t a trip one should try alone. Actually, traveling anywhere alone can be compromising to one’s health. Two together can tackle most problems, but alone, you are out there in survival mode. This is how I found the situation I was in as I entered the third day aboard the Train to Hell.

Having gotten over the Joni Mitchell romanticism of the sleeping car, I needed a different view. Carefully, I made it towards gen-pop (general population) in coach. The fat ladies were mowing through their baskets of goodies. Yum. 6″ long, dried fish were held like popsicles as they were consumed, HEAD FIRST. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Others were gnawing on stale rolls like the ones I had bought before leaving. Body odor was overwhelming. Large ladies protruded from their aisle seats like rising loaves of bread. Kids laughed. Elders slept.

With only one available seat open near three seedy looking men in zoot-suits, I claimed it. Their eyes all turned to me, as I joined them.

“Eh-Lo, Miss-ee!” said Mr. Brave One. When they smiled, it was obvious. Three Russians. Their dental work gave it away, with gold grills, all three. Between the body odor and smell of alcohol and cigarettes, I wished there had been a seat anywhere else.

“Where you going to?” inquired Mr. B.O.

“Tiraspol, Moldavia.”

Confusing looks shot back at me from the trio.

“Where you from?”

“America.”

A raucous conversation followed, intensified as one produced a hidden flask of hooch, quickly passed from mouth to mouth. Shoving the booze my way, I declined. I understood nothing, except that these guys presented a clear and present danger with which I wanted nothing to do. I kept scanning the train for an open seat, but there were none.

Their interest in me quieted down as they became more drunk and bored. Soon, quietly talking between themselves, I relaxed a little, becoming fixated on the countryside. We were traveling through a barren landscape, browned by the shortening days of late October, and the night time temperatures well below freezing. The stark, empty visuals were interrupted only by a parallel train track 300 yards away.

In the distance, a chilling sight was coming into view. Something devastatingly large and black. I couldn’t quite identify it, until I could. On the other track lay train cars derailed, twisted, and burned almost beyond recognition. Obviously a passenger train, because each car had characteristic large-gauge chains and padlocks on the outer doors, locking the passengers in and intruders out. The train I was riding in had the same, eliminating the ability to walk between cars. I flashed back to my own sleeping car, with a window that opened only two inches. Claustrophia made my skin crawl. The wreckage held people once upon a time. Fat women with their baskets and men in their worn out zoot suits. Elders. Children. Russians. Multiple cars, maybe upwards of 10 lay in a maze of charred metal and broken glass. It had been one hell of a fire.

Wide-eyed, I gasped.

“What? Something wrong with you?” Mr. B.O. asked with a smirk.

I pointed to the train. Multiple cars were still visible, with no life anywhere to be seen. Not a current disaster, it appeared the accident had cooled from the terrific fire that must have ensued after the crash.

“People dead?” quietly, I asked.

“People? Dead???? No. No. Cattle cars,” laughing, he spoke quickly to the others and they all laughed loudly.

Liar.

First, cattle production isn’t a major industry in Russia. No production feedlots full of fat and sassy steers. No steaks. No long meat counters at the grocery store. Not much excess meat of any kind. When old cows die, they are cut up and sold for dinner. The sad truth of my summer experiences in Tiraspol.

I’m a farm girl. The bone marrow tells the tale of bovine health. Healthy cows gave milk. Sick or dead ones provided meat. Period. People stood for hours to buy maggot laden, unrefrigerated beef hanging off rusted meat hooks when such a luxury becomes available. I’ve stood in those lines to buy just such a product, sometimes hours. Protein deprivation and starvation make people do desperate things.

Sickened, a seat opened up far away from this triangle of disgusting men. I moved.

Just like the poppy fields in the Wizard of Oz, I was suddenly overcome by the need to sleep. “Sleep, my pretty. Sleep.” Sleep I did. For how long? I know not. With no one to wake me, I slumbered deeply until the train came to a stop.

Opening my eyes, the nightmare continued, now born from stupidity mine, and mine alone.

Looking around, no passengers remained on the train. Everyone had left. The basket ladies. The three disgusting men. Kids. Elders. Everyone was gone. Vanished. Quickly, I raced to my sleeping compartment and retrieved my belongings. I was the very last person to exit the train as it stood, wheels still steaming from the very long trip.

“KIEV, UKRAINE” the Station Sign read.

No.

No.

No.

I’d arrived in another country. The wrong country. A country kilometers away from any form of safety and comfort I had traveled three days to find. I stood at this station knowing I had done a very, very dangerous and stupid thing. I’d slept through the stop in Tiraspol, Moldavia. I was now totally screwed.

To be continued……………..