Grieving Gardener

There are all kinds of angels and heroes in this world. While waiting for angels to come down from heaven in white robes, they might be standing right in front of you, smudged with a bit of grease and a smile. Such is the case in my world of automobiles. I’m fortunate enough to own two very nice vehicles. Some days I want to sell them both and buy an apple red sports car, fiery like my spirit. But, mine are practical vehicles for my lifestyle. A Jeep Wrangler and a Dodge Ram pickup, not feminine, but then, neither am I. From the beginning of time, automobile worries weren’t something I needed to worry about. With my dad’s shop at the ready, including gas any time I needed it, the brand new car was a place to race from here to there. Never did I do a proper cost analysis of the privilege of owning a car, because for me, the cost was zero. This continued on, as I grew older and married VST. Before earning is doctorate, VST was a professional master mechanic, perfectionist in all he repaired. Knowing all the tricks of the trade, he kept our vehicles perfectly serviced and repaired. And, then……. He died. These days, I drive very little. VST always loved to drive, being a perfect fit for me. Although a good driver, I don’t find it fun. It is a means to an end, and if I can be a passenger, I’m much happier. I would rather write, shop online, and have my groceries delivered. More time to sit in the hot tub. One of the last bits of information VST told me about the vehicles was important. Just a week before dying, he told me to always respect the fix-it lights on the car. When it says to change the oil, do it. If the tires are low, air them. If it says, “Check Engine”, get to the shop. Good advice for someone who had to go to YouTube just to learn how to open the hood on the Dodge Ram. As things do, my tires on the Jeep were worn down. Please. Check your tires today. There is a white line that goes across the tire tread. If you start to see that, it is time to replace the tires. Mine were wearing unevenly, and needed attention. In the high desert, good tires are a must. Either you’re fighting with sand or snow. Possibly a torrential downpour. So, a tire rotation every 5,000 miles is not just something to think about doing. It’s important to do it. Now, in the autumn of my life, when I was dreading car maintenance and the learning curve for a new skill, an Automotive Shop owner drove right into my life. When visiting his shop for the first time, he was quite bold and very assertive. With a few maneuvers, he hoisted my Jeep up on his handy-dandy car lift. Does your friend have one of those? As we walked under the Jeep inspecting the new tires that had just been installed through a business acquaintance of his, he was pulling on this and tugging on that. A worried look came over his face. He gave me the sad news. “Your tie-rods are loose.” Oh, my goodness. I was crest fallen when the dentist first told me my gums were flabby. Deflated when my arms started to flap like wings in the breeze when wearing a swim suit. Saddened beyond the beyond when my knees no longer looked so good in shorts. But, this was too much. Loose Tie Rods. Worse than that, they were connected to a Steering Dampener, which had been installed as an early recall and fix for a situation called the “Death Wobble”. This has happened to the Jeep on three occasions that I can identify, and it’s very, very scary. In rough road, you can lose control of the car. It can literally cause you to crash, or worse, drive off a cliff. The recall had been done by the dealership and a professional mechanic. There was no reason to believe it was anything but life-saving and correctly installed. This was a inspection and repair my friend advised would be better off handled by the dealership. A beautiful Jeep dealership sits in the middle of my little town. Yesterday was the day I went to see them. After waiting and waiting, while my little Jeep was up in the air the verdict was in. The recalled part, the Steering Dampener”, was put in BACKWARDS at the Jeep dealership in my old town. Yes. Backwards. Yes. A recalled fix for a situation that could cause death. My head was swimming. In the three years I’VE owned the Jeep, two Master Mechanics looked at this part and neither knew it was on backwards. The professional that I trusted, put in on that way. UN-BE-LIEV-A-BLE!!!!!! We are not talking about a sticker telling me when I need to next service the car. This was a fix to prevent the DEATH WOBBLE. It seems that the part is directional, but there is no arrow showing the mechanic which way this part should go. This way? That way???? Who cares. Slap it in and she’s good to go. Except, this part could have cost me my life. On Interstate 80. You know. The one that goes over Donner Pass, with sheer cliffs for careening. Or Geigher Grade going into Virginia City. The one with snow covered roads when a wife was driving her sick husband home during a snow storm? Also with sheer cliffs? Yes. Those treacherous roads, in which this RECALL FIX was put on backwards by some unknowing or uncaring mechanic at a dealership I used to know. My new dealership, heroes all, reversed it, making the Tie Rods again sturdy and firm. With aligned tires, I’m ready for the world now. Be careful when automobile repairs fall on your shoulders. Go to a quality place with a good reputation. Go on time. Ask for the used parts back. Ask for pictures. Ask for them to use their brains and FOCUS on something as important as your car. It could cost you your life if you dont’, and at the very least, ruin a perfectly good day. A special Thank You to the professionals at my new Jeep dealership. And a big, heartfelt thank you to my friend with the handy-dandy lift. You steered me right on that one.

Yesterday, I made a bold decision. Deciding it had been long enough that I’d thought about trying one of the many churches in my little dusty town, it was time to dust of my Sunday-Go-To Meeting clothes, hop in the Jeep, and try one. Having met the preacher for the local Baptist Church earlier in the month, I decided it would be first on the list. Realizing I had little choice in what to wear, I chose new jeans, a black and white blouse, covered with my black cashmere sweater. After a quick shower, a blow dry, and a quick glance in the mirror, I was off.

Main Baptist is on a busy street that trails through town. It used to be the historical Highway 40, according to my new friend. The street sees everything from trucks full of steers going to or coming from a summer in the high country, to supplies for the local Lowe’s. I’ve sat next to this street eating the best hamburgers in the universe on a picnic table. I’ve also met many new friends among the Black Bears further down the road. Yesterday, I was going to have a chat with God in a sweet little country church.

I never understood the words “Country Church”. I guess that’s because I went to a country church as a girl, and never went to a “City Church”. I feel uncomfortable between starched white shirts and expensive high heels. A country church has an inviting nature that is all its own. It welcomes everyone, as long as you are the type of everyone that doesn’t mind the truth of the area being spoken loud and clear. There’s nothing wrong with being among people of like mind in a place where you want to feel safe and comforted. This was that place for me.

A “Country Church” congregation is full of people that come physically tired. Ranchers, farmers, miners, and a stray gardener or two. Wifely homemakers that want to share their latest carrot cake recipe. Children that were home-school-ed before it became the norm for our country. Parents and children who have no misunderstanding about the proper behavior in a House of God, and just WHO makes the rules in their family. Men and Women that are gender specific and assured. A slice of the community I love so much for its original qualities. One that ignores New York City political correctness, while being secure enough to hold original beliefs that fit our high desert red neck life.

Church starts early in this little building, with 9:30 bible study. From the outside, you wouldn’t know much is going on at all. Just a tiny little building that used to be white before the many sand storms took the new off the paint job. Trimmed in blue, there are plenty of hand made touches that add to the charm. Inside there are red padded chairs that are church-close. There are no masks or social distancing, because, people need hugs when they are in the presence of God. I sure did.

It was refreshing to meet new friends right away. Some of the nicest people rushed to introduce themselves and welcome me. They all chatted about the Bible studies that were offered throughout the week, and hugged and laughed with each other and me. In this high desert plain, I was offered what I’ve yet to find. A sense of community and love. It was the most beautiful part of my new town that I have found yet.

So, what makes a country church a country church? Adorable country people that are real. A little band that is made of six parishiners. A preacher that wheres a little gold shotgun across his tie. Women in beautiful hand made dresses and shiny shoes, because they love to dress up on Sunday. Friendly kids, one who made my day by coming to welcome me to their service. Around 40 locals all ready to pray together for comfort and peace. For love and understanding. To God.

The service was a little different than I was used to, but the message was the same. If we allow God to disappear from our lives, despair will result. Having faith in faith is really believing in a word. There needs to be a heartfelt knowing of Spirit.

I plan to return to this little Country Church with my new friend next week. I plan to visit others in the area, as well, to find the one that fits my soul and spirit perfectly. Sometimes, we all need to stretch our comfort zones and go find a seat in the back row. It was nice to let go and let God for an hour in a little Country Church on Main.

Today is a fine day to assess the me I am right now while checking for needed adjustments to my course. So far, my life has been full of all kinds of labels. I’ve been daughter, sister, aunt, and cousin. Mother and Grandmother. Daughter-in-law and daughter-in love. I’ve been clueless, and a self-assured and ruthless bitch, sometimes concurrently. I’ve been a fiance, a bride, and now, a widow. Through all of that, there have been many times in my life, I couldn’t or wouldn’t choose to be me. Today is a fine day to think about where I stand now.

Outside, the dark clouds and winter storm warning make me think Mother Earth has days when she can’t decide who she is, as well. Last night, the winds howled through the darkness, while the creaks and groans of Winterpast put me on edge. I’ve never been one to be afraid of the dark, but last night, even that confidence was challenged a little bit. Oliver slept soundly in his little bed, sweet puppy dreams comforting him. If he slept, the noises would just be household complaints whispered while homeowners dream.

My physical balance has always been an issue, teetering this way or tottering that way. Never really sure of my footing, exaggerated when I started this journey as a widow last year. There was no room for major mistakes, as the results would have been catastrophic. I needed to be present, even when I was quite sure I was losing my mind with grief. Just one foot in front of the other, carrying so many responsibilities, I didn’t have a hand to carry a cane. I found my balance, even if it looked different than I was expecting. Even if I chose stepping stones that made others cringe.

My spirit, although tested in the last year, has remained strong. Faith, hope, love, and a strong belief in the goodness of the day have gotten me through. My heart quietly repaired, as I tended to my body, making sure it got the right food and plenty of rest. Slowly, I became accustomed to a new normal, hand-picking every color and texture. I’m beginning to like the resulting tapestry. There is still so much more to weave into my reality. I am becoming the HER I want to be.

The high desert is a great place to plan a life. Quietly serene, I find myself the most creative when I am working the soil of Winterpast. Desert dirt is a funny thing. If left alone, it becomes rigid and stone-like. Without the addition of water, mulch, or nutrients, Winterpast would return to her desolate state, with everything dead. The same would’ve happened to me without the spiritual or emotional nourishment I’ve found along the way. With new friendships and love in my life, my roots are growing deeper and my heart is blooming with possibilities. I have found a happiness that is new and fragile, but growing every day.

Adventures are just around the bend. Last week, I made reservations for the International Pyrotechnic Convention to be held in Fargo, North Dakota in August. Many nights will be filled with competitive fireworks displays put on by major companies. For almost an hour each night, the skies will explode with beauty set to music. I can hardly wait. This year, my life is exploding with beauty just like the fireworks I’m expecting to see. With reservations for two, the anticipation of “+Fun” adventures is a delightful feeling.

Writing’s always been a deep love of mine. It came easily as I was growing up, with stories stacked neatly in my heart, just waiting to be told. Now that I’ve the time and means to tell them, the words jump out of my fingers and through the keyboard to my readers each day. I’m finding my voice, while experimenting with tone, topic, and tempo. The HER I want to bring to life is a full fledged writer. A published writer who is read by thousands of people in many countries around the world. I am on the way to that woman, but not HER all the way.

The woman I’m looking forward to being is fierce and a force to be reckoned with. She is grounded and sure of her steps towards her goals. She is smart. Tenacious. Courageous enough to let her friends be strong for her once in awhile. Tender enough to cry or wipe away the tears of another. Street wise, but still ready to believe the best in people. A life mate that is worthy of sharing forever with another human being. That woman.

The deserts winds continue to blow today under grey and solemn clouds. Over and over, they cross the plains towards Winterpast and hit her hard. I expect the winds of life will continue to do the same to me. Goodbye’s and Hello’s. Losses and finds. Wins and defeats. But always, encouraging me to march towards the goal of being my best self.

As a new week begins today, I hope that you are finding the person you were meant to be in this crazy world. You, your own captain, follow the things that make you happy and strong. It isn’t something anyone can be told how to do, or imitate. Personal and private answers lie within our hearts, each truth as different as a fingerprint. Go, find your version of HER. She’s waiting for you.

Some days, I just wish I could jump into a time machine and go back to my younger life. Times when I knew those to trust and those to avoid. Times when right and wrong were a little bit more black and white, at least in my experience. Times when I knew the dentist that would be fixing my teeth and the doctor would be giving medical advice tailored for me because we had a 25 year friendship. Those days when everything wasn’t new and strange.

Earlier in the week, I went to my new eye doctor. Such a great guy, he fixed me up in fine order with contacts and eyeglasses. The best part is the proximity to Winterpast. Just around the corner. Next Monday, I’ll try out a new dentist, and the week after that, it’ll be time to try out a new doctor. Everything unknown. Everyone untried. I’n pretty sure they’ll have medical agendas that do not line up with my personal preferences. If that becomes the case, I’ll keep looking until I find the medical minimalists that fit my personal beliefs and medical needs. The search and unknown are what I find exhausting.

I’m on this island of new. Everything around me is untested and mysterious, as I find myself in the high desert all alone. I’m starting to accept that this is not something easy or convenient, but damn hard. A lonely journey that will take time, as I find my way.

Last night, Miss Firecracker and I found another “new” in the vast acres of sand and tumbleweeds. We found “Five Ladies On A Stump Steakhouse”. With reservations at 4, Miss Firecracker drove us East, as we passed the time chatting, as we always do. She knows right away what questions to ask, because I wear my worries like laundry on a clothesline. Very apparent.

By the time we got to the restaurant, we had covered so many topics. The waitresses were waiting for us, as we had reservations and we entered. The first thing that was so adorable about the place was a wall of hanging cowboy hats. Straw and all the same, they acted as a room divider, hanging in long strings, tied brim to brim. Cost effective and appropriate for the clientele. This is in the heart of Nevada Cattle Country, with two major feed lots on either side of time.

The next big surprise was on us when we opened the menu. Now, this was something. The menus were back lit. Heavy, like my iPad and cover, when opened, the paper menus had been inserted between the cover and glass. The lighting from behind made the paper glow and instantly easy to read. We both giggled with delight, opening and closing our menus. Never have I ever!

From the starched linens to the sparkling water glasses, this place was the nicest restaurant I have been to in some time. The waitress pampered us as we continued our conversations and laughter.

I couldn’t help to notice the three-some that came in to dine. The men were very clean, wearing bibbed-overalls. Not new bibbed-overalls. The kind that had been dealing with cows and calves the day before, but luckily, had found their way through a cycle in the washing machine. Only here, in the high desert, would this happen in an upscale steak house. I so love where I live.

When I moved to Fernley, I knew one couple. Miss Firecracker and her sweet husband, Baily’s and Cream. We’d met years before, immediately developing a friendship of the sweetest kind. It’s rare that two couples blend into four people that really like one another, but such was the case. We’ve dressed up and attended fancy balls together, and sat under star-lit skies by the campfire, laughing until we cried. We’ve discussed about every subject possible, from electrical engineering to psychological issues, with never enough time to tire from the delightful company.

VST and Baily’s and Cream needed to leave this world a little before us women-folk, their “forevers” being shorter than ours. Abruptly they said their Goodbye’s and left with barely a sound, either one. They left us with gaping mouths and tear-streamed faces wondering where the other half of went. Miss Firecracker and I knew these two guys well, and we loved them both. Together, she and I have found comfort in easy discussions about these extraordinary men with human problems and shortcomings. We discuss those things privately, because we have the right as their widows and friends.

Through the months of Covid, Miss Firecracker and I have supported each other through some dark days. She has always been my go-to Girlfriend for a friendly dinner at the Tee-Pee Diner. Always been the voice I could trust, because between us, there is only truth. Even when it is tough to hear.

I spent my first widowed holidays with Miss Firecracker. She brought me an ace bandage when I sprained my ankle around Christmas, along with a darling stuffed Santa to lay on the empty pillow next to mine. Her laughter and bright attitude has been there on days when my heart was still bruised, but healing. She is brave, and has been an example of Grace Under Fire. Such good examples for me to reflect upon, on days when I want to put my cart before my horse.

She is the one that showed me the mustang on the mountain just outside of our town. Just an image on the mountain, it is surely a mustang that I see every time I drive East. I will always think of the fun day we shared when she first showed it to me. She is the one that told me this little town had been a fine choice for her home. So right she was, as I grow my roots into the fertile soil of Winterpast.

Now, Miss Firecracker needs to move on in life and out of our little town. To say my heart is breaking sounds melodramatic, but, it is. It will be forever and a day before I meet someone like her that stole my heart at her first “Hello”. I don’t know how I can ever say “Goodbye” when the day comes that she needs to drive West, but, life is that way. There is a time and place for everything. How well I’ve learned that lesson.

Ooze-ing Goodbye’s aren’t something I’m good at. I would rather cruise down main street with a smile, then end up in a heap of tears. So, we’ll be stoic women, the two of us, promising to talk often and laugh loudly at all the adventures that await us.

Her Goodbye reminds me that while Winterpast is my cocoon right now, one day the time will arrive when age will win, and it will be my time to leave. Until then, I have so much gardening to do while reflecting on the great life that the high desert has provided me.

There’ll never be as sweet or funny a campfire as the one in which we all played “Head Bandz” and Miss Firecracker’s chair slowly went over. Or the stories she shared about her Red Hat girlfriends and their escapades. She knows, very well, my favorite story. I will leave it for her to share if you are lucky enough to meet her someday. Just look for the trim and zesty woman with the most sparkly eyes. Ask her about THE story. It’s the best.

Love dearly those friends you hold close. Call them often. Share coffee and stories while enjoying friendship’s special gifts. You never know when a day may come in which they aren’t there to laugh or cry or hold you close. Girlfriends are gifts from God. Cherish them.

I love you to the moon and back, Miss Firecracker.

Don’t get me started with the waterworks, Girlfriend.

Spring is the perfect time for new beginnings and a fresh start! I’m living proof of that. Just a year ago, on this very date, April 23, 2020, as a ravaged and tired widow, I turned the key and walked into my new life. Winterpast became my home, rented for one week before the deal closed and she became mine.

For those of you that are new readers, my home is named Winterpast for very important reasons. This name was taken from the bible, Song of Solomon, 10-14. It needs no more explanation that that, because, she always has been Winterpast. No one knew it before, even though it was obvious.

Winterpast was glowing as I entered. Her grieving sellers had put all the love they had into her appearance. Everything worked like it should and was waiting for me on that morning, bright and early. I’d driven off the mountain and across the high desert to her waiting walls. Nervous and scared, as I walked in, I was in a heavy widow’s fog. It had been less than a month since VST’s passing, and I was wrecked emotionally, physically, mentally, and spiritually. A fragile and haggered woman I was as I entered the front door.

I felt her hug around me, like a favorite sweater. Her comfort whispered, “I will keep you safe, warm, and dry. You can cry here. You can rejoice here. Your roots can grow in my soil. I am your forever home.”

I never felt that a home possessed a personality before, but she does. She is enough all by herself. Confident and strong, she knows that she isn’t the most expensive home in the world, or the most glamorous. She is who she is and she stands proud.

In the Jeep, I’d brought everything from my Virginia City Pantry. Winterpast had her glass doored pantry waiting to accept what I brought. As I put down new shelf paper with soft blue squares each filled with one tiny rose, I remembered buying this for the ranch. For two decades I’d carried around the last roll, thinking that some day it would have a use. Such a sweet little pattern. Once the pantry was stocked, I felt anchored. There was not a bed, or chair yet, but she was mine. Neat little cans of Cambell’s and a fresh loaf of bread said it was so.

Over the last year, she has welcomed new and old friends. She craddled me as I said “Goodbye” to VST at his summer memorial. She let me scar her front yard, removing old plants, while patiently waiting for me to make up my mind on the new ones. She has revealed her age slowly, in a way that is normal. She wears her cracks proudly as I wear my wrinkles. She has watched Miss Firecracker and I share laughter and tears on very special days. She has welcomed Ninja Neighbor, and strangers that became dear friends. Winterpast knows all there is to know, and a little more.

Her RV barn, although empty now, will someday hold more dreams. For now, it is an extra space for me to place things too dear to throw away, but too painful to look at every day. She holds everything that would make my real garage cluttered. She is the dream of every man that has come to visit or work. It was the RV barn that VST and I fell in love when we first came to see her, knowing that our rig would nestle there waiting for spontaneous outings. Little did we know vicious storms of cancer were ahead.

This last year has been one of growth. I hope Winterpast loves me as much as I love her. This year will be one of paint and decorating. One of happy holidays filled with decorations and laughter. One of pride of ownership and a new front yard.

I hope your home is a place that you feel the safest. I hope it has a personality that works with yours. Homes hold our hearts carefully.

To Winterpast, I say,

Of all the roads

Both East and West,

The one that leads to home

Is BEST.

Happy Anniversary, Winterpast!! I hope we have years and years to enjoy one another.

Living in Virginia City was an experience on which I will reflect on for the rest of my life. It isn’t the normal kind of place one expects to live as a retired school teacher in her early 60’s. Not a place easily described or lost among other memories. Virginia City chooses you and also chooses whether or not to let you leave. She made her choice and kept VST, my better half. VC is a powerful entity that calls the shots on her own terms.

In this place, throughout the years we lived there, lived the strangest little man. His real name was Danny Eugene Beason, and beyond that I don’t know much about him. He was known to locals and tourists as Stink-E. The story is that he didn’t spell well, and chose this name for himself, adding a single E to the end. Some years before VST and I arrived on the scene, Stink-E acquired his burro, Burnadeen, from the Bureau of Land Management (the original BLM, by the way). Thousands of excess burros and horses are up for adoption, so if you are in the market, check that out.

Formally wild Burnadeen had to learn about people, and he would fill her in on who to trust or avoid. it appeared that Stink-E had learned a lot about people in his tattered and torn life. Born in Roswell, New Mexico, his life had been a complicated one. Rumors flew around local snooty-snoots like zephyr winds. Stink-E had personal problems that had gotten worse with age. Regardless of his hardships, almost every single day, Burnadeen and he roamed up and down “C” Street, selling the chance to feed a wild burro a carrot. $1.00 for the chance of a life time, just watch your fingers.

Burnadeen didn’t much care for me. Once, early on, I had crossed the street to visit this odd pair. She turned her tail to me when I approached. Believe me when I tell you I never knew so much could come out of a burro. It was the only time I saw her relieve herself while working. I never made an attempt to stand by her side again. Luckily, no clothes were soiled in my one failed attempt to say, “Hey”.

I never once spoke to Stink-E, as he lived up to his name. Some days, he wore old time one-piece, red, button-up pajamas that hadn’t been washed in some time. That paired with worn-out boots and a crumpled, smelly hat made him a sight to behold. Stink-E made sure he cared for his burro, as she might’ve been his only true friend. She knows all his secrets and at this point, she isn’t talking.

Just by chance, I was looking at random news clips when I found out that Stink-E died in early spring at the age of 70. His daughter reported that he suffered from dementia. A terrible hand was dealt to him. Burnadeen is left to carry on his legacy under the care of family members.

Being intrigued by the news, I dug a little deeper and found something that captured the love of Virginia City for her own. The townspeople had a funeral for the old man. A fine turn-out it was. If you look on YouTube under Stink-E’s Funeral, you can watch as he was laid to rest on a snowy March morning. As I watched the funeral, I saw faces that I used to know. Old acquaintances that may or may not have even noticed that I left. But more than that, I sensed the spirit of VC and realized I miss her. For six years, she was my home. The high mountain winds and snow will be in my heart forever. It was there I shared the last of VST’s forever.

The owner of the Silver Queen was there, hidden in the crowd. All the re-enactment actors and actresses had worn their finest outfits to say “Goodbye”. With a mule draw wagon, laying in a pine box, Stink-E made one last pass down “C” Street, with the town walking slowly behind. The procession made it’s way to the Virginia City Cemetary, where Stink-E has a place of honor. A mournful guitar played the song, “God Speed, Sweet Dreams”, through a young singer’s tears. I listened through mine. The song was beautifully sung and appropriate for the Stink-E with I shared Virginia City.

The service itself was perfectly VC. Simple. Heart Felt. Snow Covered. Wild. Western Wild. Just like the legendary Stink-E and Burnadeen themselves.

Now that I know he came from Roswell, there would have been many questions I might have asked him. Was he in Roswell when….? Had he seen anything? What troubled this man so that the demon alcohol often won his battles. How had Burnadeen changed his life? Had she at all? What did I miss by being my own stuffy version of a local snooty-snoot? I think a lot.

There is an absence on “C” Street that you wouldn’t know unless I’d told you. There’s another, younger version of Stink-E walking Burnadeen along to the delight of children and adults alike. I suppose Burnadeen will need to teach this new Stink-E the perils of meeting strangers. Burnadeen knows the ropes now, no longer free to roam the high desert plains from which she was snatched. So many victims in the sad story of Stink-E and Burnadeen. I hope he has found peace in a place called Heaven.

God Speed — sung by The Dixie Chicks

Dragon tales and the water is wide

Pirate’s sail and lost boys fly

Fish bite moonbeams every night

And I love you.

Godspeed, little man

Sweet dreams, little man

Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels wings

Godspeed

Sweet dreams.

The rocket racer’s all tuckered out

Superman’s in pajamas on the couch

Goodnight moon, we’ll find the mouse

And I love you.

Godspeed, little man

Sweet dreams, little man

Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels wings

Godspeed

Sweet dreams

God bless mommy and match box cars

God bless dad and thanks for the stars

God hears “Amen”, wherever you are

And I love you

God speed, little man

Sweet dreams, little man

Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels wings

God speed

Sweet dreams.

RIP Stink-E. RIP.

Weather is an interesting topic about which people enjoy conversing. Men, especially. At any coffee shop on any morning, men debate the ACTUAL rain fall amounts at great length. Who’s meters are more correct? What WILL the weather be? What are the HISTORICAL statistics? The amount of topics regarding weather go on and on. To men, this is delicious rhetoric. Not controversial, but informative.

I’ve always been the “WHO CARES?” kind of gal. It’s not like anyone can change the weather. I’m not planning a garden event, or travel through obscure mountain passes. I’m just hanging out at Winterpast. If it rains, I will go inside until it clears. If it snows, I will order my groceries online. If it is hot, it’s a good time for a nap in an air-conditioned house. The subject used to be vitally important when an entire raisin crop was on the ground. These days, it matters not. Period. End of Subject.

When farming, a September rain was often accompanied by squeals of delight from co-workers. A sign that fall was on the way after brutal Central Valley summers. To me, it met utter disaster. Period. Perhaps a total crop loss. I could never explain that to them, but during those 17 years of farming raisins, my fear of September rains was real and intense. A state of the art weather station was something needed on every farm.

A few years ago, my God Mother, sent me the most wonderful gift. It has traveled with me, and is now at its second and final resting spot, Winterpast. This little stick, made of balsam wood, is a barometer all on it’s own. “The stick bends down to foretell foul weather, or up for fair weather,” according to Maine Line Products, listing the stick barometer on Amazon for $11.25. It’s useful lifetime can be 9 years or older. Mine is 7 years and still predicting weather.

When weather is great, the stick goes up. Way up. When weather is inclimate, the stick goes down. Really, just like a person’s facial expressions. No one believes the stick is actually a working barometer. I can’t blame them. I didn’t really believe it until I owned one and made my own observations.

As I have stated, that is the extent to which I need to know meteorological information. A true barometer reading, I need not. Wind speed is nice, but if my trash cans blow over, I know it is crazy windy outside. If the flag is still, there is no wind. Pretty easy.

My new friend mentioned that a weather station is a really cool thing to have. So, now I have one, perfectly installed by him upon my patio cover. Wirelessly, it communicates with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. One must wait for the device to “learn” about its surroundings, and then, information starts pouring in on a little screen that now sits in my kitchen.

At this time, the outdoor temperature is 65 degrees, with a humidity of 16%. Partly cloudy with a rainfall amount of zero for the day and year. The wind speed is 2 mph. The indoor temperature is a balmy 71, with 25% humidity. Just perfect.

The thing is, in my world, the day is perfect already, whether the wind was 2 mph or 10 mph. I really don’t see any clouds in the sky, yet. Perhaps they are coming soon. I love 71 degrees, and feel most comfortable when my house is at that temperature. Not to hot, not too cold. So, I could have guessed that one. The humidity is higher today. I knew that because my hair isn’t frizzled.

I suppose it is just another way to remove our senses and abilities to tell time without a clock, or judge the direction of N, S, E, or W by the position of the sun and stars. Another way to make us depend on the government (NOAA), internet, and gadgets. Another way to discount my stick, which at the moment says the weather is perfectly UP outside.

I better hurry to get my daily gardening fix in. Who knows when the torrential rainstorm and blackened skies are coming. With a wind speed of 1 mph now, I don’t need to worry about my hair blowing into a giant rat’s nest of tangles. At 66 degrees, I can leave my sweatshirt inside and go make some Vitamin D. Happy Gardening!!!!

The neighbor walked by yesterday with his aging Schnauzer. He is a constant in the neighborhood, being the eyes of every detail around Rabbit Bush Range. I would suspect he is an ORIGINAL owner, which holds weight, as it should. Sixteen years of back-breaking work to develop a high desert lot into something beautiful should be applauded.

I love my ORIGINAL owner neighbors. They are respectful of their properties, keeping things in tip top shape. They know the history and order of which houses were built when the decade was brand new. They know the wind directions and historical weather patterns of the area. They have mature yards that they’ve nurtured and watched since they planted them almost two decades ago. With sadness, I realize that big changes will occur over the next five years, when beautifully quiet octogenarian neighbors are replaced with young families. I need to enjoy the quiet breezes now, before silence is shattered with newbies.

Respect for a culture and quiet settings is something that is lost on the young. People are amazed when visiting Winterpast. It’s so quiet you can hear the wind crossing the desert. Birds call to each other over long distances. There is the rumble of the train passing through town, and the Jake Brakes of the big rigs on 89A going right through town. Silence is a golden commodity in this day and age. A valuable commodity lost on most people.

This Original owner and neighbor has walked by Winterpast every day for a year with no more than a passing grunt. He’s a tall man in his late 70’s with snowy hair. He likes button shirts in plaid, and always wears shorts. He and his dog are very serious about their walks, seeming to be on a mission to get somewhere.

Yesterday, he heard me saying my Goodbye’s to my friend in the garage and looked our way. He waved and spoke right away.

“‘Hi, Joy! I haven’t seen you in a long while. I was worried about you with Covid around. You okay?”

“Sure! Doing great. Just been busy in the backyard. Have a nice day!”

Interesting that he did remember my name. I’m pretty bad with names of people that I’ve met one time a year ago. Awkward! Anyway, it was nice to know he is a friendly face that circles the neighborhood twice a day. It’s even better to know that he is someone that’s noticed that I’ve been absent. If if was yelling for help from the back yard, I’m pretty sure he would be the one to investigate.

It made me realize that everyone must think I died and mummified surrounded in the walls of Winterpast. Invisible, I have been cocooned inside during the winter months. The front yard is intimidating so I’ve been avoiding it. Whatever it becomes will be on me. I have some ideas about important features I’d like to see, but, the finished look hasn’t popped into my brain.

I’m considering something that will make every REAL gardener wince.

FAKE GRASS.

Yes. It’s true. I may move to the dark side and have fake lawn installed in the front yard only. In this day and age, fake lawn looks very realistic. It uses zero water and lasts for years. Just hose it off occasionally, and all is good. No mustangs eating up the greenery. No poop on the grass. Just a nice looking lawn that needs no care. I do have trees and bushes in the front yard that still need water. Winterpast needs some front yard greenery. Desperately. Stay tuned for the final decisions, yet to be made.

In the back yard, spring is busting out all over. My friend got the water running and plants that I never noticed last year are blooming. Tulips are almost finished. Dahlias are emerging. Iris are making a run at their show. The Peonies are all growing. The established plants are quite tall, while the newbies are a little more hesitant. But, they are all sprouting.

Blueberry buds are swelling. The new raspberry plant is going crazy. All the fruit trees are in bloom just in time for a spring rain that will fall today and tomorrow. The blackberry plant is unhappy. Today, I need to move it to another location.

I’d forgotten how much I love being outside. My skin is turning brown, healthy and glowing. Being out in the back yard is my happy place. Sunshine eliminates depression, and is necessary for our bodies to produce Vitamin D. Win. Win. If I never left the grounds of Winterpast again, I’d be quite happy. Without news from the outside world, I write and enjoy memories of my formerly frenzied life. My God Mother had it right when she told me to “Practice Lazy”. Although I’m not lazy in my actions, my mind is in a lazy trance of comfortable tranquility. The best kind of vacation you can take anywhere.

I must run. Spring cleaning may get put off until fall. But, there is a lawn to mow and hot tub in which to relax. Whatever you do today, make it lovely.

My town is quirky in a really wonderful way. Never knowing who you will run into, or what they may do, it is always fun to explore. In recent explorations, I’ve found some very interesting people indeed. Adding to the services in town, they also qualify as seasoned characters in a great novel. I’m taking notes and sharing a small bit with you today.

I’ll start with the ice cream man. Burt. He is the owner of Burt’s Butter Pecan. All the ice cream in his shop is handmade. He is very proud of this, as he should be. The town folk show up at his counter every evening after the dinner dishes are put away. He stays open until 9 PM, making sure that everyone who wants a scoop gets one.

Last year, the day VST and I put in the offer on Winterpast, VST wanted some ice cream, so we stopped. That day, the shop was empty except for Burt, who was happy to fill us in on the great points and short falls of our town. Burt came to our town more than a decade ago, and settled in this wide spot in the road. He sees all and knows all. His ice cream is the best I’ve ever tasted. Every scoop comes with a sweet memory of an old couple celebrating the purchase of their last home, Winterpast. With Burt’s New York City accent and blunt way of speaking, you just know your visit with him will be interesting.

Then, there is Movin’Dirt Douglas. He runs an excavation business, helping people move rocks here and there. In the high desert, you need someone with a tractor to move decorative rocks. Sand. Rocks. More sand. More rocks. One good thing is that there’s no shortage of landscaping material. Douglas also owns Dirty Douglas Pawn Shop. If you need to find a firearm or old saddle, his shop has these treasures and more. Douglas can show you whatever you may need, while replacing watch batteries, while telling you about the town. After all, he graduated from high school here and knows everyone.

Which is how Douglas became a City Councilman, helping to make major decisions for the town. Everyone wears many hats in a small place. Some just happen to be covered with blowing dust and desert skin tanned like leather.

My newest friend, I met last week when T and K were here to celebrate VST’s Heaven-er-sary. We had decided that to honor VST, we would buy a gun. But, they’re in short supply these days. The high desert is a good place to have them. You never know when you might be stranded and need a little self protection. To call this the Wild West is correct. One should never forget that people who want to disappear do so in the high desert. Protection is smart and necessary, as a policeman could be 30 minutes away. That is the fact when living somewhere remote.

There are plenty of fun places to target shoot safely, and target shooting is really fun. If you own a gun, you must know how to shoot it safely. A responsible gun owner has attended gun safety classes and obeys the rules. You also need to know how to care for it. If you’ve never been shooting, don’t judge. It is one of the most fun things I’ve ever done. Nothing dies. The only thing ending up with holes is paper targets.

As I was purchasing some ammunition at the hardware store, a gentleman told me of a new gun store in our little town. Make a right in front of CVS, go down to the bend in the road, turn right at the gravel road, go 1.2 miles past the growling dog and the “Eggs For Sale” sign, and on the left there would be a sign identifying the house. We did just that and met Craig, the Gun Guy.

Shy, reserved, and seasoned, Craig knows everything there is to know about every type of gun there is. His selection was wonderful, cleaned, and displayed on gun racks. There, he had two brand new target shooting guns. There is now an empty space where they sat. As Craig filled out the Federal background check and bill, we continued visiting.

It turns out Craig is the Baptist Minister for the little church next to the hardware store. I have passed the church many times always thinking I would like to visit this little country church. Now that I know the minister, I’ll do just that. Being a man of God, he gave us best wishes and prayers for a meaningful day of remembrance of our sweet guy.

As we were leaving, he reminded us that we were always welcome to come for fellowship. Yes, my town has the most fun type of people. Not stuck in one stereotype, people here are fluid types, because they need to be. In the desert, you need to have survival skills while being a bit of a Bad Ass. But, most of all, you need to be ready to meet and embrace new friends. Now, what will I wear next Sunday?

Why, oh why, can’t I be an analytical thinker. Maybe, in some ways, I am and just don’t see it in the moment. But, for problem solving, I immediately go to the worst case scenario. In the case of Winterpast, that would be brown, barren soil with the remains of trees and plants void of green life. All water gone forever, the yard would become a headstone to former owners who knew what the hell they were doing when it came to gardening.

My front yard is almost in that state. I wonder what the neighbors think when they walk by the front and see the lack of plants. It’ll be planted again, I have just been fretting about the back. Specifically, the sprinkler system.

Then my analytical friend arrived on the scene.

It seems the controller for all emitters along the back perimeter had died a natural death over the winter. Sad but true. Nothing lasts forever, and this “Toro” bit the dust. It was interesting to watch testing of all electrical inputs and outputs, skillfully performed and analyzed. The first point of business was to purchase and install a new one. Done and done.

No Water, still.

I could see the plants dropping more. Trees that are blooming need extra water to assure a good fruit set. They struggled last summer, so this added stress wasn’t helpful. Cherry, apple, jujube, blueberries……. mournful under the high desert sun.

My friend then went into action. I’m sure the neighbors were laughing as they listened to our bantering. So natural, we just went into typical Man/Woman speak. Being great friends, some of the conversation was too the point, and less than polite. Both of us being thick skinned, it was all the more real, with a dose of attitude on both sides.

“Get the wrench.”

“Which wrench?”

“Not the crescent wrench.”

“The adjustable wrench?”

“No, the wrench.”

Finally producing a plumbers wrench, the next request.

“Get the screwdriver.”

“Phillips or flat?”

“A nut driver.”

The experience drove us both a little nuts, and I had to remember that politeness is still something I need to work on, especially if I intend to have any friends. I guess you could say it was a trying experience, that in the end, produced water.

It seems I have a broken valve that is buried deep in ground. Far deeper than my farm worn shovel could reach. I’ll need to call a plumber to fix that in the weeks to follow. But, the water crisis was averted with ingenuity that comes from analytical thinking.

I now have working water. Would I have been able to muddle through the process with the same outcome?

Absolutely not. That is a resounding NOOOOOOOO.

Would the process have cost hundreds of dollars? Affirmative.

As a woman alone, it’s hard for me to admit that I am not Superwoman with all powers necessary to allow me to reach tall buildings with a single bound. I’m just an un-analytical girl who isn’t very strong. Still cute, but quite bitchy at times. Grateful, but envious of someone that can fix a sprinkler system and make the plants happy.

My super powers lie elsewhere.

Going along this journey of life, we all need to remember to ask for a little help once in awhile.

Happy Gardening!