Grieving Gardener

Everyone is searching for one true love. That person that’s the first you receive a smile from in the early morning, and the last you give a hug before dreams blanket you both. The person that knows you better than you do yourself, at times. The ONE. The trouble is, ONE can become ZERO if Cancer comes knocking. Such is the situation in which I find myself, along with millions of other widows and widowers in this world. It’s just a sad fact of life.

A few nights ago, I was trying to explain the wilderness of widowhood to a new friend. I found myself searching for a string of words that could explain my experience, while floundering and becoming tongue tied. In the final analysis, there are some things known only to the heart. There is a serious language barrier when trying share the experience in words. In My experience, emotional heart aches can’t adequately be translated into explanations. And yet, I try.

VST and I were a complete circuit of electricity. For decades, we functioned in one complicated sphere of knowing. If you’ve been lucky enough to experience this with another, you understand. He was my person between 1987 through 2020. Plain and simple. With little room for others, we flew through life like two crows. Some days soaring, some days on the ground, picking on road kill. Truly. Life is like that some days. So is love. We were blessed with a great marriage, working like hell to keep it as good as it could be. It was our collective focus.

Going through life with a completed circuit board is equally as bad as grieving for the person lost. My life, nuclear-powered with VST, is now powered by me alone. Rather like moving from the automobile age, back to the days of the horse drawn cart. Slow and laborious, everything demands the effort of one, so much easier and more fun with two. Some tasks have fallen by the wayside until I find ways to accomplish them on my own. Other things just get hired out. A marvelous concept.

Contemplating the next phase of my life, I’m sure of one thing. At 65, journeying alone can be a self-fulfilling prophecy. If I accept solitude for the rest of my life, that is exactly how I’ll exist. Alone and lonely. Having experienced the brilliance of love for three decades, the loneliness of solitude will cause a premature, withering death. Of that, I’m quite sure.

VST and I would banter as we drove mile after mile across country. He was sure he would leave this world first, while I knew it would be me. Neither of us believed it would happen for years. We were racing through retirement like children at recess. Screaming our heads off as we ran down the sidewalk of life. Eating ice cream for breakfast, if we felt like it. All the while, cradling the love that was our marriage. We were blessed with the biggest blessing a couple can have. Love Everlasting. For that blessing, I am eternally grateful.

Springtime comes with wonderful changes. March winds blow outside Winterpast, making me feel like putting on a nice pot of soup. Sunshine is greening my lawn. Optimism is in the air. I’m the author of my own pages, now. Choosing to write in rainbow colors, I remember the past, while living in the moment.

Mindful.

Hopeful.

Faithful.

Happy.

This lonely heart wants be happy again. I’ve been wishing for a new friend with which to walk. Someone who shares my smile, while listening carefully. I know God has something wonderful planned for me. Stay tuned. This will be one great read.

In this mask covered world in which we live, it seems an impossibility to make new friends. No way to show a smile or concern, it becomes difficult to direct a new conversation towards someone that can’t see half a face in which to gauge intent. So, we all just hurry in and scurry out, missing those moments which were once used to connect with others. In doing so, we miss a million chances to make new friendships.

Since April and my move to this new town, I’ve become best of friends with myself. I know all my favorite habits. Opinions on television shows. Best dinner routines. Favorite snacks. Things that bring me down and those that cheer me up. I know them all. While quarantining, I’ve become an advocate and best friend to one. Myself. Never have I been so alone, yet never have I had such great company. I’ve slowed to a pace in which I listen to my own voice, checking on whether new opinions still match up with my heart’s core values.

The garden has talked to me in brilliant roses shaded in yellows and coral. The birds throw in their opinions as they flit and fly here and there. Oliver speaks his peace, giving me heck if I don’t grant him the proper amount of respect. The trees watch over us all, still holding back their leaves of green. The garden has a lot to say about my mental state. Right now, it says I’ve been a little less diligent on keeping the grounds spotless. Perhaps a little more consumed I’ve been about the days that are rolling on towards April 8 and VST’s heavenersary.

Thank goodness the phone does ring from time to time. My bestie, CC, keeps tabs on my shenanigans. Speaking to her, I hear my true self. She knows exactly what’s in my heart and what’s missing. Thank goodness someone does. When I get a little ahead of myself, she reminds me that I need to take things just a little slower. Our best conversations of late have been those of real girl secrets told over giggles and sighs. Secrets you tell someone that shares only best wishes for you. To have a CC in your life makes you a very blessed person, indeed.

CC snapped our wedding pictures the day VST and I married. Quietly capturing two young lovers exchanging vows, she gave me the greatest gift all those years ago. A visual feast of one of the best days for VST and me. The ghosts of those gone before gaze back from my wedding album. Our parents all gone ahead, now have fun with VST in heaven. A sister, dear old friends, and acquaintances, remain only in images on paper, now. CC caught all that in pictures, giving us the best wedding present we could’ve asked for.

Through the years, we’ve shared child rearing, a house once, long ago, divorce nightmares, dance floors and dates, 2nd weddings, and cancer’s theft of our beloved husbands. Now, we share widowhood. It cloaks our conversations in odd ways. We both know what the other experienced. There are days when we discuss the hows and whys of our widowhoods, and there are days we’d both like to forget.

These days, we have lots to discuss and laugh about in the ways of Senior Citizen Dating. At our age, we might be expected to be in dual rockers, knitting socks and sweaters for grandchildren. But, we’re far from that stage of life. Having a best friend that knows me better than anyone else in the world is comforting. As we exchange findings in our dating research, we’ve found new topics in which to howl with laughter. Laughter remains the best cure for what ails anyone, and we find our conversations delightfully healing.

The day I met CC, we were at a community meeting, protesting proposed apartments in our little suburb. CC and I talked after the meeting and it was obvious. We were both interested in our quiet neighborhood, wanting it to remain that way. There was also a fiery spark of friendship between us. With one Hello, we became friends of the very best kind, long before the day of masks and political correctness, in a time when a smile to another could be reciprocated and returned.

As Joni says,

“And the seaons, they go round and round

and the painted ponies go up and down.

We’re captive on the carousel of time

We can’t return, we can only look

Behind from where we came,

And go round and round and round in the circle game.

I’m so lucky CC is in my orbital space. I’m glad we took a chance on Friendship over forty years ago on that spring day as we held babies, our own. Riding those ponies through the seasons, we are, she and I. Friends to the end.

Say Hello to people today. Smile at your neighbors. Take a chance and wave. You just never know when you might meet a new friend.

In every life we have some trouble

But when you worry you make it double,

Don’t worry, Be happy. Bobby McFerrin

VST loved music. His main genre was Country Western. It was there he felt the most relaxed, remembering times with his Grandfather and parents, enjoying Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys. When I met VST, he knew no other kind of music. Just the singing guitar and songs like “Bill Ball’s in Cowtown” or “Drop Kick Me, Jesus,Through The Goal Posts of Life”. But, with five children, ages pre-teen down to six, and me, his musical life was to change.

As a child, I was raised on musicals, dreamy girl songs from South Pacific or Oklahoma were always playing. When VST and I our blended our families into one, an eclectic combination of musical taste emerged. My youngest son would be taken over over by Michael Jackson’s, Bad, while VST’s son was enjoying M.C.Hammer. The kids and I were always listening to music of one kind or another, with my taste staying near the 70’s or 80’s pop.

Somewhere in this mix, VST was exposed to the song, Don’t Worry, Be Happy by Bobby McFerrin. It was then, his mom began to worry about him. VST loved this song and would listen to it often, never missing a single word. He would even nail the whistling. The important point was, he got the message. VST chose to be happy whenever possible. Optimism was his superpower, lightening dark moments with a joke, or just a look in which he would raise one eyebrow higher than the other. I love laughing with him and happiness infected and brightened our days.

Soon the song was the favorite of all the kids, as well as VST and me. A coffee cup with the inscription Don’t Worry, Be Happy, sat on his desk as a reminder. Everyone knew this was VST’s theme song.

One day, his mom took him aside, after he had played the song repeatedly for her.

“Don’t you still like Country Western?” intently, she asked as she awaited the answer.

He just laughed and that became a joke tied to the entire subject of music. VST WAS Country at his core. One reggae song couldn’t change that and never did. As Terry lay still and gravely ill, I sang “On The Wings of A Dove” to him. One of his favorites, I know he forgave my quivering voice as I sang the entire song. I know those wings carried him to heaven as he left us.

Sweet K gave me a printed version of the words to Don’t Worry, Be Happy in the shape of a heart. Adorable, and a reminder that VST is hoping we are all happy and doing well. He is in heaven singing, his bass voice complimenting all the soprano angels. Keep singing VST. Keep smiling. We will all be together again someday.

Until then, I’ll remember, Don’t Worry, Be Happy.

For other boosts of happiness, Try—

The Happy Song — Pharrell Williams

Fireworks — Katy Perry

Can’t Stop the Feeling –Justin Timberlake.

That should get you in the mood for happiness!!!

My beloved speaks and says to me:

‘Arise my love, my fair one,

and come away;

for now the winter is past,

the rain is over and gone.

The flowers appear on the earth;

the time of singing has come,

And the voice of the turtle-dove

is heard in our land.

The fig tree puts forth its figs,

and the vines are in blossom;

they give forth fragrance.

Arise, my love, my fair one,

and come away.

O, my dove, in the clefts of the rock,

in the covert of the cliff,

let me see your face,

let me hear your voice;

for your voice is sweet,

and your face is lovely.

My beloved is mine and I am his.

Song of Solomon 2: 10-14

Winterpast. My house is truly living up to her name, blessed with this name at VST’s eulogy. She is strong and warm, sheltering me through rough seasons, starting last spring. She has given me shelter through the hottest of summer days, and protected me from high desert winds that have howled through many nights. Tears have fallen within her walls, but laughter blooms now, full and rich. Happiness grows by leaps and bounds. Acceptance of life on life’s terms has made a slow and steady healing possible.

This will be the first spring in which I can watch the rustlings of new life in the little bird houses. Irises will stretch their leaves towards the heavens as I watch intently. With lawn dressed in luscious green, I’m the caretaker of wonder for now. The slave to the imminent work that’ll appear as I care for my gardens. In this spring, I, too, can bloom in laughter and optimism. This is the first year of my womanhood, while standing firmly on my own two feet. This is the first year of my new story.

After April 8th, I’ll no longer identify as a widow. Of course, a widow I’ll always be. But, after the first year, I choose to identify as a woman. Just that. Normal. Old. Senior Citizen. Crone. Beautiful. Karen-ish-ly spoiled. High Maintenance. Woman. For to continue to identify as a widow will keep me from the rest of my life here on earth. A life that, I promise you, will explode like the biggest fire works display you’ve ever seen. In my attempt to reach the heavens from my earthly platform, I’m living my best life here on earth.

Winterpast has seen it all. Secrets will be kept in her soul, as she is a true home. An intimate cocoon in which I’m my true self. Her gardens are my touchstone to creativity and life. She is an outward expression of everything good that is inside me. She is my Winter Past. My Moving Forward. My Safe Place. Love your home, because, after all, Home IS Love.

Meal time. Not sure about your situation, but, around here, meals for one are not fun to plan. Just a year ago, like clockwork, VST would remind me that mealtime was imminent. Just what would it be? Finding me deep in a project, he’d ask if I’d planned something or if we were on our own. Meals were always shared, so the answer was one of two. I had something in mind or we were going to hunt and gather. Always. VST didn’t cook.

Now, meal times sneak up, surprisingly stealth. Without another to share something prepared, my nutritional intake is out of whack. This is not healthy and it’s certainly not making me happy. Many days, my new Ninja 5-In-1 Grill sits shiny clean and ready to grill. My Omaha meats lay individually wrapped in their frozen state waiting for culinary inspiration. Having thrown away more vegetables than I care to report, I bought more today. I fear their fate is the same as the rest if things don’t change.

Breakfast around here is an easy fix. Doing very well on a high protein, low carb diet, eggs are my go to meal, scrambled with a spoonful of salsa if I’m feeling feisty. That with a cup of coffee and my motor is running. Off to the day, whatever that may hold.

After a protein snack at 10, lunchtime starts to get a little troublesome. I’ve found that Subway provides three meals of nourishment from a Foot Long sandwich. More days than I want to count, their fresh veggies and meats on freshly cooked bread have kept me alive. My town is very lucky to have a wonderful Subway with the sweetest sandwich artists. The sandwich bread provides my carbs for the entire day.

Dinner sends me over the edge. I’m not a great cook. Usually, I’m not even a kind-of-good cook. I really don’t like to cook, so what I prepare is usually not yummy. Eating alone brings out the need for culinary perfection, which I never attain. The Ninja has helped quite a bit, and there IS the ice cream maker, my star appliance. But, one cannot live on grilled burgers or ice cream alone. Here-in lies the problem.

As many of you know, I’ve booked a 15 day cruise in December. Just the thought of 45 gourmet meals at the ready is enough to cause a widowed non-cook to dance her best jig. Some may go to a spa for pampering. Just point me to the best diner in town and I’m in bliss. Homemade pie? All the better.

In research for today’s blog, I ran across a website called Onedishkitchen.com. Looking at the recipes, it gives me hope that I could prepare any one of them and enjoy dinner again. The biggest trouble I’ve had is preparing a recipe which is designed for four people, while I’m just one. Not being a connoisseur of Left-Overs, there is always wasted time, money, and food. A terrible tri-fecta.

You would think that after 327 days, or 47 weeks of widowhood, I’d have this basic need figured out. I think back to the first days after losing VST in Virginia City (VC) when the local diner kept me alive with fried chicken, tacos, and cheese cake. Not cooking during Months One through Ten could be excused for a variety of reasons, but now, there is no excuse. I need to get it together in the kitchen and nourish myself.

One inspiring movie that got me to thinking about a kitchen challenge is Julie & Julia. A cute story about a young woman smitten with Julia Child who decided to take a year to create all her recipes and blog about the experience. The parts about blogging made me laugh, realizing anyone that has ever started a blog probably goes through similar emotions. If you haven’t seen the movie, you might enjoy it.

I’ve also started watching the Food Network, with holiday baking shows holding my attention. Being a baker at heart, let’s forget the other food groups and just focus on sugar, flour, fondant, and chocolate. Add some holiday pastel’s and call it good.

Thanks for listening to my latest lament about widowhood. I’m off to prepare a breakfast for a champion and start my day. Remember to nourish your body and soul, as you find your way through widowhood.

Yesterday, the doorbell alerted me to the welcome sight of delivery men with my long awaited hot tub cover. The hot tub has been a wonderful indulgence, providing hours under the stars to contemplate life as a published author, among other things. Bubbles of luxury allow relaxation to overtake me, preparing my mind for hours of deep sleep. Yes, the hot tub was an important addition, although I’ll agree, a wee bit extravagant.

A girlfriend went a less expensive route, buying a “Spa-In-A-Box” (SIAB) for $400 at WalMart. Having soaked in both, her SIAB is absolutely perfect for her situation, and also delivers relaxation and a place to unwind. Good for moderate climates and three seasons, her tub is currently deflated and in the garage, awaiting warmer days. So many options are available when considering the addition of a hot tub to your life. Being outdoors in a tub of hot water is wonderful no matter the vessel in which you soak.

Delivered on Super Bowl Sunday, my spa was quickly hooked up by T, VST’s son, (totally claimed as my own). High desert temps are not especially friendly when attempting to turn cold water into 104 degrees of heated luxury. The cover was back ordered, while I was assured it would be shipped separately and quickly. So. I waited. And waited. And waited. And waited, until I finally reached out to investigate the cause of the delay. With several contacts, I finally found my cover angel and the problem was resolved.

Not before I received last months power bill.

Yikes.

Just.

Yikes.

Now, with the cover in place, I have every hope that the bill will return to a more acceptable amount.

The point of the story is this. I could’ve been raging since Super Bowl Sunday, demanding a cover that was back ordered and unavailable. I could’ve spent more money and ordered another cover. I could’ve sent angry emails and posted horrific company revues. But why? The outcome wouldn’t have changed. I chose time to relax and be happy in a beautiful, bubbly, luxuriously, wonderful spa while practicing patience. The cover arrived, and all is well. Happy ending.

Two days prior, a most welcomed visitor stopped by. Yielding his magic on several of my neighbor’s yards as spring approaches, my beloved gardener rang. A most interesting guy, he’s a proud new citizen, knowledgeable in every aspect of gardening and yards. He has a real occupation, but gardening is his passion, listening to Lindsey Stirling music while working magic on the yard.

As Senor B and I took inventory of needed projects, I found myself agreeing with him on necessary pruning and tillage. These are two jobs I can’t do myself, if only for the magnitude of the job. With over 25 trees of all varieties, all 10-16 years in age on 1/2 acre, there is no way for me to accomplish that task alone, or even with help. I needed to Fold ’em and say, “How much and when?” With answers to those questions, the pruning project will commence, including the removal of debris.

As a solitary widowed senior citizen, there are some things I COULD do, but SHOULD NOT do. Pruning on a ladder can tumble one right into a hospital emergency room. Not something I can accomplish at 65 years of age. I can hear a collective sigh of relief from my kids (that are not kids, but amazing adults). Thank goodness for Senor B and his staff of helpers.

There are so many spring projects left to complete. Using the warming afternoons to start spiffing up the place, my days are busier now. The high desert winter afternoons are choking out snow and cold. The bluest of skies are back with puffy white clouds streaking through. I’ll never grow tired of the beautiful place in which I live and thrive. Even the mustangs are spring-time-feisty these days.

Sometimes we all need to accept help, while taking a breath as we realize our limitations. Some things planned take time. Grief appears, demanding attention. Keep faith that spring will hold a recognizable normal, something for which we are all longing. Smile as you step outside into the sunshine. It’s good for what ails us.

Oh, the joys of a fresh week! Just like getting a brand new journal in which to write! The possibilities are endless and the first words a delight to behold. So is it on this Monday morning as the sun is just peeking out of the East. The birds are singing outside my window as the week begins its journey onward.

I find comfort in the bustle of Monday morning. Commuters all leaving to head off to their jobs. Kids slowly finding their way back to classrooms. Teaching long ago, Monday morning meant different things to different kids. To some it meant saying goodbye to enriching experiences with their parents. A trip to the beach or snow. Immersion into a favorite book they had been waiting to begin. Or just time to rest their brains after a busy week. For a sad few it meant relief from a horrific home life and the promise of a hot breakfast while returning to a comforting routine.

For us all, it meant a week together as one functional Third Grade family. Room 20 was a place of safety and learning. First and foremost. It was a place in which we counted minutes as carefully as nuggets of gold, because they were that precious. It was there we all learned about time management. A day is a terrible thing to waste, because you can never get the minutes back. We made sure we spent them wisely.

As you can tell, I miss spending time with students. There is an amazing exchange that occurs between a wise and loving teacher and her kiddos. If your children or grandchildren are with such a person, please remember to thank them every day. When I taught, kids were with me more than with their parents, Monday through Friday. It was if I was their moon and the stars as they mine. Through that trust and friendship, I showed them the world of words, watching and learning as they became writers. Some would beg to write through lunch. True. Imagine my delight.

Never an athlete, I was a terrible PE teacher, unless it involved telling a story about injuries and how to avoid them. I wasn’t much better at math, carefully studying lessons the night before and hoping I didn’t misspeak, as the kids listened intently. Language Arts was my wheelhouse, and the kids spun into a kaleidoscope of verbs, nouns, adverbs, prepositional phrases and more. They spun ideas and stories into a vast array of thoughts we stapled proudly to the walls. They went on to do great things, one in a doctoral program learning to help disadvantaged children. Another surprising me as a pediatric nurse with her stethoscope hanging proudly over her scrubs. Hundreds more doing great things I can only imagine.

They came to me knowing letters and words, and in one school year flew away as writers. They always took a bit of my heart with them that last day, scooting out the door into summer. During 180 days together, they took memories of the time spent learning about important events and thoughts. They left me with my own memories of precious hours spent with golden children.

My teacher manuals rest on a shelf in the garage, long outdated for newer versions. Teaching strategies that worked well in the 1900’s have been replaced. Covid now tethers children to home computers where things might be great or not so great. “Teacher” has become a flat vision on a screen, not a sweet woman that could comb your hair for you before school because mom didn’t have time. Not the yard duty woman on the playground on a foggy morning giving out free hugs to whoever needed one. Not the whistle yielding ninja that could stop a running child from slipping on ice. Just a flat screen reciting the days lesson with no chance to see your reaction or watch your feet tapping softly because you really didn’t understand.

These days, my own time management is focused on personal writing as thoughts and words splashing up on the screen. My heart has waited patiently for years to tell its stories. Now it’s my time to practice grammar and spelling skills. A time to vent from my soul. Minutes now equal stories, weeks away from becoming my first book.

Monday. It is a fantastic day with possibilities for the week. Even retired, Mondays are special. A chance for re-dos while changing up a routine that isn’t productive into one that sizzles. Wake up! Day’s a wastin’! Have a great Monday!

It has been 326 days since I lost VST. The sweet lady on Day 1 and I are hardly recognizable as the same person in some ways, exactly the same in others. Learning along the way, I’ve become stronger, while appreciating everything it took to get me this far. Safe and happy, I approach the milestone of Month 11, only a week away.

The observance of the One Year Milestone will occur at our favorite place, Beach Town, USA. I’d never stayed there prior to enjoying it with VST. He made the place come alive with stories of his visits as a child, becoming a younger version of himself as he told them. Many times I asked whether we should have moved there instead of VC, but his answer was always the same. We’d never return to California, but continue to visit his beloved beach as often as we could.

326 days I’ve been in the wilderness of widowhood, however that number is only the days I’ve lived without him. The grieving started months before when Cancer threw curve balls that we dodged. Changes in personality and even the ability to stand normally while attaching a sign to a fence were written off to old age, as we snuggled into our dreams. A longing for our old life came to both of us months before Cancer made an entrance.

Thirty-nine days are left before I reach the Ist Heavenersary. The world needs names for everything and someone else coined this. Probably a way for Hallmark to pump out more cards. It works, because I’ve yet to meet any widow or widower to which this day is not horribly significant. A passage into another phase of life. Not to say I’m expecting things to be dramatically different, but they will be. Just as when 2021 arrived and I could finally say “VST died LAST YEAR”. A significant passage.

Yesterday, I realized my house needs a revamp that will be completed before I leave in early April. Just as the tide changes the appearance of a beach, pictures and mementos need to change places. Quite frankly, I’m turning my house into a She-Shed as there is just one SHE that lives here. It’s time to celebrate ME, discovering the style I love while I change things up. Yesterday, I started in the bedroom.

Spring cleaning the blinds, vacuuming under the bed, and polishing the furniture, the time to consider my adult taste in design has arrived. As a woman, it was already in place. The addition or movement of a picture can change up the focus which will be happening over the next month. It’s time for a few more precious and private possessions of VST to move to the guest room. For a few more drawers to become empty. It’s the final phase before I reach the Gate as I enter Year Two. It’s time.

Miss Firecracker and I had dinner last night. Being an absolutely sweet and wonderful friend with advise that is priceless, she knows all I tell her, and sees more I haven’t divulged in words. In careful discussions, our conversations tell me a lot, while her reactions tell me more. Everyone should have a Miss Firecracker as their bestie in life.

We’re both doing the same. Working in our nests, while working through our grief. Deciding what to sell, what to donate, what to box for the kids, and what to hold close to our hearts. Three decades and then some is a lifetime of sharing. Even a special pen can hold memories, given from a realtor as we sold the ranch. To others, it would be worthless, unable to produce ink on a page, but to Widow-Me, it is priceless. Miss Firecracker and I are going through this process. No one, other than another widow, knows the exhaustion this produces. Mental. Spiritual. Emotional. Physical. Cardiac. Total Exhaustion.

No one but a widow knows how good it feels with every box that is packed away. No one but another widow knows each box rips away a part of your heart that needs to heal all over again. As the process continues, the healing phase seems to go quicker, the goodbyes to precious items become easier.

There’s a peace in letting go of things to which one can no longer hold. That includes the longing for a mate that is gone. The strangest thing is this. I’ve let VST go thousands of times in thousands of ways. To release him totally to the universe is still impossible, and I suspect will be impossible for the rest of my life. His eternal love lives in my heart. No rearranging of those precious memories, as they adorn the most beautiful She-Shed that is my heart.

Looking at the calendar, I remember facing December 1st, and the dread I felt over the onset of winter. Not a “Central Valley of California” winter, where the lows never got much past freezing. High desert Northern Nevada winters where the high might reach 20, while the wind chill factor would be much lower than that. That kind of winter. Postcard winter-white days, with mustangs standing in snow, their woolly coats hiding protruding ribs. Winters in which the cloudy sky kept the sunshine hidden for days on end. Winter days when my garden slept soundly.

Well, Day One of spring is three weeks away!!! The time will change on March 14th, giving us long evenings to putter around in the garden. The birds are gearing up for new life. More exciting than that, my lawn knows. Yesterday, I spent some time cleaning up. The lawn had a hint of green, being just a tad warmer than the surrounding air under the protective blanket of decaying leaves. How exciting! It thrills the heart of any gardener. Mine is no exception.

I’m itching to bring out all the lawn and garden furniture I tucked away in November. But, the high, as I write, is 23. Still a little chilly to tan with a glass of lemonade. The optimism spring brings makes me want to jump the gun and drag things out. I just may need to act on that impulse.

For Christmas, I bought myself a new wind chime. One with beautiful tones that will sing softly as the breezes of spring blow across the desert. With the stronger winds of March, it will complain louder. Clanging will occur as torrential spring rains pummel the ground. My yard came prepared, with a complete drainage system to carry away water from flash floods. The desert is a brutal place in so many ways.

Back yard sounds bring thoughts of widowhood. The torrential sobs, out of control and vicious, that rack a new widow with agonizing pain during shock and denial. Soft voices bringing comfort to a broken heart as it suffers through pain and guilt. Depression, reflection, and loneliness that blow over in waves like a high desert wind storm. Just as the chopping hoe removes unwanted weeds and the rake smooths the ruts, life is reconstructed. As the garden blooms again in the warmth of the sun, the heart works through the unthinkable. Acceptance arrives, just as surely as spring has, year after year, century after century, since the beginning of time. Predictable and sure.

Winter in my yard has been silent. Octogenarian neighbors have huddled inside, not even asking gardeners come to bring relief from the quiet. Sounds, created miles away, drift slowly towards Winterpast. The sounds of nature have been my only company on most days, and know them well. I know how long it takes for a howling bank of wind to buffet my house. I know their usual path and the sound tells me their strength. How many city dwellers don’t even know the wind makes a sound? In my world, the wind IS the sound.

Even now, in the newest of light in the day, the birds are talking. Planning their course. Flirting. Little birdie dates are being made. The search for nest material has begun. The fight over the bird houses is in full swing. Spring! Spring! Spring!

Get your shovels sharpened, and take inventory of your garden tools. Don’t wait! Go buy some new bulbs and plants to dress the garden in color. Time to nourish the soil and prune the roses. The show is about to begin. Don’t be late. Three Weeks Left!!!!! SPRING!!!!!!

Warnings about the deep end should never be ignored.

Tell me somethin’, girl.

Are you happy in this modern world?

Or do you need more?

Is there something else you’re searching for?

***

Tell me somethin’, boy.

Aren’t you trying to fill that void?

Or do you want more?

Ain’t it hard keeping it so hardcore?

***

I’m falling.

In all the good times I find myself

longing for a change.

And in the bad times

I fear myself.

(Words borrowed from “Shallows”. Song Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga from movie “A Star is Born”. Written by Andrew Wyatt, Anthony Rossomando, Mark Ronson, and Stefani Germanotta)

The Deep End. This applies to so many things in my tenth month of widowhood. Some days there are no shallows. No place to stand on the soft sand while the waves of Waikiki rock a person back and forth. No lengthy strands of shallow water in which to walk a very long way into the Pacific. No. Just unthinkably deep water in which some days this widow must tread like hell to stay afloat.

Spending most of my time at home now, I’ve been sheltered from the reality of damage wielded by Covid-19. Last weekend, a friend wanted to take me for a walk next to the Truckee River in the Biggest Little City in the World. A gorgeous river walk has been completed for some time, rivaling the most beautiful spots anywhere in the world. With the snow-capped Eastern Sierra peaks towering above, this park is tranquil.

Walking along, I was lulled into thoughts of how ridiculous it was to stay inside, cowering from life. I actually felt wonderful walking along this beautiful river, while watching a mallard couple flip their little bodies downward in the shallows to eat from the bottom of the river. Pointed duckie butts upward, their little orange feet whipped back and forth through the air. Just the two together, vulnerable to danger, as they ate whatever duckies eat.

The man-made portion of the Truckee River was pristine and inviting, with steps leading to the water’s edge. The most beautiful rocks had been placed invitingly for sitting with one’s feet in the river. With the bright blue sky overhead, the perfect number of white puffy clouds were overhead as if dashed up there by an artists brush. The sun warmed us, and if there was perfection in a moment, we were experiencing it.

Only a handful of brave souls were out for a walk in the sunshine. Sunshine is the best disinfectant ever. Having been a faux-hippie mom of the 70’s, I learned that hanging cloth diapers in the sun to dry after laundering disinfected them and bleached them pure white again. Sun and fresh air are great medicine and a healing element for cabin fever. The key is social distancing. It always has been.

As a child, my mother told about the days of polio or meningitis, when families would go to picnic near the local canal. Every family stayed a distance away from the next. Children didn’t go on play dates. You stayed with your own. Farmers knew these things already and didn’t need Public Service Announcements to explain it. You kept to yourselves. Any farmer worth his salt would immediately isolate a sick cow or pig from the others. It was common sense, uncommon today.

Walking along this perfect path on this perfect day, we enjoyed the moment. A man with a Harlem Globetrotter’s coat came up to us and wished us a wonderful year. An older gentleman, his eyes were kind as he smiled. He, too, knew the magic of a sunshine-y day next to the river. Goodness floated in the air as we exchanged niceties and both continued on our way.

It was then, we moved from the duckie shallows into the deep end. With a left turn, we entered the dark, real world of homelessness, poverty, despair, and abandoned hopes and dreams. In the bowels of the Biggest Little City in the World, it was immediately apparent to me that we were in the deep end of “No More”. The last time I had been in this part of town, VST and I were floundering in the deep end of Cancer. As I became our driver, we made several trips downtown for visits to CT and MRI machines. GI docs, and Oncologists. Just a year ago, the town was bustling. Store fronts advertised their goods. Visitors were crossing the street from one cavernous casino to the next. Now, the quiet ricocheted off the skyscrapers. Empty. Desolate. Urine stained streets. Beggars in alcoves. Immediately. The DEEP END. I feared for myself, while fearing others, as well.

Sunshine was gone, blocked by behemoth structures of stained concrete. There was no light or lightness in this place. As cars raced through the center of this place, they didn’t stop. No longer a hub of fun and activities, this was a wasteland of “What Was”. Broken humans, zombie like, dotted the sidewalk. Sadness coated me like an unwanted shower from a puddle splashed up from a rain soaked street.

My friend didn’t quite understand, being naturally skilled at swimming through these situations as a SEAL. In Sherpa-like fashion, he realized my fear and we returned to the JEEP, racing back to the safety of home.

Reflecting on that experience brings me back to my own widowhood. So many days and weeks string together like pearls of beauty. Happy days of buying bulbs for spring, or soaking in the new hot tub. Then, one picture or a song on the radio can cause momentary devastation, as if you hit a pot hole and need to tread water while getting back to the safety of the shallows. Never knowing when this might occur, the exhaustion from constant bombardment is deep.

Like the ducks, I find the shallows to be full of the best food and safety for now. There’ll be a time for venturing into the deep. For now, I’ll stick to wading.