Grieving Gardener

Hospice beds are the most atrocious, ugly, uncomfortable, and temporary pieces of furniture in existence. It seems so helpful that a hospital bed is offered at the beginning of the hospice experience. Something the average house doesn’t have or can’t afford, the offer of such a bed seems the one thing that is truly helpful. In our case, we should have been careful what we wanted. What showed up was not exactly great.

The bed entered our house in parts, chipped and well used. Exposed twin bed springs hooked to chipped and dented headboard and footboard, all rather loose and wobbly. The mattress was well used, which led to many thoughts of where it had just been and who had gone before. Lumpy and cardboard-like, it was wipeable. With Covid ramping up, it did make me wonder if the last occupant had been a victim of the new virus.

A masked delivery man cheerfully asked where the bed would be placed. All of this was going at such a fast rate of speed, I was glad VST could make this decision for himself. He went right to an Eastern facing window in our bedroom and smiled. Right there would be his spot. The bedroom, set above the garage, was suspended in air. From the window, there was 20 foot drop to the asphalt drive below. Looking out, Sugar Loaf Mountain stood in the middle of our 100 mile view to forever. The bedroom was surrounded in glass, with four big windows facing East and South and a glass door leading onto the suspended deck. It was the perfect spot for his bed because it was the one he chose. With just a little rearranging of furniture, his new bed was in position.

One thing that no one mentions is that these beds are delivered without sheets, especially in the age of Covid. Plastic coverings make for uncomfortable sleep. But, sleeping without sheets or blankets would make it impossible. Being alone on the mountain, I took Kingsize sheets and made them work. A light blanket become snuggly when folded in half. With a quilt on top, VST had a hospital bed.

Looking on, I wished he would stay in our bed, just inches from the new one. We’d decided we’d wait to purchase a new mattress until we made our move, so the old mattress stayed. In many ways, VST’s subpar hospital bed might just be more comfortable than the mattress I’d lay while watching over him. VST was not the clear and precise Dr. H I was used to conversing with. His thoughts were confused and clouded. But, one thing was certain. He was very happy about the placement of his hospital bed. It was one choice he could still make.

The view out the window would be a source of entertainment. Behind a half lowered shade, he could be covert in his observations of the daily activities of the neighbors and town. A tiny state highway was visible from the window, bustling with morning garbage trucks, or yellow school buses delivering children to school. St. Mary’s on the Mountain stood proudly next to the St. Paul the Prospector Episcopal Church. With the window open, the VC breezes would bring fresh air into the room. With the heating vent under the bed, VST would be warm on the chilly spring nights. The mountains, 100 miles away, stood like snow-capped ghosts. Somedays they were barely visible, on others, they disappeared. There was always something to look at from the windows of the Dunmovin house. Views that provoked deep, meditative thought, necessary and needed in the situation in which we found ourselves.

That night, I lay on his side of the bed to be closer to him, and he lay on his new bed, resting. It had been an exhausting day, both emotionally and physically. With the room rearranged to accommodate the new furniture, we were both tired. But, the body never stops and he had to get up to relieve himself. Without thinking, he grabbed the beautful, metal curtain stay we had chosen together when moving into our new home. With a tug, he was pulling himself up to stand.

“Hey, be careful. You could rip that out of the wall.”

Standing, he smiled.

“Impossible. I installed it.” It was one of the few statements that made him laugh the tiniest bit, and smile with pride.

I had to stop and ponder the truth in his statement. So true, VST. Anything you had a hand in building will be there long after we’re gone. Through the years, you found every stud in which to drill. You tightened every screw or bolt with the strength of 1,000 gorillas, as I used to tell you. No one would ever remove those curtain stays. At least not easily.

You prepared a beautiful home life for us, VST. You engineered the right construction with perfect angles, straight and true. You steered us on the best headings. You took my hand and made sure I stayed upright. Together, we were unstoppable, until you had to keep going alone, on a path of your own. I hope sleep on your heavenly bed is refreshing and peaceful these days. Wish you were here, but am at peace you are there.

I LOVE getting comments from my readers! I am still pinching myself that my blog is read around the world. I wonder who in Sri Lanka awakes my posts, being one of my night readers. Who are the Portland readers? Do they know each other and discuss me? My biggest hope is that each day, someone feels better reading my blog. That would make my day.

Strangers are just friends that haven’t yet met. Soon, I’ll be RVing around the country, looking forward to meeting readers from coast to coast! So, send me comments! I’ll put you on our route!

This time of year is the perfect time to reflect on life and the strength we all have to find new beginnings. The renewal of our faith and spirit is reflected in the happiness of Spring. New life is everywhere, and we can all try again!

I’m finding happiness with my new friend. We’ve known each other for 7 weeks, each day finding new and interesting things we like about one another. There isn’t a time limit for seclusion after widowhood begins. I feel so lucky to be enjoying days with my guy friend. I’m truly blessed.

So, if you feel inclined, please send me a comment and let me know what I can do to make my blog even better. Portland, you have quite a few readers there. I am wondering just what goes on in Portland!!! For for my foreign readers….. You make blogging mysterious and real for me. Please send me a Hello and let me know what you think.

As your prepare thoughts for today, remember that kind words have a way of healing so many ills in our world. I thank all of you for reading my words and sending me your thoughts in my writing, I am humbled by your kindness.

Happy Easter!!

Ice cream is a buzz word in our family. Growing up, summer ice cream was a staple at our house as Grandpa made the best vanilla ice cream known to human kind. With a slew of little kids around, he would simply mix up his secret recipe and then leave the rest to the grandkids. Each child would need to take 100 cranks at the icecream maker, counting loudly as they went along.

The process is what made the entire event so magical. In the first place, Grandpa would need to take a trip to a magical “Ice Machine’ in a dusty little village some minutes from his house. This was always a fun trip on which to accompany him. He, wearing his customary farmer overalls, would pile kids into the pickup. In those days, the excess kids might right along in the back. Yes. The open back of the pick-up. Funny, never I nor any friends ever blow out. We all made it to adult hood even without childhood seatbelts. Just amazing.

After we arrived at the “Ice Machine”, Grandpa would put a coin into a slot on the outside of this very rusty box, the size of a container. With a lot of noise and commotion, a tremendous block of ice would come shooting out. A big block of ice, 18″x18″x18″. I am talking a sizeable chunk of ice that Grandpa would hoist into the back of the truck with us. Back home we would roll.

In the shade of two huge mulberry trees, Grandpa would sit with an ice pick and chip away at the block. Sometimes he would use a hammer if we were getting to him a bit. But, in the end, the big block of ice was chipped into smaller pieces and we were ready to made ice cream.

VST knew, when the the chips are down, icecream can heal all wounds. It was in this frame of mind I remember him a year ago, today. VST was weary from all his procedures and lack of information about the source of his cancer. He continued to insist that he felt too good to be seriously ill, although the rest of us could see the toll the cancer was taking on our beloved VST. No longer the same in personality or looks, he was often confused, although always in a chipper mood. Our worrisome faces were something he couldn’t understand. We were all worry warts. We were asking him to go to the hospital for further testing. All he wanted was some ice cream.

We pleaded with him, asking him to find reason with our thinking.

He wanted Peanut Butter Chocolate.

We asked him to speak with his doctor.

Two scoops on a sugar cone.

We begged him to reconsider.

And sprinkles. End of story.

K and T took him for a quick trip to Carson City for Ice Cream that day. I stayed home in a bath of tears. Each day, he was slipping further and further away to a place I couldn’t go. Terrified, I cried and cried. But, in the final analysis, there was only one thing for sure, I was the one that got no ice cream.

I have my own ice cream maker now. There is no hand crank or need of many children to make it work. Plugging into the wall, it simply creates icecream in 40 minutes or less. It makes vanilla with a far simpler recipe than Grandpa’s. Although I can enjoy it under my Apricot tree, I am missing two magnificent Mulberry trees that still grow at the home place.

Ice cream. The food of champions. When life gets you down, have a cone, topped with whipped cream and sprinkles. One day later, it may be too late.

Today is just a super day!!! I have so much good news I hardly know where to start!

I’m moving to Nepal!!!! YES!!!!! During some research about adopting a child from Nepal, I met a gentleman named Fravash. He owns a business in Kathmandu, and will come to visit me In-80 days!!!! I can’t tell you how happy we are, just hanging out doing nothing. He watches over his mother, who really doesn’t need much watching. She is spunky and happy, and they two of them make a great team.

Oliver just loves the thought and Fravash and I have decided that we need to start on our new journey together, so we are tying the knot on our planned mountain journey two weeks from now. Fravash and I are both fully vaccinated, and even more than that, we’ve already had Covid and are now totally immune. Yes. For Life. So, the Nepali trip will be amazing. Staying at his bungalow at the base of Mt. Everest , we plan to hike every day and eat way too much Momo, cooked by his staff of ten. Did I mention? He is Nepali royalty, so he inherited his estate and pays zero in taxes or dues. Even the help is free. 24/7, he has help with all his needs.

The staff has the exclusive on Kathmandu Katharoo Wine for the entire region. It’s all the rage. I wish I could try it, but, alcohol just doesn’t agree with me. His profits from the wine are outrageous. He just bought me a mink back pack! Can you imagine????

I’m in the midst of planting 35 trees in the gardens of Winterpast, in a variety of mountainous species. My new friend assured me that they will all grow in the high desert and they are arriving by boat next week. A staff of gardeners are accompanying the shipment to my high desert get away, and will plant them with the best Napali blessings they know how to give.

After the adoption is complete, we have lots of plans, one being to transform Winterpast into an interpretive center for those of Nepali descent. His mother and he are planning to move here after we return from our last planned ascent to base camp on April 24th. We are preparing a place for his pet monkeys, all 24 of them. He assures me they are not always as busy as they were when I first met them. I am surely hoping not.

I’ve also decided to go back to work teaching. I so miss the little rug rats and hope to teach Kindergarten this year. There is some enticing new Nevadan curriculum in which the American alphabet will be replaced with the Napali alphabet. So, with the interpretive center and all, it’s a time of great excitement. The Nevada governor called yesterday to discuss the plans further. I’m really excited about returning to the classroom.

I’ve trimmed 35 excess pounds and now taken up mountain biking, which is a hobby of Fravash’s. We regularly go for overnight rides through the mountains with mosquito netting, of course, my mink backpack. Just the way they do things in Nepal.

Along with all of this, I just sold my new book, “How to Marry a Rich Nepali Sherpa Dude in Ten Steps or Less.” Penguine Books snatched up the chance, after my blog reached 20,000 readers yesterday. With a hefty signing fee, I am off to look at new sports cars. Fravash refuses to ride in the little white Jeep anymore. Onward and Upward!!!!

With love in my heart, and a huge smile on my face, there is one more thing……………

April Fool!!!!!!!

Come back tomorrow for more of the REAL stories. J

This morning, the sun isn’t up yet. Today should be calm. A few days ago we had a blustery day on the high desert, with wind and dust warnings prevailing. Sand storms are no joke, with damage to windshields and paint jobs occurring in a flash. The nearby lake experienced 2-3 foot waves. The wind howled and Winterpast stood firm. Just another spring day in the desert.

Pollen alerts are rampant here. I thought people went to the high desert to avoid allergies. I guess not. The prominent culprits here are Mulberry. Ash, and Elm, with the levels being high right now. With the addition of the high winds, sneezing is on the rise. In this area, it really could just be seasonal allergies. The problem is, one doesn’t know, and so I remain in isolation.

More birds are moving into the gardens of Winterpast. There are little sparrows conversing with each other on the branches, while finches flit past, hurrying to new nests in the little bird houses. The robins have been out every morning pecking through the grass, while two doves walked about on the patio, having made note that I have no cats living with me. Last year, a brave little dove made a nest on the top of the ladder I had yet to put away in the barn. She made it through the entire ordeal, raising two new little doves in the process. The ladder sits there again, as I hope another dove might repeat the miracle.

The mustangs have been out and about, but new foals haven’t dropped yet. There’s nothing cuter than a wild mustang foal. Nothing more hardy, either. They are up and traveling with the herd in a matter of hours after birth. These herds travel miles and miles each day, never stopping for very long. You can pass a herd running an errand, and they will be long gone when you return. Happily, they are moving into the higher country now, leaving the streets and my neighborhood poop free for awhile. Wild horses do have their drawbacks.

Just a year ago, yesterday, VST and I traveled to town with K and T for his liver biopsy. There was no thought of baby birds, or springtime. VST slept on the way. The day’s procedure was the only way we’d know for sure what type of cancer he had. Without this information, we couldn’t be assigned an oncologist. With the beginning stages of Covid underway, only one person could go with VST into the hospital. It would be me that would keep him company until his procedure.

The strength and love T and K brought every visit was tonic for VST. For me, too. He would put on his best smiles for them, letting them know each time that he felt way too good to be really sick. He continued to tell us that until he no longer could speak.

Through all of this, VST had the strongest faith of anyone I’ve ever known. His belief in the miracles of spring and the powers of God gave him his strength. Watching him walk through cancer with such an uncertain and scary outcome was humbling and encouraging to me.

While T and K waited outside, VST endured yet another procedure. It was this test that would let us know what type of cancer he had in his very ill liver. In the end, the results of this procedure released VST from the need to complete any other tests. His cancer was in the end stage.

As I think of last year and the sadness that we all went through, I know now that VST was headed towards his new beginning. He never stopped celebrating life, even at his sickest. He never questioned his heavenly salvation or the hell that was his cancer. He simply lived every moment appreciating beauty in the smallest things. From that experience, I realize he knew a new beginning was just around the corner. Bright and sunny, on the wings of angels he would ride into the glory of the heavens.

Winter is past. Spring is here. April. This most beautiful month stole something precious from me, but gives back so much in return. At my lowest spot, bankrupt in many respects, I started on an amazing journey. Almost one year later, I am here, stronger and more resilient. With a deep faith in new beginnings, a second year starts. Life goes on that way.

Enjoy your beautiful spring day. Look for the smallest miracles. They surround us all. Look at the new life and rejoice! It’s spring!

My, oh my. One year of memories weigh heavy in my heart. I hope the lessons learned in the next week are minor compared to those from the prior 11 months, 3 weeks. Never in my wildest dreams could I have predicted the horrible turn of events that came knocking last year. No one could. A schooling of a very cruel sort began in the winter of 2020, that of which I’d wish on no one.

A brittle twig will not bend. I learned there’s not a correct way to grieve. One needs to be flexible, just like my old apricot tree. When the winds come and blow away the leaves, there she is, shivering but strong. Although fierce winds blow, her branches remain strong as they move with the gusts. There were so many days full of plans that needed to slow to a snails pace, because I could go no faster. I would make the most fantastic scheudules, only to find that, when the day arrived, it was more than I could accomplish. Take for instance, the Beach House.

Months and months ago, I decided that I would spend VST’s Heaven-er-sary at our Central California Beach. The one at the RV park where we spent so many weeks between 2017 -2019. The cute little house and all her windows point to the Pacific Ocean. That little house would be mine for a week. From April 5-11, I’d enjoy the waves, while dolphins lept and sea birds dove.

When VST and I would visit this little town, we would head out on the pier to our secret resting spot. Benches line the pier, but there is one on which we would always sit awhile. Norm’s memorial bench. Norm, who would be well over 100 by now, was a great guy who was a friend to everyone he met. He had served on the school board with my dad, and his wife was my God Mother’s teacher in elementary school. Seeing who could get to the bench first, VST and I would sit and talk. It was there the ocean went crazy one day with a flurry of dolphins, whales, gulls and other sea birds. Every animal in the sea that day was in front of the pier, with the ocean churning in a frothy soup of activity. It was a breath taking show just for the two of us.

That bench represented a familiar face from the Central Valley. A farmer VST knew well. Someone who’s name was spoken often in my house as a child. A man so good that an elementary school was named after him. We always found it to be a beautiful place to think about things. Sometimes VST and Oliver would go and rest alone. I could see them from the rig, suspended over the breaking waves as they watched the surfers just below them.

As the weeks went by, I realized that to drive almost 500 miles in one day would be a lot for me to handle. Last week, I realized that to complete that trip was more than optimistic during a very emotional week. Sadly, I canceled. The drive was a factor, for sure. But going to the town that held so much delight for us on our visits on the one year anniversary of his death would prove to be too much stress for me at this time.

Learning to be flexible has been the biggest lesson. Through packing, moving, unpacking, and making a new life, I found that an inventory of core beliefs and values was necessary. Ways that things had been done in the past might need to be changed up. Just as I cleaned my closet, I had to purge my heart and start anew. Thank goodness the move occurred. So many friends worried about the choice of moving 17 days after VST’s death. There was no choice in the matter. The DunMovin House was sold. Winterpast was purchased. In the middle, there I was, between here and there. Between Widow and Woman. Suspended in a bridge of fog.

Accepting What Is. That was another big lesson. In the past year, I traveled through landscapes of different kinds.

The Bargaining Basement of Dispair, Shock and Denial. “If Only………. ”

The Forest of Pain and Guilt…….. “I miss him so much. If only I had…..”

The Ocean of Anger and Bargaining………”Why Me???? This isn’t fair……. ”

The Reconstructive Meadow of Working Through—-“This IS something I can do now…….”

The Spring Time Orchard of Acceptance and Hope. “What a beautiful life this is!”

Because, life IS beautiful and I’m so very blessed to have had a beautiful one so far.

Choosing Happiness. This has been the most fun lesson of all. Through this entire experience, on so many days, I would tell the mirror, “I can Choose sorrow and anger. Or. I can choose Happiness.”

There really is no good choice other than happiness. In the beginning, I’ll admit, there were days I needed to fake it until I could make it. But, in the end, who wouldn’t choose happiness for themselves and those around them. It’s all in how you pick something up and look at it. There is something positive to be gained from every situation, even the bleakest ones. And mine was pretty bleak.

I’m certain there will be more days when the bed seems like the best place to be. When just getting a cup of coffee will be a chore, or when I need the tissues close to dry my tears. But, there will also be days of celebration. I’m on my way to Year Two and the next year will be bright and promising. Full of new discoveries and adventures. Of that I am quite sure.

With Easter less than a week away, springtime is here. At R-Time Hardware, the babies have arrived. Chicks, ducklings, and even infant turkeys all chirp away on clean sawdust. Nothing brings a smile quicker than brand new baby chicks. Their fluffy little cuteness takes me straight back to childhood.

Being a red-neck country girl, the most exciting day on the farm was the one on which any baby animal arrived. Some arrived the usual way, found on a cold morning, steaming next to their mom. Baby bunnies wiggled, hidden under a cloud of their mother’s soft fur, prepared by her before their birth. Others came by special delivery. Such was the case when the chicks would arrive.

Each year, Dad would order 100 brand new chicks specifically to provide our yearly meat supply. I have no apologies, for I was raised on an organic farm before Organic was the word of the day. There were no pets, except the dogs, who worked for their meals. Everything that we ate as we grew up was fresh and from our bountiful garden or livestock pens. All the meat consumed was raised by my father, in between his other duties as a farmer. This included our meat chickens.

Chicks are delivered in groups of 100, sexed and boxed. Now, who sexes them is a mystery to me. You can’t tell a rooster from a hen in the beginning. Well, obviously someone can, but that wasn’t a skill I learned as a growing farm girl. Whoever did this was good, because from all my memories, there was never a rooster in the bunch.

Roosters can cause havoc in an otherwise peaceful and tranquil farm setting. In the coop, they can upset the hen house, for sure. They are noisey, and later in life, they can become dangerous. We never had such critters on the farm.

There are two versions of chickens one can choose. Those raised for meat and egg-layers. Dad never raised eggs, which was funny, because we certainly consumed enough of them as a family of seven. I guess Mom drew a line in the sand, refusing to add daily egg collection to her long list of chores.

After receiving the chicks, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and give each one a drink of water and a bit of food. He would observe their behavior while assessing their health. They would be transferred 25 at a time to the brooder, outside in the room sized chicken coop. Our brooder was 4 foot in span, and circular in shape. Under this, the chicks would be warmed by the light from a simple bulb. They could run in and out, but slept quietly at night under the warmth.

Baby chicks are very delicate. The change in water can make them sick. They get too cold. They can get too hot. They can forget to eat, or eat too much. Chickens, as a rule, are not the brightest animals in creation, so they need constant supervision to make it to two day old chicks. They are also a sought after taste treat for thieves, such as opossums, raccoons, hawks, or coyotes needing human protection.

Dad watched over these little guys as any nervous parent. Twice a night, he would go out to the coop to make sure everyone was nestled in and no one was sick or injured. With plenty of food, these babies grew to full grown chickens in six weeks. All at once. No stragglers. All babies were full size chickens in 42 days.

Over a week, and with the help of anyone who would, along with those of us that were forced, these chickens were transformed into packages of meat for the next year. This was no small task, and no quick job. The resulting meat was fresh and wholesome. Any of you that have had the opportunity to enjoy fresh chicken know what I mean. It ruins you for grocery store chicken from that point on.

Strolling by the babies at R-Time Hardware, I stopped and thought about it. There were the coops, for sale. The little noises were so enticing. Bags of chicken feed were at the ready. I could raise a new little crop of my own egg-laying cluck-ers. But, reality hit. Chicken poop. Stray feathers. Hawks. Oliver. I had to let the dream die.

For those of you that have your own chickens, enjoy them. They are delightful little animals, and fresh eggs and meat are a delicious addition to any dinner table. We should all remember, the only truly organic food comes from our own back yards! Bon Appetit!

Peonies are my favorite flower. Most unusual blooms grown from bulbs, until last year, I had no idea they were my favorite. I wish I’d documented the date the first shoots sprouted. I didn’t. But I do recall my wonder at the long shoots supporting tennis ball sized heads. I wondered what on earth these plants were. When they bloomed, I was hooked. Pale Pink Peonies. Each day, I rush to my favorite plant, awaiting signs of awakening. So far, nothing.

In other news, there is the matter of the small little beast that lives with me. Oliver. Some days, I want to cry as Oliver struggles to reach mature dog status. We are well into our second year of life together, and there are no signs that this 25 pound PUPPY is maturing in mind or behavior. None. Emotionally amped-up and needy, this guy runs at full speed all day long, every day, every hour, every minute, every second. Like a puppy on crack. A 25 pound puppy on crack.

One would want to believe that any dog would find Winterpast a haven for the four-legged kind. With shade, far corners, impenetrable fence line, shade, and water, any reasonable dog would prefer being there to the confines of the house. Not Ollie. When he is inside, he wants out. When he is outside, he wants in. Oliver wants what he doesn’t have at the moment, like a small, spoiled child, with me being the spoiler supreme. I’ve created a doggie monster.

Sir Oliver of Ashworth Hall is a Standard, 25 pound Dachshund of the most unusual variety. If you Google Cream, Piebald, Chocolate, Wire-Haired Dachshund, you will find his kind looking back at you. Oliver happens to have green eyes that are alarmingly human. He is smarter than me on most days, just unable to type, having no thumbs and all. He forgets nothing, and has a nose that can find the most carefully hidden treats. He forgives me for all my faults, except when it comes to food. Oliver is a food driven dog with a weight problem who lives on 1/3 cup of kibble twice a day. His world revolves around his feedings, twice a day. Very active and healthy, my chunky monkey zooms at warp speed even with getting such a small amount of fuel.

Winterpast offers so many things that Oliver has decided are treats of the best kind. The most frustrating are the small solar lights that lined all the paths in my yard. The yard is truly park like, with paths that go here and there. It would’ve been so pretty to line them with lights. One day, I decided to make that a reality, buying 50 such lights and installing them one by one. Oliver watched. He pretended he was asleep, with one eye open, of course. Each light took time, as I peeled off the labels, measured for placement, made sure they worked, hammered a small stake into the ground and attached the lights. Around the yard I went along the paths. The yard did look great the first night, when the lights came on. Lovely.

Oliver suddenly wanted to disappear outside during the day. It was a delightful respite from his inside antics, so off he went, sailing into the back yard. Slowly, I figured out why he was eager to go outside. He began digging up the lights, chewing up every small stake I had so lovingly installed. If the light got in the way, he chewed that up, too. At first, I didn’t notice. Now, the measured spacing is no more. A light here, an empty hole there. And Oliver deciding for himself when the next one will be removed.

He also loves the drip system. It must taste wonderful. Perhaps I should try an emitter salad, or Spaghetti with a touch of irrigation tubing. This dog is highly destructive in the cutest little package. He knows quite well this will not find favor with me. He can’t help himself. With 1/2 acre of yard, he has so many tastey treats to discover. I have a spring and summer of mangled irrigation tubing and emitters to repair or replace.

Yesterday, I was busy in the house, and looked out to see him tearing up yet something else. Something new and shiny, like a piece of foil. I couldn’t place it, but went out and picked up the pieces. I know now. He’s decided it’s time for the pipes to be unwrapped and the irrigation system to be turned back on. What a little helper!

Oliver has cleaned up every bit of mummified fruit from last year. Roaming the yard, he finds an old apple and whisks it to the lawn, where he devours it. Any toads should shudder, with his constant patrol. Yes, Oliver is a very busy, busy boy.

Some would say he is bored. To them, I would say you have never lived in my house or with Oliver. He is on 24/7. Visitors come and are shocked at his energy and behavior, because this dog is a crazy Labrador in a very tiny body. He is a solid package of TNT, ready to rock and roll, always with the cutest doggie smile. His days are busy and filled with lots of doggie activities. He just prefers the ones he creates more than the ones I provide.

I know very soon, I’ll have a real dog. Not a crazed puppy. At some point, I’ll look across the grounds of Winterpast and he’ll be snoring under the old apricot tree. His gnarled chewing bones will lay untouched next to emitting drippers watering my pink petaled peonies with the perfect amount of water. For now, he’s right to remind me. It’s time to start watering the back yard.

More peonies are going in the ground today. He will be blindfolded while I plant these. He need not see what treasures Mom-Oh is hiding. Off the the gardens for me. Have a beautiful Sunday!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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