Grieving Gardener

There are some mornings in which my brain pauses, as I struggle to focus on a topic. I find myself in that situation this morning. Retiring to my bedroom at the normal time, last night, I made a poor movie selection. I’ve been soaking in the happy antics of Rock Hudson and Doris Day, when I decided on a change of genre.

Turning to the gloom and doom of World War II, first I watched The Caine Mutiny. A very interesting look into the psychology of powerful men. There were four movies in the set, each focused the days of World War II. I found The Caine Mutiny to be fascinating on several levels, including the role women played in the movie and at the time of war. With nothing more disturbing than the quest for a few lost strawberries and an outrageous storm, I decided to begin another movie before falling to sleep.

The next choice was The Bridge on the River Kwai. In my old age, the movie was at times, hard to watch, leaving me in a less than a sleepy state. In today’s world, there would have been far more violence and gore splashed upon the screen. Movies of the past are artful in suggestions of things so terrible, your mind is left to reach its own hellish conclusions without visual aide. It was of those scenes from which my brain borrowed characters.

Dream sequences can be a bit comical sometimes. I was sitting on the beach enjoying the sunshine, as I’d planned to do for so many months. All of a sudden, prisoners of war came streaming right past Dom’s Clam Chowder and Bait Shop to a whistled tune. They continued until they were in place and someone gave the command. Like that, the pier fell into the water, the flying pieces turning into dolphins, which swam away. Cheerfully, everyone on the beach clapped loudly while the prisoners each took a surfboard and paddled off, whistling John Lennon’s Imagine.

As it turns out, my planned adventures to the little beach house were blown up just like the Bridge on the River Kwai. As April 8th got closer, it became obvious that the stress of the heaven-er-sary is weighing heavier on my shoulders than I first thought it would. That, coupled with the fact that the beach town is 459.3 miles away, made me reconsider my decision to venture so far. I rewrote my plans for the day, accepting that sometimes one needs to take a step back and regroup. I will be spending April 8th in the comforting walls of Winterpast.

T and K will join me on April 8th for a last monthly release of 12 brightly colored balloons. Each month has brought a different path for the balloons, along with different emotions and feelings. To think I’m at the end of the first year of widowhood still amazes me, returning me to a last bit of widow’s fog. How can it be that a year passed so quickly? How could one year take a lifetime to pass?

After getting a glass of water and returning to my comfy bed, dreams came again.

This time, a brand new television, grand in scale was sitting in my living room. Colonel Saito and Lt. Colonel Nicholson were sitting with me on the couch debating how high the new television should be hung, while T and K looked on. I had no input at all, muted, while watching the prisoners outside prune my trees to short nubs while removing all fruit wood. Oliver sat in a tiny prisoner of war outfit, looking forlorn as the tired men slaved away. Branches were being stacked for the new bridge, with every bit of wood being needed.

Again, my eyes flew open, happy to find myself in the safety of Winterpast, with no sign of prisoners or the enemy anywhere in sight. The dream did give me the great idea that I DO need a new television. With that new thought, it took me a little while to return to sleep, considering my options on just how high the television would need to be hung, without the help of Saito and Nicholson, by the way.

Today is a great day for one gardener to get her game on while bringing gardening tools out of the shed. Under the shining sun, today is first day of outdoor activities for me. I have garden beds to design and bulbs to plant.

Tonight, I’ll return to Doris and Rock. Send Me No Flowers. No enemy warfare need to assault my dreams and blow up a peaceful night of sleep. Have a wonderful Saturday.

As a child, one of the best times of year was Spring. Baby lambs were everywhere. Kittens magically appeared out of darkness of the decrepit old shed next to the animal pens. Birds fed their tiny little hatch-lings. The vines sprouted and bloomed, and life, in general, was fine. Spring fever hit with a vengeance, leaving us ready to park our school books and go climb some trees.

Television was in its infancy during my childhood. The first television we owned was revered by all. I remember the first time we turned it on and watched the Test Pattern. All huddled around the little screen, a black and white pattern magically appeared. Turn off the TV and it would disappear. Turn it on, it was back. Magical. Enough in its simplicity, because there was nothing else like it.

In those days, there were hours in which there was nothing to watch BUT the test pattern. People actually slept during those hours. When there was nothing to watch, children really did go play outside. ALONE and FERAL. News was in the evening, between 6 and 6:30. Finished. People actually ate dinner together at one table. Those magical days were something we would all do well to remember.

One of the best parts of spring had to do with The Wizard of Oz. With no VHS Cassettes, DVD’s, or Digital rental sites, movies were seen in the theater. Once a year, and once only, The Wizard of Oz was shown on a random Sunday night. We were allowed to stay up for the entire movie, if we could stay awake. The first years, movie was watched in black and white, as there were only black and white television sets. The first time I realized Oz was in technicolor when Dorothy arrived there was a magical moment.

Each year, that night was filled with the scent of freshly popped popcorn topped with real butter. Dad would stand in front of the stove with his pan and lid, working magic. Always adding too many kernels to the pan, two little girls would squeal with delight as the lid would raise and fresh popcorn spill out. Wide eyed, we’d watch every single scene of the movie, learning every line as the years went by.

Thinking about the similarities between the yellow brick road and the widow-y journey I’ve been on for the last few years, I smile. In the first month, I remember feeling as if I was spinning round and round, while getting no where. But, as the spiraled trail spread out, I started to see new territory and while traveling somewhere new. My yellow brick road traveled through lands and scenery foreign to me. On certain days, I found the ability and desire to skip a little, being forever mindful winged monkeys could jump out and snatch me at any moment.

My journey has been lined with yellow bricks of sunshine. Bordered by poppy fields that lured me to sleep once in awhile. Funny new friends along the way, all utilizing special powers, while searching for things lost or lacking in our lives. The thing that kept us going was, well, GOING. We didn’t stop or travel backwards. We just kept going, no matter the forests of wicked trees, or unknown terrain. We sang a little, too.

Two weeks are left on this journey of the FIRST year. Last year, VST and I crammed a lot into the last two weeks of his life. We accepted that he was so very, very ill. He slept more than he was awake. When he was awake, he wasn’t really himself, or at least, not the VST I’d loved for so long. His brick road spiraled backwards, while his child-like side returned. His legs didn’t work as an athlete’s anymore. Wobbly, he would carefully gauge each step and smile broadly when he made it across the room without falling. Through his journey away from me, he held onto his strength, dignity, perseverance, and faith in God. He moved in tighter and tighter circles back from where he came, while I moved on, further and further away towards my rainbow’s end.

Rainbows and endings. What a sight it must be at the end of the rainbow. Brilliant colors all blending and planted into the ground like tree trunks, sprouting eye popping jewel-tones while reaching for the heavens. Searching for the rainbow’s end, I haven’t looked for gold or physical riches. I’ve found peace, contentment, rich memories, acceptance, and happiness. Just like any rainbow, the location changes as you get closer, but these things I’ve found along the journey. We’re here but for a short time. A shroud has no pockets. But, a soul is pure light and energy made up of what we’ve experienced here on earth. Those things are the treasures found through my time with VST.

April 8th will complete my first year of widowhood. Looking back, the woman that struggled through cancer and death has turned into ME. Although I’ll be a WIDOW forever, that title doesn’t quite fit anymore. Maybe it never did. I’m a WOMAN, plain and simple. Complicated. Difficult. Loving. Simple. A Gardener who Grieves, but a gardener, first. I hope that your journey through widowhood brings clarity and peace along the way for time takes us all on memorable journeys.

For over two decades, one very large and well-known company covered Home and Automobile insurance needs for VST and me. In the first years, it was rather like a new love affair. Low rates. Nice little emails. Attention to details on their part. Policies, like clockwork, would arrive in our mailbox. Although we never met with an agent, as people did in mid-century USA, we did often speak by phone. All was wonderful. Until it wasn’t.

Upon VST’s death, the insurance company was on my list of services of which to alert. As a widow, it’s unsettling to receive mail addressed to a late spouse. Nothing can ruin a day faster than mail for someone you wish would come around the corner to snatch it from your hand. When such mail arrives, I quietly write “Deceased” on the envelope and put it back in the mail to be returned to sender. This has extinguished most contacts. But, this insurance company decided to play ball a little differently.

I was informed that my insurance would “SKY-ROCKET” due to VST’s death. Their terms, not mine. In order to keep my lower rate, they would simple let VST “drive on” as the main policy holder until May 2021, nearly an entire year later. I informed them that, while VST loved to drive, he was no longer able to, being dead and all. Their response was the same. He would remain the primary driver on the policy to keep the lower rate, which would explode in price the following year.

This made no sense to me. Two cars with only one person to drive. It seemed to me the chances for a mishap were cut in half. I couldn’t drive both cars at once like a chariot racer. What were they thinking???? It occurred to me that, in case of an accident, I would simply jump in the passenger seat and say, “He did it.”

I continued to get bills addressed to VST, and even tried a second time to get them to understand. I have two cars, but, one driver. Me. A non-ticketed, no accident, wonderfully safe driver with zero claims in the past five years. No losses. No problems. The answer was the same. My insurance bill would balloon to astronomical levels in May of 2021 without VST at the helm. Both the auto and home owner policies would increase in price. This was insanity on their part. A very good customer with a perfect payment record now had incentive to jump ship.

With April almost upon us, I started to review insurance policies, such as the Home Warranty, which I spoke of a few days earlier. With May 2021 just around the corner, I decided to shop around and see if I could do any better. I didn’t have much hope, but, it was worth a try.

My insurance was tied to an association of which I have little in common, except my status as a senior citizen. American Association of Retired Persons (AARP). The magazines would arrive, cringe worthy and not representative of my thoughts, values, or mental age. They would immediately go in the trash. The only benefit was the wonderful discount on my auto and home insurance due to my membership. For years, the trade-off was okay. Now, there was no more trade off, and my affiliation was irritating on every level.

It was then, I remembered a conservative group called Association of Mature Citizens (AMAC). They offered all the same benefits as AARP, but would represent my views more closely. With a phone call, I found they also have an affiliated auto and home insurance company, also nationally recognized and reputable. I was in business.

I’ll warn you, shopping insurance takes the better part of a morning. So many questions about every aspect of your car and home. But, the results were astounding. By shopping, (and I did have a very good rate before), I saved $600 for the year between the two policies. Just like that, I found better coverage, even including hail and wind coverage for my house and RV barn. In the desert, that is coverage very important to include.

Before giving my old company the heave-ho, I tried one more time to talk to someone about fixing the problem of having an angel-owned policy. I was informed that my existing policy would increase in price by AT LEAST $150 a year, quite possibly more. It was impossible to remove VST from the policy until May 2021. Further more, new rates weren’t available until April 15th. It was then I knew very well where I could get 2021 rates. FROM A NEW COMPANY, Thank you very much.

So, as the song goes, “You Gotta Shop Around.” Just because you’ve had the same insurance for years, doesn’t mean it is the best or the cheapest. A reset in life can lead to better service. The old adage, “Vote With Your Dollar”, rings true in this situation. Take charge of needed services. Shop like you would for the best deal on a new pair of shoes. With savings like these, you can buy a few new pairs.

A year ago, those words came screaming into our ears, although the Gastroenterologist asked them very quietly. Not once, but twice. We sat stunned. VST in a confused state. Me, on heightened alert, wishing I’d heard anything else come out of the doctor’s mouth. CANCER. What did it mean to two people, married for 32 years? What did it mean to best friends? Lovers? Children? Grandchildren? You know, CANCER means something different to ever single person it ravages.

VST sat on the examining table, still and quiet, as one would expect of a Doctor of Psychology. Studying each word. The order of the words. The intonation. Any body language that gave hints. The pause before his question and our answer seemed like our forever. The cat was out of the bag, so to speak. VST’s disease was CANCER.

Nine weeks isn’t a long time for an illness to begin, progress, and finish in death. VST wasn’t in terrible pain, although he had pain. Withering away, his muscle atrophy was startling. The growth of his abdomen caused trouble with breathing and sleep. But, he continued to insist he felt too good to be really sick. The doctors had been baffled, as every blood test given came back within perfect range. VST was like that. Healthy in every other respect. A handicapped athlete until the end, walking 4 miles a day, even when he was ill.

I finally had to ask for clarification from the GI Doc, as this question was just too broad. It was then he told us the hard truth. Once the location of the cancer was found, we would be referred to an oncologist. Our time with the GI Doc was done. Again, he asked, “What does CANCER look like to you?”

VST and I had discussed our end of life wishes so many times. The end is the end. Period. If there were no real options, the option we chose individually was to do nothing. We just happened to agree on that point. That was what cancer looked like to both of us on that very bleak and horrible day.

We discussed our options and the fact that Cancer markers were at extreme levels in the blood work. Normal. 20. VST’s — 4500. But, the cancer remained illusive and couldn’t be located. All the usual places were clear. With this mystery raging, VST would need to undergo more scanning and probing until the location could be discovered. He should not be mistaken. We should not be mislead. Cancer was raging, with the location hidden somewhere in VST’s body.

I’ll never know how much VST understood or accepted on that day. His mind wondered frequently, spending much time sleeping. I was losing the best parts of my husband, best friend, lover, partner, co-parent and co-grandparent, investor, and co-conspirator. I was losing 1/2 of myself in a brutal way. Through it all, VST remained quiet, compliant, and reserved. He relied on his faith in God, increasingly found in prayer. He’d started his journey away from me weeks before the doctor posed the question.

What does Cancer look like to me? Broken Hearts. Terror. Anger. Sorrow. Loss. Pain. Suffering. Morpheine. Long nights. Caregiving. Hospice. Sore muscles. Sleepless nights. Bargaining for another chance. Lost dreams. Strangers helping. Expense. Meaningless doctor’s visits. Time wasted on worthless treatments. Solitude. Isolation. In the end. Cancer means Goodbye. That’s what cancer means to me.

Quietly, we rode back up Geigher Grade to our little town of Virginia City after the appointment. Twisting back and forth on the harrowing road, the topography was similar to the situation in which we found ourselves. On one side, there were sheer mountains, with car-sized boulders ready to fall onto the roadway at any moment. On the other side, sheer drop-offs, in which a wrong turn could send a car sailing into the air for hundreds of feet. Doom on either side, the little white Jeep scurried back to the safety of our home, while VST slept soundly, his head propped upon the door.

As I drove, I wondered just what cancer meant to VST’s doctor. In a few short visits, the doctor had come to like us very much. I’m sure the conversation we just had was jarring to him, as well. Every doctor takes an oath, “Do No Harm.” He didn’t cause this harm, but had to deliver the worst news to us. He needed our prayers, too, as his heart was breaking for us.

VST never answered the question. Maybe he couldn’t in the state he found himself. He never cried or shouted to the heavens. He never questioned “Why Me?” He simply took the hand he was dealt and played it out. VST was one of the strongest men I have ever known in my life. His faith was un-shake-able. His love, the purest. His care for his family, the most sincere. VST lived life in the arms of God until he left this world. An example I will do my best to follow. I’m so blessed to have been his Darlin’ for all those years.

Over the last year, Cancer has meant different things to me. Memorial. Old Friends. New Friends. Memories. Sweet dreams. Night terrors. Lonely days. Lonely nights. Meals alone. Mail for one. Monthly balloon releases. Letting go. Acceptance. One year Heaven-ersary. And, so much more. It means different things on different days. But, always, it means a loss of the way things were, even if things go well. Just like the scourge of Covid, things never return to the delicate state they were before. It takes strength, true grit, and a deep faith to continue on.

Take a moment to think about what CANCER means to you. This post surprised me. Such a complicated topic, with endless answers. I hope no one ever asks you the question, the way we were asked. No one should need to experience that. Sadly, it happens every day.

This morning, the alarm didn’t go off, and neither did I. I fell asleep to raging winds last night, awaking to a beautiful morning of glistening snow. Just a dusting, mind you. Swollen buds and sprouting irises don’t do so well in this cold weather. My apricot tree, covered in blooms and bees will be complaining over this. I hope I get a few apricots with a second bloom, as the days warm.

The weather report is very encouraging from Saturday on. Days in the mid 60’s and nights above freezing. Hopefully, spring is upon us. Outside my window, two of the fattest little sparrows are eating the buds on the tree branch. They have rosy chests and plump little bodies. Everyone around here is ready for winter to end.

This morning, I’m going to do my best to stay present in the moment. There are so many things needing attention, being mindful is difficult. I just realized it’s time to shop for Auto and Home Insurance. What did people do before the internet? We were all at the mercy of insurance agents. I so remember when the agent would come out to the ranch to visit my mom and dad. Coffee was brewing in the Presto 12-cup Stainless Steel percolator with fresh home-baked goodies on the table. He was a valued member of the team, providing insurance against unforeseeable hazards and dangers.

Now, one simply shops online to compare the best rates for a specific situation. In 1973, the insurance agent looked around for watch dogs. It was desirable to have a couple to keep thieves at bay. Now, there is a complete list of un-insurable dogs. Thankfully, Cream-based, Piebald, Green-Eyed, Standard, Wire-Haired Dachshunds are not listed. Especially cute ones like Oliver, crazy as he is.

Perusing list after list of insurance choices to come up with a magical price, I realized I’ve been paying way to much for years. Yet again, another way that I will save money. I am enjoying this part of my life reset. Probably a good idea to dust off your copy of insurance policies to make sure your rates are competitive.

Yesterday, I chose a new Home Warranty Policy. New widows, listen up. If you own your home, this is a must. Home Warranty Policies are the best thing ever. You buy a yearly policy for around $500, depending on your situation and location. Then, when something breaks in your house, which things always do, you simply report the item to your company and they arrange a repairman. My fee with them is $75. That’s it. They repair or replace the item in question. You are all set. Matters not, whether a small light socket or your entire Air-Conditioning Unit. Repaired or replaced. For your one time fee. They arrange the technician in a timely matter, and handle the problem. Finito!

We have all had situations in which something breaks resulting in a huge repair or replacement bill. Who wants that? Check online. There are many companies providing this service, and it matters not how long you have owned your home, whether it is mortgaged, or even if you own it free and clear. Check it out.

The salesman from which I purchased my policy yesterday was knowledgeable about his product. He did try to upsell me on a longer, cheaper, better, and more wonderful option. I stuck with the one year plan. So, now, I hope I don’t need their services for the next year. With new appliances, just out of warranty, you never know. Summer is coming up and my AC unit could break. Something could short out my electrical system. Anything could go awry. So, this is my little hedge against disaster.

VST used to handle all these little details so quietly, I never really gave them any thought. He would have Bonanza playing in the background. While Hoss and Little Joe were solving the latest problem, VST was crunching numbers and finding us the best insurance for our situation. He never complained, but always enjoyed his duties in our partnership. He was good at those sorts of things. Now, I’m finding out, I am, too.

At the moment, the sun is shining in a hopeful kind of way. The winds are slowly moving some stray-gray clouds off to the East, revealing the bluest sky. The dusting of snow is melting slowly, perhaps being the last of the year. The trees everywhere are swollen with new life, but not yet leafing. Tuesday brings the garbage truck around, automated and efficient, moving slowly from house to house. Neighbors are bundled and enjoying morning walks, reminding me I need to get moving.

Moments in the present are so beautiful. There is so much to take in when just stopping to look through an open window. I could get lost for hours doing just that. Today, I need to accomplish some vital tasks. There will be more moments of mindfulness after I complete a few things around here! Enjoy your day!

September 24, I began blogging without a clear goal. Yes, there were murky thoughts of completing a book. But that was all in “SOMEDAY” status. Nothing was visualized as a memory before it even happened. Each morning, I’d look up stats for my blog and remember squealing when I had ten readers from the preceding 24 hours. There was only one constant. I wrote, every day, inching along with the excitement provided by those first few readers.

Slowly, the readers and number of reads increased. I remember the excitement I felt when I reached 50 readers and 100 reads. It was an amazing feeling. But, it didn’t meet a set goal. An un-aimed arrow always hits its target, they say. My arrow sailed gracefully hitting a perfect bullseye into thin air.

After a few months, with the realization that my numbers continued to grow, I set a few goals and upon reaching them, said a little “Ya-Hooooo”. I continued writing.

This morning, my past readers number over 5,000. My total reads are over 11,000. Not shattering in the world of the internet, by any means. My past readers come from more than 48 countries and 29 states. I average 100 readers in a 24 hour period. It’s time to set some new goals, so I know when to plant my flags. One goal is to have readers in all 50 states. Slowly, I march toward that mountain top.

When journeying through life, goals help us move along, rather like a tow strap. I can’t imagine not having daily, weekly, monthly, and annual goals, monitoring them for needed adjustments. It’s just the way I roll best.

Thinking about the future, it was suggested that I consider the point in which I will embrace the fact that I’m a published author. The blog is one milestone along the way. But, when I close my eyes at night, I don’t feel I am a true writer, yet. So, what will it be? The first day my book is advertised on Amazon? My first sale? My first book signing? When I have my first book available in hardback, e-book, and audio versions? Those are all flag plantings I need to decide upon. Until I do, I won’t know where to plant my flags, and they’re pretty heavy to carry along.

I plan to celebrate when I reach these pointy peaks in my writing life, envisioning a shiny sports car with the license plate “PAGES” proudly displayed. I see it. But, the real prize will be when I reach all the things listed above, and have multiple books in print.

This last year, goals have helped me get through some pretty tough days in the wilderness of widowhood. During April, 2020, I listed hourly accomplishments while struggling to breathe. There were so many things needing to be done as I readied Oliver and I for our big move. I’d make a list of three things. When they were completed, I’d list three more. Without tiny goals, I wouldn’t have had things ready for the moving truck.

Tiny accomplishments grew into bigger ones over the last eleven months. Journal-ing along the way left a bread crumb tale of memories. What a unique year it has been. One that none of us could have predicted, packing punches delivered one after the other. Each time the knock down blow was delivered, we all regrouped and stood tall again. Here we are on the brink of returning to some sort of normal. Bruised, but standing.

I have a big flag to run up the pole on April 8th. One year will have past since I lost VST. During that year, the trails have been treacherous. Some days, the winds, rain, and snow have been blinding. Sand storms have caused me to hunker down until they ceased. Each storm left me stronger and more determined to move forward. That’s the point right? Don’t get stuck in the mud. I find these last few days are more harrowing than all the rest combined. No one can warn a grieving gardener about that for it’s an experience all its own, individual and unique to each person.

My flag is huge, and reads “An Appeal to Heaven“. We can all hope for someone to show us the way, following leaders. We can try things we’ve heard online that might be helpful during a crisis. We can wait for stimulus checks, and new laws to lead us in the direction of someone else’s choosing. But, when all else fails, and hopefully before that, An Appeal to Heaven will show the way.

Pick milestones along your journey and remember to plant your flags. You need them flying high as a celebration of your accomplishments, and a sign to others behind you that things will get better with time.

Throughout life, there are sayings that stick with a person. Each generation has a special selection of these, which leave the youngers scratching their heads at the meaning. Almost like a secret code to another world, these phrases bring a smile and knowing to those that understand. They leave those that don’t get it confused.

Once upon a time, VST and I farmed in the Central Valley of California. On our ranch, there were 109 rows of vintage grapevines. Planted before 1936, these grapes were a variety lost to the ages. Their flavor and texture were of another time. They were not for shipping, for their skins were far too fragile. They were Thompson Seedless grapes, green in color. Not the huge grapes you find in the store, which are tricked into being that huge size. These were normal sized grapes, which when dried in the sun, turned into delicious Sunmaid Raisins.

For seventeen years, VST and I carried for our vines the best we could. We worked two full time jobs to support our little farming hobby. Forty acres is a lot of land to care for. One fourth of a section of land. If you every need to walk down a vineyard row, picking up discarded thick wood removed during pruning, you begin to know how long the rows are. Especially if it is a cold, foggy Central Valley morning, when your irrigation boots get stuck in mud.

There you have another phrase. Stuck In The Mud. Until you have been, you don’t know. A terrible predicament. A Stick In The Mud prefers their life to remain that way. Stuck in the mud. Horrible situation.

On our farm, there were 109 rows, most of them, very long, continuous rows, stretching from one side of the ranch to the other. Whether irrigating or shoveling, one would start at row 109 and work back towards the house, which seemed ever so far away. Hours later, you might be at row ninety-five, depending on what you were doing. Fixing wires that supported the grapes. Shoveling in gopher holes or shoveling off sucker vines growing at the base of the stumps. Cutting down weeds or tying up tendrils. There was always something that needed doing.

Our house sat in the middle of rows 1 – 30-something. A nice square space in which our house was, along with a big red barn and out buildings. This divided those rows into two sections which were named The Short Rows.

Every one of us would look across the vineyard toward the house wishing we were already there. Plodding along in the cold, wet, or extreme heat, we moved at a snail’s pace. There was time to think and ponder the problems of the world. Time to wish we could win the lottery and never need to pick up a shovel again. Surprised, we might scare up a quail or coyote. Always, we moved toward the house and the short rows.

Now, in life, I’, working the short rows. No matter how I wish the days would zoom past April 8th, I plod along. Each day a little bit closer. There are more opportunities to sit and rest, but, I’m not done yet. The last year has worn me down. Emotional blisters are healing, but the heavy weight still makes them sting a bit. I find I’m a bit more calloused from widowhood. I’ve found I could carry more than I thought I could. Looking back, I am proud that I made it through, a stronger and more competent woman.

The best thing about the short rows, is that you could find rest at the house. There was a bathroom right there. Grabbing a cold water, you could sit under the shade of the patio and take a break. The breeze seemed a little stronger there, promising that the job at hand was almost finished.

In life, there will always be another pass to be made. Another daunting experience in which you return to Row 109 and start all over again. So glad VST and I could experience farming and life together. Someday, he’ll be waiting for me at Row 1. Bring the lemonade, VST. I’ll be tired.

In the last year, there’s been little opportunity for something as simple as a date on Friday night. With the virus controlling the show, restaurants have been all but shuttered. Things that we used to consider routine, like a dinner date, are now rare, treasured events. At least for me they are. So, last night was something special.

Finding a new friend is a wonderful experience of life. Like beginning a book by an unknown author, rich and exotic stories await as time is spent together, listening. My new friend and I grew up in entirely different ways, in places as different as Zimbabwe and Paris. Although born days apart in the same year into large families, the similarities of our early lives stop there. I’m learning about life in the refined East, while sharing about life in the wild West.

As different as we are, the more we find we are similar. A close friendship is building, as we keep track of shared interests, similar tastes in food, and things we find humorous. Yesterday, I was asked to join him on a Friday night date.

Discussing options available in my little town, the subject of KFC came up, (as in chicken). It was then, I knew my dining choice would be in Virginia City, Nevada at the most beautiful of restaurants named Cafe Del Rio. As a past resident of VC, I’ve spent hours dining in this fantastic venue, seated at comfy wooden chairs and surrounded by the history of the Comstock. Just eating in the dining room is an experience. The surrounding walls are rock, holding mysteries of the miners that might have handled them. The food is divine, the service, extraordinary. This is a place where the entire staff cares deeply about your dining experience, because, they own the place.

Driving to VC in the white Jeep Wrangler, dark clouds covered the vast desert sky. With another storm forming, we could see the mountaintop on which I lived for so many years from Highway 50. Blanketed by clouds, we were traveling to the base of Mt. Davidson at almost 6200 feet. Since April 8, VC has been an easy place to avoid, holding too many memories from my life with VST. But, last night, it held the promise of good food and friends.

Driving along 6 Mile Canyon Road, I remembered all the times VST and I scurried up and down the windy route. Any road that leads to VC is treacherous and needs the complete attention of a sober driver. Making the tight twists and turns while creeping higher and higher, sweet memories surrounded me. Thriving there for a time, it was our happy place for many years. Yesterday was the first return visit that didn’t involve tears and a heavy heart. I saw the town for the charming, quaint place it is and became just another tourist looking forward to dinner.

The owners of the restaurant were happy to see me. So many nights, they provided food for me when VST was sick, and after. The last 17 days of my life in VC, their food kept me nourished. Last night, the Gospel Fried Chicken didn’t disappoint, complete with HOMEMADE mashed potatoes and gravy, corn cut right off the cob, fresh coleslaw, and the centerpiece of the plate, boneless chicken breast prepared in a very secret way. All heavenly. We then shared a piece of Apricot-Ancho Chili Cheesecake with Chantilly cream on the side. Everything served with friendly banter between friends.

We now have another thing in common, both being true fans Cafe Del Rio Gospel Fried Chicken. We’re finding that time between us is sweatshirt-and-jeans-comfortable. Whether discussing the finer points of growing up on a farm, or being a Navy Seal in Desert Storm, we talk easily, seasoning our discussions with laughter and good stories.

For now, I’m looking forward to more Friday night dates to new and fun restaurants as Covid loses its deadly grip on our lives. Meals, movies, walks along the Truckee River, and friends. The last year has held enough horror, sadness, and tears to float the 7th fleet. With caution, its time for me to explore the world that awaits me.

Driving is not my favorite past time. Being a cautious driver, I observe the speed limit, rules of the road, and the antics of others. My only wreck was in 1973, when I totaled my brand new sunshine yellow Mazda RX3. It was a very fast car, driven by an even faster young lady. The jaws of life were involved to extricate me, uninjured and furious that they would be using such a device on my formally beautiful car. Confusing, as the devastating damage couldn’t be seen from the inside where I was sitting. Luckily, I wasn’t injured, those being days of the 1900’s, before air bags and seat belt laws .

Yesterday, with taxes in hand, I left with my postal delivery in hand My new little town is just that. Very little. The US Post Office is about two miles away from my house, all on country roads, usually empty. Leaving my neighborhood, there are a few twists and turns and then……. The Straightaway. Yes. A portion of the road that just begs for speeding. There are houses on one side, and BLM land on the other. It gives off a sense that no one is watching. Anywhere. I speed on this stretch of road.

Now, I don’t mean to. I know it is highly rude to the people living on this stretch. The road is clearly marked 25 MPH. My speedometer clearly says 40 MPH as I speed on to the STOP sign. There are families that live on this road, enduring the speedway right outside their kitchen windows. Each day, I promise to do better on the next trip. Each time, I speed.

Little Town, USA, in which I live, has another peculiarity. Very seldom are there visible patrol cars of any kind, any where. One reason could be that there’s very little crime in our town. At least, that is what I wanted to believe. However, the little bank was robbed yesterday. My bank. With my quiet, professional tellers that like to give big happy smiles and wish you the best day when your business is done. The sweetest people run my tiny little bank. With only four or five employees, they are polite and efficient, providing a sense of family while you bank. A man with a gun robbed them yesterday. He stole their happy place. And mine. He hasn’t been caught yet.

My little town has crime. Lots of it. Something not to be forgotten, as springtime can conjure a heightened sense of complacency.

So, it’s easy to speed on this quiet little stretch of road, without giving it a second thought in my quiet little town that has next to no crime. Until yesterday, when this senior citizen lady in her souped-up white Jeep with the sunflower tire cover (ME) came rolling around the bend, already going at a pretty good clip.

Rounding the corner, engine roaring and waiting for the straightaway, brakes were applied immediately when trouble appeared ahead. Patrol car lights. Yes. A sweet neighbor was sitting, mortified, in her beautiful SUV, while the officer was writing up a speeding ticket. I guess I’m not the only one that shoots down that road like greased lightning, rattling the neighbors. I slowed to 23 MPH as I carefully passed the officer and his perpetrator, formally known as my neighbor.

It brought me back to the moment. I can’t forget to follow the speed limits. Watch for signs. Avoid erratic drivers. And, stay in my lane.

Things always go a little better when you follow the established rules. You can avoid collisions and road rage by doing so. It may take a little longer, but by observing the speed limit, you will get to your destination safely. Going a little slower, you can enjoy the scenery and blue desert skies. You have more time to react to pot holes or stray items on the road. You can watch for renegade mustangs crossing your path.

All those points apply while going through life, as well. Speeding through, you miss so much. Quarantining at home, time has slowed and sometimes even seems to stop. The days still go by at the same rate, but pass more slowly. The great outdoors begs for leisurely walks through beauty. In solitude, I’ve found time to consider life and the direction I want to go.

There are so many choices to make now. Physical choices involving the yard and my 2021 landscape additions. Choices of spring clothing and footwear. Choices in home decoration and organization. The list is endless. However, physical choices are only a cover for the deeper spiritual and emotional landscape of life. It’s there where we all fight demons and find angels. In the quiet of the desert, I find the solitude gives me wide open spaces in which to dream new dreams and put nightmares to rest, once and for all.

Today, I’ll be practicing safety first, with doors locked and a watchful eye. The bank robbery makes me want to bake a plate of cookies, delivered warm to my financial friends. They will be re-evaluating their own safety procedures, while hugging each other a little tighter. Masked robbers with a gun steal more than the money they take. Innocence was lost yesterday, in this, out little wide spot in the road.

Slow down, my friends. You never know who is watching around the corner. Just waiting for you. Could be your friendly highway patrol, or a bad guy. Keep your eyes peeled and slow down.

Even the best laid plains run aground, at times. So it was with my late night tax project. Two days earlier, my ego was riding high. I waltzed right into the Accountant’s office, pretty as you please. In my arms, I held a mint green binder, complete with all appropriate tax documents in individual page protectors. Each type of document was placed in the appropriate category, behind section dividers. Tax Returns were printed and placed in front for inspection and I felt victorious.

The accountant looked through everything, saving me a quick $400 in the first three minutes of my visit. As he worked through each section, I won his approval. My head was swelling at a rapid rate, as he complimented me on my work and organizational skills. Ha. I’d indeed conquered something I’d never done before. At least, not in many decades. I was on top of the world. With our meeting completed, I paid him $100 for his time, saving $300 by visiting. I was singing on the way home.

One bit of advice given was that I E-File. “No problem, “ said I, smugly. VST and I E-Filed the last several years. My tax program would guide me through the last steps, leaving me finished with the 2020 Tax year.

When I got home, I looked through the taxes once more, knowing this would be the last time in my life I would ever file as a married woman. It was an odd feeling. Like stepping off a life raft into a sea of hungry sharks. In black and white, there’s no denying it. I’m single and will be that until the end of my forever. Of course, there are the obvious financial implications, with higher tax rates for single people. But, more than that, there is the lonely fact that VST is gone and I’m now a family of one, with Oliver my dependent.

The words printed on the top of the tax form were stark and final. Deceased. 4/8/2020. I’m glad I’m experiencing this near the One Year Anniversary of his death, ending another chapter, as well. As a couple, we’d always come to an agreement on when to start and complete our return. VST was on the conservative side of taxes, making sure that every deduction was supporting by the correct document.

Once, we were summoned to the local IRS Office. There was a discrepancy they needed to discuss with us immediately. Terrified on the long drive into town, we wondered, out loud, what the discrepancy involved. We were hoping for adjoining cells when they locked us away after finding years of mistakes unknown to us. It was a dark drive.

Upon entering the office, the IRS agent brought out our taxes. A line was highlighted in which we had entered a $100 donation to Job’s Daughters.

“Here at the IRS, we take donations very seriously. These donations cannot be made carelessly, and declared when they’re not valid. Mr. and Mrs. Hurt, one cannot make a donation to a person’s daughter. Job would need to be part of a non-profit or religious organization. What do you have to say about this???? ” The agent let the last few words hang in the air, while looking over the top of horn rimmed glasses.

We were speechless. Job’ Daughters is a Masonic youth group for girls aged 10 – 20. It’s a 501 (C) (3) organization, for which all donations are completely tax deductible. We left holding hands, relieved that we would not be ushered to federal jail.

Returning to last night, perched at VST’s desk, I was ready to send the taxes into cyber space. I checked, once more, that all entries were correct. Everything seemed in order, as I pushed the FILE button. An email arrived stating my taxes were on the way. Everything was just great. For 32 minutes. Until, with another email, I found my taxes were rejected. Just like that.

I repeated the procedure two more times, finally realizing, there was a missing code. I needed the code to complete the transaction. A code from last year. A pass-code that VST would’ve hidden in that unusually sharp brain of his. A code now gone forever. A code I would have no way of every finding again.

It was with those thoughts, my ego returned to normal size. There are just some things that are not worth fighting. Pass-codes are one of them for me. The line was drawn there. I threw in the towel. Defeat cuts deeply into the ego. But, defeat it was.

My taxes were mailed in a legal size envelope, Certified Mail, with tracking, thank you very much. There are postmarked March 17, 2020, including a check for taxes due, and all required documents. Just like that, I have cut the rope, now in my own financial life raft. I can create my own codes and carefully record them for later use. There are bound to be rough seas ahead, but also starlit nights, enchanting and peaceful. Let the currents carry me where they will.