Grieving Gardener

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

Physical Fitness–

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

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

Spiritual Fitness-

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

Intellectual Fitness–

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

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

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

Creative Fitness–

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

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

Culinary Fitness–

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

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

Old Apparel In The Barrel —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For most of my life, it’s been a groovy thing to play a supporting actress. As the fourth in a family of five girls, the role was an easy one. Be quiet, smile often, and walk in the footsteps of those that went before. Pretty easy gig, as my three older siblings were beautiful and smart team players who always did the right thing. All college graduates, they set the bar of expectations high. There was no real need to forge a different path, so I went along the one that worked for everyone else.

My life was full of situations in which the easy route was just that. Easy and obvious. Choices were limited by life’s boundaries. Moms could do this but not that. Wives needed to help provide a good lifestyle. Business partners share equally in ventures. Life went along well, because VST and I were the best of partners. Some dreams, like writing, just didn’t fit the narrative. Sometimes life is like that. Sacrifices made for the better of everyone involved.

In early March, 2020, it was obvious that VST was seriously ill, while we were in the middle of what some would see as a big mess. We had a solid buyer for the Dun Movin House in Virginia City, and we’d made a solid offer on Winterpast. With packing in full swing, VST came to me one morning with a request.

“Could we go see the new house? I know you’re busy with packing and all, but I really want to see it again. Do you have time?”

Of course, nothing was more fun than taking the hour’s drive to our new house in our new town, so off we went. I remember the ride there, talking about a lot of nothing. Details about the sale. Details about the purchase. Detail after detail after detail. VST was already feeling poorly, so an hour’s drive to and fro took energy and focus.

The new-house realtor was waiting to open Winterpast to us. Tree buds were swollen, although the grass was still brown as it was late winter. VST took his tape measure and tried to make some notes on his pad, but quickly stood by the kitchen island, uncomfortable and in pain. Measurements, numbers, and focus had started to become a problem he could no longer hide.

“Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?” the realtor asked, genuinely concerned.

He’d chuckled and assured her that there was nothing wrong with HIM. Nothing at all. Just old age. Waving both of us outside, sadly, he watched us through the window. Remembering this reminds me what a special husband I had for 32 years.

After our visit, we went for the best tacos ever at the stand by the Starbuck’s. To finish the day, we stopped at Sven’s Homemade Scoops for ice cream cones. The visit had made us love our new little town even more, and our excitement was noticed by Sven, who was the first person to Welcome us as new residents.

On the way back to Virginia City, VST turned to me and asked the one question that haunts me still.

“Will you be happy there?”

“Of course!” I reminded him that WE would be happy there, but inside, I think he knew better.

“But, will YOU be happy there?” he asked one more time. The question hung like a dark cloud over the Jeep, as we rode the rest of the way home in silence.

In three weeks time, he would be gone. I would still be packing and preparing for a move that most thought I should abort.

A little more than two weeks after he died, I did move. Roots immediately formed and started pushing down into the rich soils of Winterpast. As spring turned into summer, falling in to Autumn and settling into the deepest winter, I found my bearings and sense of home. All here in Winterpast.

I’m now starring in my own life story. As an old friend told me, the scariest part is the immense array of options. Being YOLD (Young-Old), the options are as different as sheer laziness played out day after day in a quiet house with Oliver, to turning feral and traveling throughout this big old country of ours. Gardening gives me time to reflect on the talents and gifts that I’ve been given and how best to use them.

I returned to the Senior Center yesterday. With even fewer people there than before, I went up to talk to the only gentleman that said “Hello”. He was assembling silverware and napkins for the lunch crowd. With a few questions, he gave me a schedule and introduced me to the director, who was preparing Orange Chicken lunch plates for the upcoming meal.

“Do you offer any writing classes?” I asked, waiting for doors that would open or close with her answer.

“Can you call me next week? I’ve been waiting for a guy that used to run classes here. He hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”

Just like that, a little window of possibilities. Writers hang together. Surely there will be opportunities for friendships to grow. There is nothing better than a writing group, especially if you are lucky enough to run one. My spirit needed this little boost as I saw a possible leading role.

Leaving the senior center, the receptionist desk was again empty. As I was leaving, I heard music coming out of the hallway. One lone voice was giving directions. Tap. One. Turn left. Leg out. No, other leg. With all the directions, I had to look. Inside, 35 women of all shapes and sizes were doing aerobic dancing. Not intimidating dancers with curves in all the right places. Just Senior Citizen women like me that were sick to death of sitting at home and would try anything just to see another human being.

I’ll return to this center soon. Maybe even tomorrow. There is more to this place than meets the eye for this YOLD senior. As Ghandi put it so well, “Be the change you seek.” I need a leading role in my new life, and with a little work, I’m going to create it for myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her words for your consideration.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you Tuesday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The heat is on, on the street,

Inside your head, on every beat

And the beat’s so loud, dep inside

The pressure’s high, just to stay alive

‘Cause the heat is on……Glenn Fry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Waited.

AND WAITED.

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

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

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

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

The shadows high on the darker side

Behind the doors, it’s a wilder ride

You can make a break, you can win or lose

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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