Grieving Gardener

Kissing everyone I knew Good Bye from the threshold of the train was a bit eerie. Of course, I had no way of knowing what adventure and darkness would unfold as I started on my way. I had a ticket in my hand and hope in my heart. With a few steep stairs, I was aboard The Orient Express to begin a three day Odyssey.

With a very narrow and steep entrance, negotiating both a large Samsonite suitcase and a heavy back back was difficult. A conductor with his spiffy uniform, straight out of an Agatha Christie novel, helped me to my sleeping car after looking at my ticket. To the right and six doors down, I’d be shut away from the riffraff, alone to watch the countryside go by. In the worst case scenario, I would simply sleep the trip away. I was good at sleeping through difficult situations and this might become one.

Ushered into Sleeping Car 24, I examined every aspect of my tiny little home away from home. To the right, there were two bunks, one atop the other. Both had a nice view out the window which only opened about 2″, from the top down. There were ancient curtains, attached at the top and bottom, which when slid closed, would provide total darkness. To the left, there was a small water closet with a toilet/shower combo inside. Next to that, a sink and utility shelf. Completing the room, in the corner, sat a very comfortable but small leather recliner, also looking out the window. The entire compartment was maybe six feet square, plenty big for one. But there would be one little situation that arose before the train ever left the station.

Unexpectedly, there was a knock on the door. Thinking the conductor may have forgotten something, I cautiously opened it, as someone forcefully pushed towards me, shoving me back, almost to the window. In the doorway, a very tall, dark, hairy man stood, a gleam in his eye and smile on his lips.

“‘Eh-Lo”, he sneered in a very deep voice, as his eye gaze traveled slowly from the top of my pretty little head to the tips of my dainty little toes. Giving me the once over, his smirk intensified.

“Hello?” replying timidly, I realized I had no weapon or way to protect myself.

Without any introductions, he simply lifted his large leather suitcase up onto the top bunk and moved in.

“What are you doing? This is MY sleeping compartment!” came out of my mouth, sharp and decisive. He must remove himself now. The queen of this cabana had spoken. THIS was NOT acceptable. What could this mean? How could this be? This was MY sleeping compartment, paid for by an American Company for ME. Not to be shared with some unknown leering and jeering man of dubious means. Not such a large man that the two of us would have no personal space. Certainly not for three days. No. No. No. Wrong. This was not happening.

“NO. THIS is MINE, too.” With that declaration, a guttural and primal laugh emerged from his porcine lips.

With the moves of a ninja, I was out the door to retrieve that little conductor. This terrifying cabin poacher would be history. My receipt for a single room included No roommate or free-loader. This would be fixed in a flash. Now. As the conductor followed me back to the cabin, I’m quite sure I saw him roll his eyes. But, this communal situation wouldn’t be tolerated. Period.

Opening the door, cigar smoke billowed out of the cabin. Damn. A smoker, too. The worst. The conductor was at a loss as to why the two of us were sold the same cabin, but, it was decided the poacher would move to another. Disgruntled, he removed himself with one last horrible glance my way. I was left to deal with the second hand smoke and lingering body odor he left behind. Locking the door with three latches and my suitcase in front, it took a little while for my pulse to return to a normal rate.

With our cabin debacle taking more time than expected, we left the station 20 minutes later than scheduled. It would be three days until I arrived in Bucharest, Romania. Until then, I’d make the most of my time. I would only nibble on the bread or apples when I got very, very hungry. Until then, I would amuse myself however I could.

I decided to walk the length of the train, after we’d been traveling for about an hour. It would be refreshing to stand on the landings between the cars and smell the fresh country air as we rolled along. Perhaps someone would notice my gaunt cheeks and offer some nourishment from their fat baskets of yumminess. Alas, no one was passing out goodies, and soon, Day 1 was coming to an end. Returning to the safety of my sleeping compartment and climbing aboard the top bunk, (which was always going to be mine), I settled into the night rhythm of the train. Checking and rechecking the locks, I finally made sure one last time that I was secure and floated off to sleep.

Until.

I don’t like watches. If it’s dark, I’m probably thinking about sleeping. If it is getting light, it’s probably time to start waking up. Although I did carry a watch, it wasn’t on my wrist when I suddenly awoke. It WAS certainly very, very dark outside. The movement of the train had stopped, but noisy activity continued outside the train.

Looking through the window, I hardly believed my eyes. A crane had train-sized jaws around the sleeping car that had been attached to the same train while following along on this entire trip. It was lifting the car filled with sleeping people off of the original set of wheels and onto a set new wheels on tracks of a different width, running right along side the ones on which I had previous been traveling. We were entering the Hungarian Soviet Republic. The Hungarians obviously didn’t want to be invaded by rail. The European train wheels wouldn’t work on the Hungarian track. Plain and simple.

Terror struck me as I watched the crane hoist this huge rail car high into the night sky and carry it inches before setting it down again. Luckily, I’d been asleep when mine was moved. A few minutes after I’d opened my eyes to the dark unknown of night activities, there was a seriously determined knock on my door. Unwanted and untimely.

I’d prepared for a trip alone, and packed a matronly nightgown. I wasn’t going to get caught in a frilly negligee if something went amiss. So, in my long sleeved, full flannel nightgown with buttons at the neck and wrists (for added security), I shyly asked who was at my door.

“Who is it?”

“Po-Lee-Cee-ah. Open. Now.”

Blood running cold, I froze. Police? At my door? For being a witch to the guy that tried to steal my room? For walking up and down the train? Why? Why me?????? Why Now?????

“Po-Lee-Cee-ah! Open Door Now, or we will open it for you…..”

With that, I knew I must comply. In the little comfort that my flannel shroud provided, I slowly reached for the first lock, and prayed that this was all some very terrible misunderstanding…….

To Be Continued……

A good writer should be able to write a wonderful story about the phone book, if needed. Lately, my life is a little less interesting than the antiquated phone book, while plenty of great stories from my past adventures swirl around in my head. As I am the master of this blog, I’ll to share two of them with you. I assure you, they’re both harrowing and nail biting tales. They both happened to me as a very young bride in 1977 during a time called the Cold War. Very angry and dark times between the USSR and the USA. VST was the husband to another and the father of year old twins. As he tugged bolts in the hot San Joaquin Valley sun, I moved to Moldavia, USSR, for six months to begin my own life as a new bride.

Having lived in a communist country in which government controls every aspect of life, I truly understand what FREEDOM means. The gravity of losing freedom doesn’t become real until you are on a sidewalk with a bayonet in your face because you attempted to jay-walk across an empty street. Empty because no one could own a car. Patrolled and enforced, because you better bein lock-step with everyone in the town. Or. Else.

The summer of 1977. At 21, I looked 15. Hopeful for the future, I had married in March and promptly found myself following my husband to work in the tomato fields of Moldavia for an American company, to remain un-named. This company, along with others, had an agricultural business arrangement with the Russian government. Please remember, this was during the Cold War, when we were all taught to believe that enterprise was not occurring between the two countries. Not exactly the case. because there we were in the middle of the USSR, working for a US company.

In the town of Tiraspol, I was the only American woman to have ever visited, let alone, lived there. My cut off jeans, too short to really cover anything, and bra-less tank tops were the talk of the town. My every move was documented. My every phone conversation taped. Every letter I sent or received was opened before I did, with some of the messages carefully removed by razor blade, if it didn’t meet Soviet standards. My clothing, sent to be laundered, was often stolen, until I decided it was better to wash everything by hand. I lived in a communist fish bowl. Just one little golden fish, swimming ’round and ’round that bowl, day after day, wondering what in the heck I’d signed up for.

Each day was a version of the one before. I was ill-equipped for this experience, not understanding the Moldavian language or the Cyrillic alphabet. Alone for 16 hours a day to figure things out, I made many assumptions, because, there was no one to explain this crazy land in which I found myself. While my new husband had been hired to do a real job at the farm, 45 minutes from town by taxi, I was just a bride. Brought along for amusement. Left in town, all day, every day, for the entire time we were there.

At 21, my options for interesting activities were slim. I could sit down and read a complete novel each day, cover to cover. Which, I often did. I could go to the daily market and buy ingredients for anything I felt like spending all day cooking on my single burner hot plate. I could walk about the town observing, while I was observed more. And I could sleep. Boy could I sleep. Some days, 12 of the 16 daylight hours were spent in dreamland, walking up and down the aisles of my American Safeway. I was starved for protein and calories, along with all the other issues I was dealing with.

After a very long summer of hell, we’d been allowed to leave Moldavia for a one week vacation in Europe. At the end of the week, we’d meet with co-workers in Vienna and drive back to Tiraspol, through a countryside that few Americans would ever see. I was looking forward to the trip, even though it would be with three men, two of which I really didn’t like very much, one of those being my new husband. The juice would be worth the squeeze, and I’d suffer through the manly company just to travel by ground and experience something few Americans ever would.

The morning we were to leave, the four of us met for breakfast in a little Viennese café. The vacation had been one to remember with trinkets and memories of Austria and Italy. By train, taxi, and foot, we had taken in the sights and sounds of Vienna and Venice, with lots of places in between. The four of us now sat quietly, awaiting word from our exalted boss, about the plans for the next part of the journey. I wasn’t really prepared for his proposal.

Arten Max was a short little man who made up for that with bravado and sexual prowess. At least he tried to make up for his deficits. The more he tried, the more disgusting he became. The troublesome part of my relationship with Arten was that he was my new husband’s boss, and therefore controlled every aspect of our lives. Being a brazen womanizer, he often went into great details about the Moldavian women he had conquered during his decade long tenure in the country. Arten disgusted me with his comments on my attire and the need to wear a short dress, stockings, and bra when visiting the far. There were not words low enough for this man, and he earned every badge I’ve given him.

A physical description of Arten, a major player in this story, would help. Arten was a tight little muscular package of sinew. Without a drop of fat on his lean little body, he stood at about 5’6″, therefore, making us eye level. His crystal blue eyes darted this way and that as he would work a room, making sure all eyes were on the American. He had a typical farmers tan, but often took off his shirt to make sure the upper body glowed bronze, as well. Blonde hair and chiseled features led the Russians to believe he was straight off the beaches of Malibu, but then, we all were.

Arten had one major physical flaw that he used to his own benefit. He had suffered a terrible injury when a piece of heavy equipment had fallen on his calf, while he lay under the said equipment beating it with a pipe wrench. After spending days within the horrors of a Soviet hospital, Arten could simply take no more. He walked out, in the midst of a life threatening infection. The resulting leg was no more than a skin covered bone between the ankle and knee. Rather a peg-legged pirate affair. Fitting. He used this for sympathy with his stable. All the girls made over this poor, poor American. They should have remembered that the Diamond Back Rattler comes from the states, as well.

It was under Arten’s demand that we had not registered our position in the country with the American Embassy. Whether or not the embassy knew of our location was not the true point. It was his ability to make us BELIEVE the embassy couldn’t and wouldn’t be able to help us if we needed help. We would simply remain invisible in their eyes. As the weeks rolled by, controlled by communism, I was also smothered by the manipulations of a crazy American that should have been keeping us safe, instead of carrying on affairs with most of the eligible women in the town. At any rate, the next three days would be no different. There would be no American Embassy to which we could escape, providing no umbrella of safety for this little chick-a-dee.

It seemed that during Arten’s miscalculations of travel, in my opinion planned quite to his specifications, there was only room for three men on the return car trip to Tiraspol. A rather large piece of a tractor engine would take up the fourth seat. As I was only along for the ride anyway, with no useful purpose, it would be my seat that would be sacrificed on the journey. I was given an instant choice to make, as time was wasting. In a foreign country, with doubts about every decision I’d made to get me this far, I was faced with a very hard decision. I was given three scenarios for my destiny and told to pick one.

1. I would travel back to California alone. There was no apartment waiting for me, the new bride. Everything we owned was in storage. So, I would be setting up a solitary existence for an unknown length of time.
2. I would travel as far as Virginia and stay with my new husband’s extended family. All strangers in a strange land, to me. I would wait there, alone, for an unknown length of time.
3. I could take an adventure on The Orient Express, next stop Tiraspol, Moldavia. Winding my way through three days of lush countryside, I’d travel in my very own sleeping car. Yes. Sleeping car. Just like Joni’s song, “With the clouds and the star’s to read, dreaming of the pleasure I’m going to have watching your hairline recede, my vain darling.” What an amazing stroke of luck!!!!

Well, for a 21 year old girl, fresh out of college with her BA along with her MRS. degree, the choice was instant. Adventure #3. What an easy call. I would meet up with the men in three days. Three Glorious Days to find answers to questions that were burning holes in my brain. 72 hours to examine decisions that got me to the crossroads in which I found myself. My wild side spoke up and it was decided. The train left at 10 AM. It was 9:30 AM and the station wasn’t far. I needed to pack up, buy my ticket, and move out. I could hear that whistle blowing and almost feel the clickity clack under my feet.

With a flurry of activity, we arrived at the train station with 15 minutes to spare. I’d take my luggage with me, as there was no room in the car. With dollars in my pocket, I’d have enough money for daily meals. I had something to read and plenty to observe. I was ready to roll. Until a very important fact came into play.

While purchasing the ticket, we were informed that THIS version of the Orient Express had no dining car. No mahogany smoking cars with nefarious occupants sheltering devious eyes. No mysterious women with eyelids that shrouded intentions for evil. No men in tilted fedora’s, smoking expensive cigars while tapping their shiny wing-tips. No fine crystal holding finer liquors while being fingered by the finest of thieves. Save all that for a bed-time story.

The real passengers loaded the train. Plenty of zoot-suited men, out-date-ed with nothing but time to do very bad things. Fat women with heavy baskets of sustenance to maintain their womanly curvature. Fat women always cover their dietary needs. They knew already that no food of any kind could be purchased once aboard. Obviously, the most important fact was that this trip would be 72 very hungry hours unless I hustled up something quick.

The small, adorable kiosk, providing food for travelers, sat to one side in the station. Quick as a cricket, I was in front of empty bins. Yes, there had been sandwiches, bags of chips, fruit, and bread. There always was before the departure of the Orient Express. This, the three day trip, was one in which the vendor always sold out. With seven minutes to departure, there was no time to come up with Plan B. Arten hung back, snickering under his pompous mustache. He had been well aware of the train amenities and this wasn’t lost on me, as daggers flew out of my eyes, aimed right at his smug face. I purchased the remaining food from the vendor. Two bruised apples and two dried out rolls. A feast for three days.

With that, I kissed the only person I knew in Vienna “GoodBye”, boarding the Express Train to the hell that would consume me. eroding any confidence I had for the next three days. An American woman should never travel alone on the Orient Express. An American woman should glue her passport to one breast, and an alarm clock to the opposing butt cheek. Doing neither, a ding-dong American girl was about to have the ride of her life. All aboard!!!!

To be continued.

Good morning readers. I will be back on Monday morning. Plan an adventure this weekend.

Joy

Life never ceases to amaze me. Just when I think boredom has hit a new, all time low, another spicy adventure awaits. Life is brimming with amazing people all having their own history, but this story is rather unique and specific to my interests. It all began at Papa’s Old Bar and Grill on a chilly high desert Saturday night. After saying a final Goodbye to Miss Firecracker in Papa’s parking lot, just two nights prior, I returned there looking for something different. Something mysterious and haunting, like the legendary ghosts that flow from this place. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but there I was again, expecting some kind of something.

Choosing to eat outside, I took the table covered with the least debris. In the lands of the desert winds, one cannot expect things to remain clean for very long. Even with the most diligent waitresses, dust and debris quickly cover tables and chairs. It appeared it had been quite awhile since the surfaces had been properly cleaned, but being outside made that okay. I was the only customer, and after a full and busy day, I settled down to look at my phone a bit.

It was then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw two HUGE men come outside to enjoy the fresh air. They were rough looking types that were bigger than life. At least 6’5″ and 300+ pounds each, they displayed massive arms of tattooed flesh. The younger of the two had gone a step further and tattooed his head and neck, as well. To say they were intimidating in appearance would be putting it mildly.

“My dad was a Navy Seal…….” was all it took. I had to look and smile, triggering a conversation with the younger of the two. He happened to be the one with the shaved and tattooed skull. As he approached our table, he grew larger and more intimidating, although his eyes said something different. There was a melancholy approachability in the way he looked at me. A gentle giant, although different than most with which I would strike up a conversation on a random Saturday night.

After a brief exchange, he asked if I’d seen the movie, “The Mustang”. He had my complete and undivided attention. In 2016, VST and I hadn’t been in the area that long, when it was announced there would be a movie filmed about the local prison and the Mustang and Inmate program there. Four times a year, there’s a sale at the prison. If you attend, you can’t wear blue jeans, as those are reserved attire for the inmates only. If you bring your horse trailer, you can buy a formally wild mustang, tamed and trained by an inmate. For years, I’ve wanted to go to a sale just to watch, being fascinated that the training occurs in 90 days. Hard to tell who needs gentling more, the horse or the inmate. These trained horses are purchased by all kinds of people, from law enforcement to ranchers. The bidding starts at $150. The proceeds support this valuable program.

Years ago, I’d begged VST. Really begged him to visit the prison on sale day. But, he was never in the mood to go sit in the sun and watch a horse sale. Maybe a little afraid that I might bid and become the owner of a mustang. So, we never went.

I’ve only met one trained mustang on a first name basis. His name was Rico and he was almost 28. It’s all in the eyes with me. Rico had given up his freedom to take a job settling trail horses that were not as sound as he. At 28, he was a stunning version of timeless beauty. As I said, it’s all in the eyes. This man standing before me had the eyes of a mustang. Until you look into those kind of eyes, there are not proper words to explain. Some wild things can be gentled, and some can’t. That goes for people, too.

Back to Papa’s that night, the mountain of a young man standing next to me said, “The movie was written about me. It’s my story. I had a part in the movie, but, the story is mine.”

My first thought was, “Sure it was. Sure you did.” How did he sense the huge interest I had in this project? And that it was on my list of movies to watch? And that I loved the entire thought of inmates settling these horses, while both benefited. How did he know? He could have been the subject of 100 movies. But, he wasn’t. He was the subject of “The Mustang”. The one that held my interest.

Quick as a cricket, he had out his phone and this man in front of me was talking on his phone screen at a Red Carpet interview in Hollywood on opening night. There he was, just as soft spoken and unassuming as he was in my presence. I was speechless as I listened to the interview.

He went on to show me pictures with Bruce Dern and some of the other cast members, while he kept talking about the story. He raised 26 horses while at the prison, each taking 90 days to gentle and finish. Three went to New Zealand, many went to police departments, and others just went to good homes. Polite, quiet, and reserved, the man who told his story had been through bad times and done terrible things. But, somehow, through the experience, life had forged him into someone new. The gift of time and the spirits of those 26 mustangs had taught him a thing or two about inner growth.

He talked of twenty acres he had just purchased in Oregon, just right for his new home. A prideful wild-fire fighter, he had returned to the area to visit friends. Through our conversation, gumption and determination shown through as he talked to me. Not anger. Not bitterness. Just a story told well about a young man that, in a split second, made a very terrible decision. His story.

If you want to watch a really good movie, see “The Mustang”. You’ll get a good visual of the Northwestern Nevada Desert in which I live. You’ll get a feel for the mustangs I’m so lucky to share the land with. You’ll see their magnificent power and their unnerving ability to understand the human condition. It may make you cry, while surely being interesting food for thought.

You just never know what stories people have to tell. With a quick Hello, someone can touch your life with quiet words and a well told tale. Every cover doesn’t tell the true story of the book waiting inside. I’m glad this was a safe and sane guy I was lucky enough to meet. I wish him all the best in his search for his own quiet paradise in Oregon.

A while back I was talking with a widower about the loss of his wife. He and I shared things that we missed after suffering the loss of our spouses. Our answers were exactly the same as we went through the long list. The things not mentioned were materialistic things. Those that came up time and time again were simple in nature. Things money could never buy or replace.

Shared memories during a lifetime with a spouse is a loss that hits when you least expect it. You can be having a great day and run across a funny picture taken while sailing in the middle of Monterey Bay. The photographer, now in angel form, isn’t there to set you straight on what time of day the picture was taken, or how many times kisses occurred on the way to snapping that picture. The moment is stolen out of a complete story that no one else can tell now, except me. Sadly, it’s out of a story no one else wants to hear, frozen in a screen shot.

Since his death, I’ve been spared from the split second desire to go tell VST things. I hear many people talk about that experience and I’m so glad it never happened to me. Quite often, I DO talk to VST, explaining how life is going, and how happiness has come to roost over Winterpast. Like cumulous clouds on a spring afternoon, fun activities are now coming my way. Lunch and shopping trips to the mall with girlfriends eager to find out all my news. A comforting church visit. Time spent with a new friend. A garden in full bloom after a long winter’s rest. VST always has time to listen. I know he’s cheering me on in heaven. That’s just what best friends do.

In our retirement years, VST and I became excellent workmates as we restored two houses, while maintaining a third. For hours each day, we would plan and execute building projects. Windows were re-designed and replaced. Doors were jacked up to square, or re-hung altogether. Trips to the hardware store resulted in beauty through the projects we completed. The lumber section of Lowe’s is a place that I still can’t yet visit. The smell of freshly sawn wood takes me back to the projects within the walls of the DunMovin’ House in Virginia City or our little cabin by the lake. These projects involved discussions of every kind while we worked. Times together spent doing normal things. Simply that.

Some of the most special things I miss are basic in nature, but more valuable than a gold mine. Belly laughs. Heartfelt tears. Home cooked meals. Trips to the beach. Hugs. Smiles. Early morning coffee and Channel 2 News. The littlest of things that disappeared. Some days, the absence of these things is deafening. How blessed I am to have great family and friends to check on me while sending funny messages my way once in awhile.

On May 20, a very special milestone will occur, making me wish VST was here to cheer with me. Our oldest grandson is graduating from college. VST spent years in college, finally earning a Doctorate in Organizational Psychology. One of his proudest days ever. This accomplishment inspired many around him to continue their educations, including his children and grandchildren. I wish, for a moment, we could sit together and watch our first grandchild reach this special goal. I’ll just need to celebrate for the both of us, knowing that in heaven, VST has a way to know everything while applauding all our successes.

I’ve started planning my summer of new special moments. If I don’t create these, no one else will. I call this Summer Camp for Joy. It includes a little bowling, some boating on Lake Tahoe, time in the Sierra Nevada’s, and trips to favorite spots as I take mini-road trips. Some will include new friends, while some will simply be time I spend getting to know myself better. Special moments spent forging a new path are never wasted. Solitude can lead to epiphanies while we create our best life.

As the months role by, solitary holes in my routine aren’t so obvious. Replaced by new activities, comforting memories bring smiles and stories to share with those interested. There will always be special treasured moments that hold a place dear in our hearts. Now is the time to fill our lives with new adventures and love! Life is precious!

The 101st thing on my long list of “Do Not Forget”-s involves automobile care. I must admit, I fall short in this category. To begin with, the rules keep changing. Long ago, the distance between oil changes was around 3,500 miles. I remember this, but never needed to open the hood. During those early days, my dad took care of every car need, even keeping my windshield sparkling clean. As any young coed in my neighborhood, we all knew how to drive hard and fast, but car care was a little beneath our little patent leathers. Now, with certain oils, it is 7,500 miles between oil changes. We all need to keep up with the specifics of our individual rides.

In my teen years, I did learn that there is oil in a car and knew it needed to be changed regularly. I knew the tires needed air in them. Beyond that, car stuff was never something I studied or cared about. Shame on me, because through my life, someone else has always worried about that stuff for me. Blessed with helpful angels in this area I’ve been. But, a self sufficient desert gal needs to know her automotive needs to be sure things run smoothly.

Speaking about oil filters and oil, one should be familar with the owner’s manual, if you have one. Yours might be online. Under specifications, there is a section on lubricants and the types needed for your vehicle. The needs of your car can depend on the climate in your area. The oil needed in the Central Valley of California might be different that that needed in the dead of winter in Viriginia City, Nevada. It’s important that you don’t scrimp on the quality lubricants, or you might pay a high price later. As your car ages, request the best oils you can buy. In my case, the truck takes synthetic oil. It’s all new information which I am noting as I jot down the mileage at which the service is done.

Be aware that many quick-y oil change businesses may use very cheap oils and filters. Damage may result to your car if the drain plug is not put back on correctly, or worse, stripped. The old saying, “You Get What You Pay For” applies to auto maintenance shops. Be sure that you find a reputable mechanic you can trust. Worth their weight in gold.

If your automotive specialist has your car in the shop, request a tire and brake inspection. Tires should be rotated every 5,000 miles. Don’t forget an occasional alignment. By caring for the tires, you can get extra miles out of a very expensive purchase. Be sure to inquire about the proper amount of air the tire holds and keep them properly inflated. Remember that they need to be checked once in awhile, especially when the temperatures change with the season.

If you live in a rainy area, don’t forget to replace your wipers when they start wear out. New wipers are pricey these days, so shop around. Automotive supply stores carry them and can help you find the right lengths for your vehicle.

Check out your air filter and see if you need to replace it. In the high desert and constant winds, air filters are replaced more frequently than in coastal areas that don’t have much dust. Keep an eye on them. Don’t forget to find out if your car has a cabin filter. They can be overlooked, causing damage.

Chips in your windshield? If you have glass insurance with your automobile policy, they are often repaired for free. If you need a new windshield, try your best to get a brand name replacement rather than a cheap imitation. Today’s windshields often have integrated systems within them. Be sure that you inquire as to the type of windshield that will be replacing your original. My Jeep is due for a new one, having been damaged in a sand storm and badly pitted. On my every expanding “To Do” list.

So, check that car twice. You can never be too careful. The Jeep is running well now, with all recall parts installed the correct way, fluids changed, filters new and shiny, and new tires in alignment. Time to find some great, public BLM roads (the real one, meaning Bureau of Land Management) to travel down. With my Jeep being “Trail-Rated” the spring is just the time to try out some 4-wheel’in.

Don’t forget the wash and wax!! The weather is fine. Get the hose and get busy!!!!

Good Morning! My day always begins with coffee, a mini journal entry, and an hour spent blogging at the computer. When I look back at the growing number of posts, it makes my heart smile. I am a REAL writer. Plain and simple.

The journey to 300 reads a day has been a slow one requiring patience. In the beginning, I was happy if I had one reader. Now, reaching for 400 reads a day, I find new purpose in my writing. Embracing my humble beginnings, I celebrate my slow and steady growth.

I’m not a psychologist, although I was married to one. I’m not a philosopher or a counselor. I have no hidden agenda, other than the desire to have a book for sale later this year. That personal quest hasn’t been hidden from anyone. I learned my grammar, punctuation, and literary rules in the mid-1900’s and everyone knows those parameters change over the years. I choose to use the rules I grew up with, including proper pronouns of the day.

I’m just a widow who lost her husband in the year of Covid. Not BECAUSE of Covid, but under the cloaked quarantine of Covid. It seems deaths from any other disease didn’t occur in the last 13 months. 2020 Widows and Widowers know differently. VST was just one of such deaths. Cancer continues to take our loved ones every day. My loss is no more or less significant than anyone else’s. Writing helped me to heal. It seemed to help some others along the way, too.

I write in three places. All day long, making short entries in my personal journal, it’s a safe place for me to write about anything and everything. Ranting and Raving in long hand, somedays may be a little sloppy. The key is, every day there is something. I started recording my readership numbers while tracking the daily changes. This is a nice place to reflect on blog growth, even if it’s slower than I might like.

Poetry is recorded in a separate place, being a poet from a very young age. Many very old pieces speak beautifully to a young teenage (ME) who lost her first love to an unexpected heart attack, a 25 year old mom with two babies she adored, or the battered and broken divorcee, picking up the pieces and moving on. My heart written on “real time” pages, splattered with a touch of coffee or tears. The third place is, of course, here.

When I started writing the blog, self discovery was essential. First, I needed to find my time of peak creativity. In my perfect world, that is 3 AM, but, even I can’t get myself out of my warm, comfy bed at that time of day. By 5 AM, I’m up and carrying out a few necessary tasks before I get to the keyboard with a cup of coffee. By 7 AM, I’m done and on with my life here at Winterpast. In the beginning, it was every single day, without fail. Now, I try to write a few posts ahead, just in case I might choose not to rise at 5 AM to create something new. My point here is this. Find YOUR time of peak creativity, and write something EVERY day. Even if it’s just a few words. Try different settings and times to find those that enhance your creative spirit, and then, sit down and write.

I’ve often wondered if my posting time mattered. Then I missed a couple of days and found out. People who read daily wonder where the heck I am if I miss a day. Writing is a wonderful habit I’ve embraced. Like deep breathing, it brings peace and perspective into my life. It releases tears when they need to flow, and empties abscesses that have formed in unhealed pockets of bitterness. It reminds me that the present is the life I’ve created, walking the path of my past. I can fight this truth, or accept it wholeheartedly and find great things to love about it. Writing paints a current, literary picture of me, displaying the person I’m becoming.

Finding Bluehost and Word Press was my first step. Finding a template I liked was the second. After working for an afternoon, the new template-ized screen was staring back at me with the words “Add Post”. I began at “The Beginning”. The programs I use are like a maze. It’s necessary to look at the free options you have at your fingertips and start learning about them. There’s no reason to spend money if you know how to look up information on Google and YouTube. If you choose to spend a little, the options become more wonderful.

When starting, I didn’t know what an IP address was. Internet Protocol Address. That’s an ID number that is registered every time someone reads my blog. Some readers hide their identity, and their address is in code. But, many people don’t. These numbers are just a that. A string of numbers, representing a town in a region in a country in the world. I started to look them up and record their locations. It’s most fun to realize someone in Sri Lanka read what I had to say. Or someone in Brazil. My mind questions whether they were on the beach when they read, or maybe in a town under the beautiful statue of Jesus. I review the numbers every day, and now, my consistent reader’s numbers are like reading their names. I look to make sure Y’all are up and okay, just like you check in on my blog. No worries, I can’t see names. Just numbers representing towns.

Getting my blog routine established was the most important part of the experience for me. It provided a purposeful reason to get out of bed. Now, I think of the next step. When will it be enough that I can introduce myself to others by saying, “Hi there, I write for a living. I’m a REAL writer”? On which hill will I plant my own flag stating “I HAVE ARRIVED.”? Not being sure, I do know one thing. I’m not where I want to be yet.

Information on Google and the Internet are plentiful. Your blog should reflect you. If you are lucky enough to throw money at your project, you can design your own template with personal pictures and individualized fonts. For me, it’s about having a cheap place to practice my craft every day. So, this works.

If you have more questions, you can always email me. I love hearing from fans. It’s time for breakfast and the beginning of another beautiful spring day! Happy Writing!

Mother’s Day! What a sweet time to remember our Mom’s, Grandmother’s, Great-Grandmothers, God-Mothers, Aunts, Mother-In-Law’s, or any other women significant in our lives. A beautiful day to let those women know they are cherished and loved, while reflecting on those that have gone before us. A day of love.

On this special day, I am so blessed to have my God Mother, TJ in my life. In the big scheme of things, my parents got it right when they chose HER to watch over ME, because WE are two peas in a pod. Both being Sagittarians, we clicked from the get go. TJ had the most fun house. She was the most fun visitor to OUR house. The day cheered up immensely when she would drop by for coffee and a chat with my parents.

TJ is a free spirit. She is extremely intelligent, intuitive, and wise. She is outrageously funny with her wit and humor. She is loving and caring, being the best mom ever to my sweet Cousin, the Law Lass. TJ always has the best advice, which is usually given after hesitation because she doesn’t want to influence others with her opinions.

We have covered every subject known to man over hours of conversation during Coastal Capers. These were bi-annual visits in which pajamas were the required clothing. Over chocolate, (only milk chocolate please), and snacks we would discuss the insane politics of the day, or just plain gossip about nothing in particular. The subjects just needed to include lots of laughter. Which they always did. It was on one of these such visits we decided a new rule for heaven. No Bras. Followed by more uproarious laughter.

Since VST died, I have missed our monthly visits with TJ. Over the years, they changed from “Girls Only — No Boys Allowed”, to including VST. He adored TJ and our time with her. For a long while, we made monthly RV trips to the coast to visit, and those memories are beautiful. The last year has been one in which I am honing my driving skills to make it back there. At 7 or 8 hours, the drive is not for the faint of heart, winding through some of the most horrific traffic in the country, after making it over Donner Pass. I need not remind you that just the name Donner Pass conjures visions not pleasant. Crossing the Sierra Nevada’s takes skill and fortitude, both of which I am working on.

TJ has been there for every important moment in my life. She was always awake and involved in my life, celebrating milestones and supporting me through heartaches. She has been my rock through everything.

I hope today, she has a day filled with beauty and rest! Practice some laziness, TJ!!!!

As for me, I will be celebrating my own memorable motherhood of 5 wonderful kiddos. Through the years, they have brought me happiness on a silver platter. They are the bubbles to the champagne of my life, for sure. Sharing kids with VST made our life rich and balanced, and for the gifts of his children, I am eternally grateful, as he was for the gifts of mine.

With five beautiful professionals making their contributions in life, my pride overflows. Our legacy continues with 13 grandchildren, beautiful and strong, although becoming grown-up way too soon.

Enjoy your Mother’s Day!!!!! To those women that support me with your daily reads, I am so grateful. I wish a wonderful day for all.

Dear Miss Firecracker,

Today is the first day in a brand new chapter of life for you. It is just a little more than a year ago that I came to this dusty little spot in the road on your advice. For that, I will be eternally grateful, because, our little town is a gem. There is nothing more I could have asked for in my nest of healing. Perfect climate, great neighbors, playful winds, and happiness. Just far away enough from hectic city life, but just close enough to services needed.

I do have a little advice as you start on your way. Carry snacks and water. Stop along the way to rest, if necessary. Watch for pot holes and bouncing tractor/trailers that drive way too fast or way too slow. Be safe on your journey west over Donner Pass to the lowlands on the other side of here.

I will keep your presence with me as I dine alone at the Tee Pee Bar and Grill. We did a lot of healing as we shared our meals. Yes, I will continue to order the “Little Mo” with no sauce, cooked well done with sweet potato fries. I should just say, “The Usual” by now.

“Really??? Grocery Store” will continue to be my food supply source now, as I curse the day it stopped being “So Much Better Grocery Store”. Anything would have been better. The only thing that makes it doable is that the next town is 30 minutes away and ice cream can melt in that amount of time. I will think of you in the lap of shopping luxury with convenience and civilization at your finger tips. You and I both know that some days that won’t be enough to cover the loss of the wilds of the desert. But, each day that town will become more and more yours, as you return to city life.

You’ve taught me about so many things. The need for forgiveness, which I will work on. The need for laughter and memories. The humanness of tears in the middle of a sentence. The adoration and love of a mom for her daughter. The devotion of a daughter for her mom. The best kind of friendship that speaks the truth, even when it might not be what one wants to hear.

Thanksgiving and Christmas 2020 will always be the Widow’s Holidays to me. Cooking a turkey dinner for two to share was delightful because my +1 was you. The day perfect in every way. During Christmas, your flight deck observations were spot on, and something that only you could have put perfectly into difficult but truthful words. How glad I am that you said what you did when you did.

You were the one friend I could call when I really couldn’t drive to Walgreens myself. Tripping over the dog bed is something I’ll try to avoid in the future, as you will be just a little far to come to my rescue.

When I wear the beautiful fur next winter, I will think of all the parties it went to with you. The suede coat will remind me of the desert girl that I got to know so well over the years. The one with the sparkly blue eyes and the spunky stories. The one that could bring me to tears with laughter, but also with memories of the guys we love so much.

As promised, I’ll share periodic meals with Baily’s and Cream. I’ll make sure that no one messes with him, Just Because. Through to the wind, I feel him watching over me, too. I’m so blessed to have made memories with both of you through our years together. I’ll keep him company with occasional visits.

If I go before you, which could happen, I’ll be right there with the guys to greet you. If you go first, please keep an ear out when it’s my turn. Because, heaven wouldn’t quite be heaven without you close. Until then, give me an earthly call once in awhile to fill me in on your antics. Ace and I will have lots of stories to share whenever you call.

Your bags are packed. There’s gas in your car. Get out of here, city girl. You have new adventures to write. Don’t forget about this country girl that will be missing you. I’ll come around when I wash the soil off my hands and comb the sage brush out of my hair. I’ll think of you on the crystal clear desert nights and send love and happiness your way, always. Confucious says, “It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop.” So get going, girlfriend.

Goodbye’s are never easy. So, let’s just say, “Until….”. You never know when there’ll be a knock on your door.

I love you, Miss Firecracker,

Joy

Gamblin and Ramblin” are the main industries in my town. Being a truck stop on the road before the main tourist town, many odd places happen to offer One-Arm-Bandits. Slot machines are in grocery and liquor stores. Gas stations and Casinos. Everywhere you go, there are gaming machines. In the olden days, the machines had big gleaming handles to pull. Now, you can sit quietly and push the play button over and over. The ramblin’ part is helped by the fact that the gas prices in my county are .50 cents cheaper than the county 30 miles up the road. Slot machines once worked with one coin. Now, a penny machine can cost you 60 a pull, or more. No longer can you struggle with the heaviness of your nickel cup as you cash out. Everything is computerized an on redeemable script. Just a simple piece of paper shows your winnings. Find the change machine and cash out. Easy-peasy. I miss those big cups of nickles, ripe for a disastrous spill, an the look of envious gamblers as you made your way to the cage to exchange them for paper. $20 of nickles gives the impression of great luck. The other day, I went to have breakfast at the Pony Express Watering Hole. The food at casinos can be hit or miss, but this place is known for good eats. Even outside in the parking lot, music blares. Mostly 70’s and 80’s hits. It’s odd to think that music of my generation is now what I would refer to as elevator music. I wouldn’t want to live in neighborhoods near this place, with music drowning out the roar of the wind or tweets from the birds. The sign out front was blinking the word Bingo. The number of cars in the parking lot suggested that the locals were tired of sitting inside, cowering from evils of the lurking virus. Entering the casino, patrons were everywhere, enjoying the slots. A woman’s voice could be heard on the overhead speaker announcing letters and numbers. Not sure where actual Bingo was being played, we headed for the restaurant to get a late lunch. My thoughts on Gambling and Casinos are very simple. I would love to win hundreds of dollars with a single pull. Who wouldn’t? But, the chances of me doing that are slim to none. I have rules when I enter these places. I go there to enjoy a meal. I’ll play $5. If I win, then I can play a little longer. But, never more than $5. So many people get in way over their heads, having their lives turned upside down for just one more try. Relationships are lost over trips to the Casino. Gambling can become a life wrecking addition. I don’t understand hours wasted in a smoky, smelly establishment when I could be practicing laziness in the hot tub. The Casinos are wasting all the flashing bill boards on me. Now, Bingo? That might be a horse of a different color. Bingo takes me back to 3rd grade and fun days in which I could play Bingo with my class as a reward for good behavior or successful testing. The kids intently watched their cards as I called out letter and number, one after the other. Prizes came from the dollar store, with delighted winners getting to choose the one they wanted. There was never a dull moment during our Bingo games. There were also skills practiced. Patience. Attention to directions. Good Sportsmanship. Just plain fun. Those were the days when kids couldn’t wait to get to school. Teachers felt the same way. A team focused on learning, respect, and friendship that couldn’t be beat. Variations of Bingo can also be very fun. One of the most hilarious and outrageous games played by senior citizen friends was Body Part Bingo. The caller needed to use as many body parts as possible while calling the game. So hilarious when Knee was used for N. The “B” words could be a little racy. Laughter is so good for the soul. Anyone who takes themselves too serious to play Bingo should re-evaluate life just a little. Fueling my Ramblin’s will always pay off in exact amounts. Put in $3.29 a gallon and walk away with a full tank of gas every time. No gamblin’ skills needed there. Just a good attitude as the prices at the pump skyrocket. Last summer, $2.00 a gallon gas was the norm in my little town. It’s now $3.80 in the county next door. Living remotely has benefits. As my new life blooms with possibilities, you might find me sitting intently with a Bingo card, collecting great stories for a future blog post. Bingo and slots are always something I can do to fill my time. As my desert days roll by, I just might try my luck. Who knows? Maybe it’s improved. I won’t know unless I play.