Grieving Gardener

Canine conservator-ship is a complicated task in this the year of 2021. At my house, I’ve been wondering when this little Tasmanian devil will calm down and be a reasonable pet. I guess others have been wondering that, too. Everyone needs to understand the job that Oliver has been trained to do. So many tasks he does so well, but, meeting others is not his strong suit. He is not happy with those that intrude on his solitary little life.

Oliver is a standard, chocolate, cream based, tan piebald wire-haired dachshund. No. He isn’t a 12 pound red or black and tan smooth doxie that everyone sees. Oliver weighs 25 pounds. He is as strong as a lab with short legs. He’s as stubborn as they come. Fierce and crazy at times. He’s not been an easy dog to raise. Trust me. We have been together 2 1/2 years. Of all the dogs I have raised, included my English mastiffs, Oliver has been the toughest of all. He is extremely smart, and the off-putting green human-ish eyes don’t help.

Most days, Oliver is just as cute as they come. Just like the puppy picture of him at 8 weeks. He wakes and wants potty time and breakfast within a short window of time. Don’t we all? He expects two treats. Not one or three. He has a hard time being still while I get those and can jump higher than the kitchen counter to check out what could possibly take so long. Ace suggested that Oliver needs to learn the word “Sit”, or otherwise be considered untrained. I think differently on that. However, Oliver is learning “Sit”, slowly, as hard as it is for him.

Oliver knows at least 100 words or phrases. He is constantly watching and listening to things I ask him to do. In the morning, after breakfast, he knows we work for at least an hour at the computer. Not wanting to face boredom, he brings a bone with him and leads the way to the studio, where he chews for awhile and then sleeps. He is my writing muse in doggie form, laying at my feet while I type word after word. The minute I reach for the power button when finished, he knows our work is done for the morning. With that, he is ready for a puppy time out in his crate while I make my own breakfast and get ready for my day.

Oliver knows me. He knows what things will get under my skin and periodically likes to mess with me. He knows when I am sad or not feeling well. He also knows when I am ready to leave on a short or long trip, or when company is coming. He knows our routine. He knows when I need a good laugh, or when I need a little irritation to get my blood pressure up.

Thievery is in his blood. He steals socks. Papers. Glasses. Shoes. Slippers. Anything on the floor. Dropped coins. Pens. Pencils. Well, you get the idea. He sits and waits for the opportune time and then, he strikes. Like the wind, he is gone, laughing his little doggy laugh as he chews and runs at the same time. Devious little thief.

In our living situation, there hasn’t been a need for the words “down”, “sit”, “stay”, or “come”, because there are other words he knows for these actions. “Bed”, “Wait”, and “Gentle” are some he’s really good with. He is a silly, silly little boy dog who has a very independent and strong will. Funny, a reflection of me in numerous ways.

The thing that doesn’t get better with time is the hatred of the doorbell, or misunderstanding of his place when company is involved. I don’t have people coming over on a daily basis. When they do come, it is sheer puppy-pandemonium. As a tiny puppy, he didn’t like strangers one bit. He would hide in the corner and often soil himself, becoming so scared. Being so adorable, everyone wants to swoop down on him, instead of just ignoring him until he can give a sniff and calm down. So, it’s a mixture of problems all rolled into one.

Oliver loves to travel. He loves RV-ing. He loves his people and he does like being good. He is just devious when others are around. Like a two year old.

Many people disagree with crate training. However, consider the following. Would you allow your two year old to run around the house when they didn’t have your full attention? Or in the case of the leash, would you allow the child to run into the street on a whim? Perhaps some puppy parents are relaxed about those things, I’m not. Oliver eats everything that is not nailed down. There are plenty of dangerous things in the house that would land us in the Vet Emergency Room. Crates and leashes are important when you have a dog that hasn’t fully matured mentally. In Oliver’s case, he may never mature fully. Lucky me.

We’ve been spending quality time outside, and I do notice subtle changes. He likes to settle next to me when I am pulling weeds or fixing an emitter. He likes to see me when I’m in the hot tub, just to be sure I’m okay. He likes to sleep next to me when I write, and spends less and less time chewing on the bones he loves so much. He really likes watching everything I do, and I swear, if he only had thumbs, he would do most better than me.

Oliver may never get used to intruders. Come to think of it, I’m happy with my own quarantine status. He may never understand strange words that others insist all dogs should know. He knows how to communicate with me, and that works in our little world. He speaks the same language as T & K, the ladies at Doggy Camp, and Sam, his beloved groomer. Adding in Ace, his little world of people is complete. For Oliver, that’s the amount of people he can handle.

Do I worry about his antics? Every day. Do I try new training techniques??? Multiple times a day. Are things getting better???? Ever so slowly they are, but, with Oliver, he’ll follow his own path, and allow me to come along for the ride. In this situation, it’s not possible to dominate this huge little dog, and besides, his antics keep me on my toes.

Every dog has special jobs to do. Some have jobs that don’t involve being a friend to everyone in the world or walking perfectly on a leash. Some have jobs that involve more words than “sit” or “stay”. Some have jobs that involve thinking on many levels, while problem solving. Whatever their job entails, God got it right when he gave us our best friends. Be gentle with their owners. We’re all doing the best we can.

What a lovely thing, the Hot Tub. Or Jacuzzi. Or Whirl Pool. What the name you choose, my big vat of steamy water in the back yard under the desert sky. The perfect place for laziness training. In the last week, I’ve spent hours there, observing the clouds, winds, blooming yard, and life. I can think of no better way to develop a true passion for laziness than the Hot Tub. Delicious in every way.

Purchased in December at a convention center show, my hot tub came 1/2 way across the country from Minnesota to me. There was high drama about the lack of a top, which finally arrived weeks later. There was talk of how hot is too hot. There was the immediate spike to my power bill. And then, there was unlimited soaking time. Trying the tub out at different times of the day gave me perspective on the yard shadows and how they change. I know the feeding times of the different birds. Oliver forgets I am outside watching, earning timely corrections when he decides to forget the rules.

With two waterfalls, and lights that change from red to purple to blue to green and so on, this Hot Tub is one to behold. There has been a learning curve as to which types of chlorine are the best, and what additives help with the hard desert water. After trial and error, the water is now consistently clear. A temperature of 102 seems to be the best for my age.

I was lucky enough to get my first spa in 1979. It was used, being one that needed to be placed in the ground. Such an early prototype, it had limited jets which were either on or off. We had no cover, but used it so often, that really didn’t matter. I received an unwanted grope by the husband of a close friend in that hot tub, as she chatted about diaper choices. One of my first adult glimpses that the world wouldn’t always be a safe place, especially under water.

Since then, having numerous hot tubs through the years, I conclude the one I have now is the most wonderful I could’ve purchased. In an empty version, I did try out the seats in the showroom, as many lounges are not made for a short, Germanic woman. This one is perfect. There are jets all around the tub, with a circular foot massage-er in the bottom. Just right after a long day of yard work.

No doubt, a hot tub is a luxury. In this the day of Covid-19 and home quarantine, it seems everyone decided to buy one at once. It took 8 weeks for delivery of mine. Since then, necessary chemicals are in high demand. I’ve been ordering on Amazon, as the local hardware store has been out of everything needed. My tub claimed chlorine wasn’t necessary, but that wasn’t true. With a testing strip every morning, the water remains balanced. Lots of things can complicate aquatic balance, starting with the chemical composition of your local water.

Mental teleportation is another benefit to spa life. K gave me a small bottle of Hawaiian Happiness elixer. It’s necessary to add the appropriate fragrance in the water, allow it to bubble awhile, and then breathe deeply with eyes closed. Just like that, it’s Waikiki Beach 2013, under a cabana in front of the Moana Surfrider Hotel. In this age of viral uncertainty, a teleportation contraption right outside my laundry room door is the answer for me.

Morning soaking is a delightful place to plan the activities of the day, one cup of coffee at a time. So many lists form in my head, from the need to fix a leaking emitter, to the mowing of the lawn. Item by item, my list gets longer and longer.

Before I know it, it’s almost lunch time.

After lunch, the afternoon soak is a great time to think of dinner options for one. Any recipe can be altered to give one or two servings. It just depends on what a person feels like eating. As the sun tracks across the sky, wispy, feathery cirrus clouds tell of weather aloft. Ground level winds chill wet tanning legs, causing me to slink back under the water. All the while, the jets bubble on.

Well, after dinner, one needs to check on the stars and plan for the next day. It matters not that all the plans for the day went to the wayside due to laziness . That is just the modus operandi of the retired teacher. And so it goes.

After days of laziness practice, I’ve come to the conclusion I should’ve started this long ago. There are plenty of days for chores that need doing. Trips to the store can wait. Groceries can always be delivered tomorrow. The thing that can’t be interrupted is quality hot tub time. Try it. You’ll agree.

A thing here, a thing there, everywhere things and things and things. I’ve never considered myself a saver of mementos. But, now that I look in my cupboards, I realize I’m just that. A pack rat, just shy of a hoarder. A neat and tidy pack rat, I would add.

The thought goes through my mind of the little turtle. Gets along just fine with his little shell. Not 13 fancy china tea cups, or two sets of silver. Just a shell. Moving from here to there, nothing strapped on the top. No extra baggage. I need to emulate the turtle and begin purging.

There is little chance that the kids, (who are adults), want most of what I find precious and endearing. The significance of most of my memorabilia is not obvious and significant only to VST and me. Deciding the fate of these things I’ve held dear for decades, I’ve decided I need to release them. You can’t hold an angel in a pair of worn bluejeans or a single rose given so long ago.

For the first year of widowhood, a solemn and tearful balloon release occured on the 8th of every month. Each month, the number of balloons increased by one, until 12 biodegradable green and yellow balloons flew away on April 8, 2021. Here I am, saying goodbye to month 13, without some sort of ceremony fitting for the second year. Last night one came to me just before dreams swept me away.

There are some precious things that need a proper goodbye. Since 1987, I’ve saved the clothes worn at our Class Reunion dinner and dance on the night I met VST. His jeans. His shirt. My skirt. My scarf. Taking them out from time to time, I’m whisked back to that night. September 5th, 1987. The late summer California breezes. The lights in the trees. Twinkly stars. My classmates collectively traveling back to 1972-73, when life was simpler for us all. The clothes were worn only then, and saved all these years. To anyone not in the know, they would be a mysterious possession, out of date and for people lean and lanky.

These clothes can’t go to Hanna’s Thrift or, worse, the dump. They can’t be repurposed or worn by someone else. These were the things we wore the night our story started. After a quick photograph, they need a fitting Goodbye.

A couple months ago, I bought a fire pit. Not a gas one, which I bought earlier, but a real fire pit. It will be there that on the 8th of every month, things and things and things will rest until they turn to ash. As the ashes mix with the soils of Winterpast, sweet memories will remain. Releasing these things, my heart will continue to mend with soft Goodbyes. The 8th will be a time to glance back at yesterday, while being grounded in today.

Ceremonies help to heal me from the unthinkable tragedy of cancer. Through ceremonies, I honor the memory of VST and the wonderful life that we shared. I also honor the woman of strength and courage I have become. Weathered and wind blown, life is blooming out of death, rather like a meadow coming to life after a devastating wild fire. Ceremonies help me find peace and comfort my soul.

Don’t get me wrong. There is plenty of stuff that needs to hit the landfill. Half used balls of yarn. Extra fabric that I MIGHT find a use for. Old craft books. Broken tools. This turtle needs to lighten the load, until the final downsize comes my way. A shroud has no pockets, eh?

I’m off to investigate shelves full of things and things and things. More tomorrow.

Last September, being inspired by Mr. Mud Duck and his daily podcast, I decided to try blogging. For decades, I’d lost my voice through layers of censuring. Subjects weren’t to be broached, let alone written about for the world to read. Tethered, my imagination strained on a very tight chain. Writing wasn’t fun, pondering all grammar and punctuation and finally settled on a few approved subjects. By time I wrote the first word, I was exhausted and any good ideas had left the building. Stifling.

This creative void was of my own doing. Living with a Dr. of Psychology is intimidating. Two competitive perfectionists make for lively conversations, each reaching for the college word of the day. Deep meaning can be lost in those outer branches of academia. Sadly, some days were decorated with dangling participles with not an creative thought in the bunch.

As a young writer, titles escaped me. Now, they are fluid, flying like long, string-y banners in my brain, each one on a flagpole rich with ideas. I attribute this creativity to a lifetime of teaching, writing, and reading. To release them every day is a delicious activity that starts my day with a thrill that’s un-explainable. A desire to create is the first thing a successful blogger needs.

A wealth of information awaits anyone with time, a computer, and a curious mind. There are helpful and free webinars on Kindle Direct Publishing. Inspirational writers host free talks in which they tell their stories of success. To find success, it helps to visualize what it looks like. A favorite children’s author of mine is Kate DiCamillo. She has a delightful interview in which she talks about going into her studio with her coffee in the morning to write. Now, that’s me!

I googled “Writing Blogs”, and immediately, came up with a top ten list for sights. I picked the number one company at the time and started. Bluehost and WordPress have been wonderful and free. The little succulent on black was a fitting pre-made template for a new widow. Yes, there is a sandwich in there somewhere, it came with the page and couldn’t be removed. I like an occasional sandwich, so it remained. There were boxes in which to put my name and I filled in the blanks. Within a few hours, the page was complete and I started writing.

Find a time when you are creative. For me, it is 3 AM. Not conducive to a family life, but perfect for me. I keep a journal handy at all times to write down random topics and ideas for the days when only Cheryl, the tree is an available topic. I write when the words are itching to spring from my fingers. Mid-day, the fingers are deep in soil, and can’t be bothered with something like typing. Then, choose a schedule. Not every writer writes every single day. You may binge write and then take two days off. Whatever works, you need a schedule that you stick to. Goals on which to plant your flag.

I write poetry in long hand only. Fluid QWERTY typing allows me to have a stream of thoughts that race onto the computer screen. I write on a desktop, finding the keyboard on my iPad to small for the Germanic fingers. The phone is not even an option for this blind woman. I need backlit paragraphs, and even then, I fail at proofreading most days. A healing from the formally stuffy perfectionist correcting everything in red pen.

I’ve dabbled with Google Analytics, purchasing some extra programs totaling under $300. Everything that I’ve done has been simple, just taking a little time to learn the system. I’ve focused on the creative side, and not so much on the nuts and bolts of what I could do to monetize. Marketing will be my next step as I go along this journey. Social media is something I’ve avoided my entire life, but I may need to develop a presence. A monthly newsletter is another necessary project.

The payoff for me is getting sweet comments from readers telling me that I said something meaningful to them on a certain day. I enjoy looking up reader locations and finding that I have some faithful readers in Fernley, Carson City, Provo, Boydton, Port Angeles, and Cambria, just to name a few. Knowing that people are finding this the least bit interesting makes writing all the more fulfilling and fun for me.

For a time, it didn’t seem that I’d ever write anything again. I allowed that to happen. Now, I could write a novel about the phone book and it wouldn’t be half-bad. As I find more expressive courage each day, my daily observations have more meaning, while my writing gets richer. There’s just nothing better than that.

Writing is a friend when my house is quiet. It’s a voice when I need someone to speak to. My words will remain long after I have gone, showcasing a complicated woman that could be quite difficult at times. Some words will be too racy for paper. Other’s a bit mundane. But, words will keep coming. Stay tuned.

With a magical fun in the rear view mirror, this is the week Miss Firecracker will start her new life in California and the day Ace returns to his. With Donner Pass between me and the family and friends I love, this “sage-brush-ed” desert girl needs to suck it up and carry on. Both would expect no less. Yesterday, Miss Firecracker and I went to a craft fair! Decadent!!! Outlandish!!! Wreckless!!! Absolutely the best time ever!!! The town we visited is a very tiny oasis of a farming town nestled between mountain peaks. I used to go there for business, as it is the county headquarters. DMV. Business Licenses. School District Headquarters. Small functional airport for private planes. It is the hub of my county. Above the little town sits a run down former mine site, home to Super-Fund-Clean-Up-Personnel. Tumble Weed Heights. This little town was a copper mine from the 1950’s-1970. Nestled in some beautiful scenery, there is abandoned miniature golf, an empty community swimming pool, an RV park, and about 75 little company houses that used to own the miners. This town is a place I like to go to think. With the rich array of decay all around, the stories they scream are mind tingling. Yes, I have camped at the RV park with Miss Firecracker. Yes, the memories came back to us both, as we thought of VST, puppy Oliver, Bailey’s and Cream and the fun we had there. Outrageous. We  walked to look at the pit far below the look out. Surrounded by rusted wire cage, we looked down. The pit itself is 800 feet deep, with the water in the pit at around 450 feet. The water glows a beautiful blueish green, rather like a beach in Bali. Eerily inviting. I bet skin would fall of the bone of any unsuspecting swimmer taking a chance on a quarry dive. After taking in the sites of Tumble Weed Heights, we made the short trip into the town below. Past the gas station, hardware store, BBQ place, with a right turn at Main Street. Every little town has a Main Street, right? The craft show had no more than 10 booths. There, a handful of customers milled about, looking at this and that. I bought artichoke spread, Strawberry Tangerine Marmalade, and Seething-Smoking-Hot-Burn-Your-Lips-Off Cherry Jelly, (Ace’s idea). Walking into a very small, local casino, I felt as if I’d entered a time machine. I’ve met the local owners a time or two. They run the town, and are good decent men. Manly-men. No non-sense men that are sure of their gender and role in the community. In fact, that town is made of manly-men and girly-girls that farm, mine, or raise children just like themselves. For me, its comforting to go there once in awhile to soak in the normal that so many of us boomers were raised with. The local diner sits in the back of this place. Donny Boy’s Diner. There, the most wonderful food I’ve seen in a very long time was being cooked by a chef that knew what the heck he was doing. A seasoned staff was efficient and precise, delivering plates overflowing with goodness to a packed house. Every table was full, with people waiting. Just like it used to be on a Saturday morning in anywhere USA. The experience made me want to return often. I have really been trying to diet. REALLY. Keto is the best diet in which I feel wonderful. I lose weight quickly and have tons of energy. It’s the CARB thing. Ruins my plans every time. Yesterday, the biscuits and gravy called to me, and I was not disappointed. Fresh biscuits so flaky and light, swimming in REAL homemade gravy. Bacon cooked just so. Eggs on the side. A great meal for a cow hand getting ready to ride the range. For a retired school teacher, might as well glue those biscuits right on my saddle bags. But, it was worth every morsel. In the last week, I have finished so many projects in the yard. The sprinkler system will remain a project for another day. Oliver has a new dog house now. Asparagus and rhubarb are sprouting. The peonies are straining with a heavy crop of growing blooms. Today, my book needs my attention, and life needs to return to quiet mode for a time. Miss Firecracker is making the rounds, saying her last goodbye’s before the moving truck rolls out of town at the end of the week. The thing about friendships and Good Bye is this. The next word is a glorious “Hello”. In short order, Miss Firecracker and her posse can expect a fun visit from me, just  west of Donner Pass. Life holds lots of happiness, appearing in different forms at different times. We all have responsibilities that sometimes require separation and focus. Just a fact of life. Relish your Hello’s and try not to ooze too much with Good Bye’s. As Joni would say, “And, the seasons, they go round and round, and the painted ponies go up and down. We’re traveling on a carousel of time.” Until tomorrow, enjoy today!!!

I don’t consider myself good at waiting, but it seems that these days, patience is a virtue we all need. Waiting at the Service Department of the Jeep dealership the other day, I found so many things to observe. In this day of Covid and slow business, the things I observed were interesting. It made me think that professional waiting should be a career choice, because so many things can be discovered when one sits and waits.

The dealership was asleep when I arrived, while the Service Department woke up first. At first glance, the gleaming floors and windows were quite astonishing, considering they deal with cars. All the counters were cleared of clutter and sparkling for Customer #1, me. After taking my information, I was led into the main car showroom to wait.

There was one major thing missing in the showroom. Cars. I used to love looking at the spiffed up cars that were lucky enough to be on the showroom floor. Always the most expensive and heavily loaded with the extra bells and whistles. I’m sure their absence had to do with Covid. Doesn’t everything???????? For whatever reason, this left me, alone in the dealership showroom, to look over everything else.

The first thing I noticed was that the ceiling airconditioner vents were hairy with dirt. I found this hilarious, as everything else was so clean. However, the source of cool, fresh air had grown lint and dust to the point that they looked fuzzy. Visualizing the Covid virus with their stickiness hanging up there made me adjust my mask a little tighter.

As my eyes moved downward, I noticed the office, shared by two men. Now, I have a question for you. Does your man hide cords, or leave them looped here and there, like a mess of spaghetti. VST and I had long discussions about the maze of cords in his office. The was no limit to the number of cords that snaked behind this and that. I really think some of them weren’t hooked to anything, but there just to add to the sheer volume of cords.

In this shared office, the cords were everywhere. It struck me odd that for a dealership in which one vehicle might cost more than a person’s yearly salary, attention to detail was absent. Even with the shiny windows looking into this office, the cords were random and numorous, snaking this way and that in a heap on the floor. Sticky notes covered the wall, and a general feeling of disarray and disorganization filled this little glass office for two. The office furniture spoke to a sleek design made for minimal clutter. Add two men, and the situation is nit quite showroom perfect.

The more I watched the operations, as the dealership came to life, the more I realized there is so much to observe in life. By noting the little details in life, we can better choose businesses and eateries that we might want to try. Just by having a cup of coffee and waiting, there is much to be learned.

I did learn that the dealership is run by people who are friends. Little local businesses are like that. I learned that I would like to do more business with these people, even if their building could use a little closer attention to detail when it comes to house keeping. I learned that even in a car dealership showroom, things that used to be are no more. Customers going in to buy their first cars won’t have the delightful experience to look at the one they can’t afford THIS time, but would dream about in the future. The one with all the bells and whistles in the center of the showroom floor, washed and waxed to a blinding shine.

Waiting can create a quiet space in which to think and evaluate the surroundings. It can quiet your pulse if you just let it surround you and find something interesting to watch. It IS an art. Try it.

Do you ever put off the dentist? There are really so many more pleasant things to do than sit with a pair of hands in your mouth, while their owner asks questions that require a lengthy answer. Annoying. But, necessary to stay happy and well.

As a child, I was dentally abused. Badly. Nightmarish and ghoulish. The perpetrator was an middle eastern chap with very hairy fingers. Long black curly finger hair on very dark skin. Freakishly big hands. He enjoyed tormenting little girls, and I thought I was the only one. I needed to reach college age before a group of friends were discussing feeling about dentists and his name came up. Funny, we all had the very same abuse and nightmarish experiences under his care. The saddest thing was that when I left the Central Valley, he was still dealing with children at the hospital there. Chilling.

He enjoyed putting the needle right in front of our eyes, while pushing the syringe, releasing a tiny drop of evil fluid to land on our noses. In fact, so close that I ‘m sure we were cross-eyed as we looked up at the dentist we were told to trust. He enjoyed the pain he caused us, we all agreed.

After many years of abuse at his hands, my parents finally changed dentists. At least this dentist was not into torturing children. However, it turned out the dentist before had left decay under all my mercury fillings, so we began again. One tooth at a time. At least that guy gave a prize when were were done. He also had no finger hair.

So, going to the dentist has never been my favorite thing.

With my teaching career came the most wonderful dental insurance. I must say, I didn’t appreciate it as much as I should have. For most of my adult life, my family and I were fully covered, and never missed our six month cleanings and maintenance. My crowns were replaced every 5 years right on schedule, and so, my dental life was good, until it wasn’t.

Thanks to my God Mother, TJ, I had the cutest dentist in the world. A past tennis pro, he was a visual delight, being just as sweet as adorably handsome. He and I watched our kids grow up and move out of the house. After two decades, he announced one day that he was leaving to devote time to retirement, tennis, and golf in Monterey. And just like that, the one dentist that had finally earned my trust was gone. Replacing that relationship would be impossible, for sure. Even coming close has been a chore kept on the back burner.

Last week, I made an appointment for a check up with the dental office here in my little dusty part of Nevada. There are always cars out front, this practice being a busy one. The office staff is genuinely nice, and the dentist, whom I met yesterday, is dentist-y in a good way. Being young, I’ll die far before him, which means he may be the last dentist I need to form a relationship with. All to the good.

After my exam, we decided on two troublesome crowns that need replacement. Then came the bill. It wasn’t as bad as I had expected, but not as good as I had wished. Crowns are expensive.

So, I asked a question.

“Do you give discounts for cash?”

After a conversation with the front office, it turns out that cash patients receive a 20% discount right up front. On Everything. It pays to ask. When two crowns are the topic of discussion, this adds up to quite a savings.

My appointment with my new dental friends will be in July. They promised they would call earlier if there is a cancellation. I fully expect that I’ll have my crowns long before then. I expect they’ll be of average quality and last me the rest of my life, because that’s just the stage of life I’m in.

Living in a small town has so many benefits. My eye doctor’s office called and my contacts are in. My glasses will be here next week. I am looking forward to Bible study with the friends at my new church, and my special friend is coming for dinner tonight. Life is funny. Just when you think you are all alone, new friendships bloom and happiness feeds your soul.

Don’t forget about your dental health, even though it is not the most pleasant thing in the world. It’s always nice to have pearly whites to flash. Smile! It increases your face value.

Retired people like me have a lot of time on our hands. It’s true. Maybe a little too much, in my case. As I sit here writing to you, I’ve been focusing on the tree in my front yard. I must admit, I haven’t given her a once-over since I had all the ugly junipers ripped out last fall. She sits here begging to be noticed, as her roots really don’t allow her to get up and move to a house in which she might find better care. She doesn’t have a name. I’m not even sure what kind she is. She’s just a leafy tree in my brown front yard.

As I started to really examine her, I noticed she’s trying to bloom. Being in the path of severe winds, she isn’t having much luck. Her green leaves are rather sparse, which reminds me that I haven’t checked to make sure she is getting enough water. Plants have it rough sometimes.

So this tree, which I shall now name Cheryl, is old. Her bark is weathered and split, and her trunk makes me guess she was planted when the house was new. As trees go, she isn’t all that tall, maybe being 15′ at the most. She has an attractive shape, as tree shapes go. At her widest she is 10′ across. In function, she doesn’t do much for Winterpast, except to exclaim that she has grown here for sometime to those neighbors walking by. She doesn’t block sun, as it rises to the East and she is planted to the South of the house. She doesn’t give fruit, and therefore, isn’t one of my favorites.

As I look closer into her world, I realize there is an universe that I’ve ignored. A fascinating world of plants and animals that have taken up residence in her own little world. There are ants that run up and down her trunk, looking for tasty morsels, or sweet sap from the aphid families that drink her sap. Beattles hide under her bark, nesting, while creating more beetles. Butterflies stop at her little blooms and take a drink. All while she watches quietly.

Birds of all varieties stop off to take a rest in her branches. They exchange the daily gossip and news, fluffing their feathers when one has an opinion not popular to the others. There are budding love affairs among the branches, when the boy birds become silly while the girl birds become aloof. Her bend-y limbs provide a place to hold twigs and weeds, forming a nursery, where lovey-dovey birdy types become parents to demanding hatchlings.

All this activity goes on day after day, until the fall, when she quietly goes to sleep for another winter of ice and snow. Her dreams must be sweet and full, after witnessing all that occurs in her universe.

Retired people sometimes have too much time on their hands. Empty minutes and hours in which to capture and document all kinds of miniature miracles occuring in life every day. Trees. Wind. Mustangs. Jack Rabbits. Microcosms of life. All fascinating, and just enough to fill this retired writer’s quiet spring morning here in the Northern Nevada desert.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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