Grieving Gardener

On the other side of the same town, life was overflowing with activities all my own. As the single mother of two little boys, my days were busy from morning until night. 30 years of age, I’d decided that after one marriage failed, I’d choose single for the rest of my life. After all, I had a complete set of dishes, my own house, kids, and car.

At my parents insistence, a college degree was completed, for which I am eternally grateful. I’d never seen myself as a professional working woman, but rather a stay at home mom. For some years, that had worked. But, with the devastation of my own divorce, it was necessary to bring in money to run my household.

With that need, I started a little business all my own. I was a Domestic Diva of the best kind, with no job being too small or too big. I had two clients that provided my bread and butter. One was a lovely, childless elderly couple. They needed someone to help with many daily tasks which they were too old or wealthy to do themselves. For them, I worked three mornings a week. The other was a well established professional who needed a wife’s organizational skills. His left him due to infidelity, so I was hired to show up daily and arrange the details of his crazy life.

The rest of my days were back-filled with weekly clients needing this or that. From wedding centerpieces to weekly cleaning, I found jobs that needed doing and I did them for hire. Referring to my paychecks as DUSTY MONEY, I bought a new car and a tumble down house. Those days were not only packed with insane schedules, but, with love and laughter. The boys and I created our own little world.

A very busy beauty, I never realized I was attractive. I hadn’t time to even glance at a mirror during those long days. With all the activity, I was in great shape, being spunky and trim at 5’5″. Sometimes cleaning three houses a day, the activity of my life kept me in tip top shape. My heart was a lonely place, but I didn’t have time to sit and ponder this. By the my head hit the pillow at night, I was fast asleep.

Divorce had left me devastated emotionally and financially. Trust escaped me, as the people who should have been trustworthy weren’t. As a farm girl of the 70’s, professions were limited. Women were just entering the work force, with nursing and teaching two good options. These choices requiring additional schooling, current skills were put to good use, while I made a pretty decent living.

Weekends were saved for rest and time with my boys. When the boys went for visitations with their father, I had a little time for myself. Being particular in how it was spent, I often went out to dinner with CC or just enjoyed the quiet. Life was busy and good. Was I using my brain in the way my parents had hoped? No. But, when life throws lemons your way, make a margarita. I found employment that gave me mom time, working well for my little family.

Of all the friends in my life, one I’ve known the longest. We met as toddlers in her driveway. I remember our mothers, just young women themselves, introducing us. Her blonde curls, high in pony tails, fascinated me. My hair was the exact opposite, stubbornly straight and strong willed. I loved her curls immediately, and she soon became my bestie, attending school together from K – 12.

One August day, Bestie Friend, phoned with news she found to be the most exciting.

“September 5th. D & D Ranch. $25.00 pp. 1972-1973 High School Reuinion. Dinner and Barn Dance. Country Western Theme. YeeHaa!”

Imagine the flutter in my heart. NOT. My mind raced through the reasons why this would not be happening. Central Valley Heat. Outside. Bugs. Mosquitos. Boring. Too expensive. Country Western Music. Too tired. Not my thing. Just a no.

Girl speak followed. I agreed that I would go with Bestie Friend. I wouldn’t go happily. I would need to spend my limited Dusty Money funds on a new outfit, shoes included. I didn’t want to go. I was sure it would be lost hours of my life I could never get back. I grumbled. I mumbled. I shopped. I bought angry red high heels to wear on my feet. A sign to anyone looking that I was an explosive hot mess. I would go for Bestie Friend. Enough said.

Now, the very weirdness of this entire situation must be explained. If you read yesterday’s blog, you remember PA. PA had gone to school with Bestie Friend and I, K-12. He was annoying. A boy. An annoying boy. A neighbor boy. So, all four of us knew each other, but had not maintained a close friendship through the years after school ended. We were all planning to attend the reunion, two of us not knowing how our lives would change within just a few weeks.

And so, the days went by, until September 5th arrived. And with that I leave you to ponder just what might happen next.

To be continued………..

Every great love story has a “How We Met”. The romantic little story that describes the very moment you just knew you’d finally met your person. The beginning of forever, for however long forever lasts on Earth. Ours is a love story for the ages, although it didn’t start that way. Long, long ago, we were just a boy and a girl. Some would say adults with children of their own. But as hearts go, young, we were wounded, and fragile . Surrounded by thick boundaries of emotional barbed wire and “Do Not Enter” signs, loneliness lived at the core. Longing to be heard and loved, neither of us would admit that at the time.

In 1987, VST was 33, and I was 30. I’ll start with his story first, because it flows out of my fingertips to the page a little easier than my own.

VST was a lot of things in 1987. He was a shop foreman at his job, teaching other diesel mechanics analytical thinking skills to perform their best on the job. Complicated doesn’t even begin to describe a master mechanic’s job. The kind of guy you want working on YOUR tractor is the one that can hear sounds missed by others, while diagnosing trouble by the tension on a bolt. The guy that sits back and thinks about the workings of a particular system in a tractor while finding the cause before ever removing a bolt. This was VST. He was the guy farmers asked for. Begged for. Because along with that, he was a manly man great guy. No longer spending days working under tractors, he did troubleshooting on intricate repairs while soothing the most cantankerous farmers. Being a farm boy from the area, there was a good chance he’d played football with them or their sons. VST could easily turn an angry farmer into someone laughing about a big win at a championship game years before. He solved problems, seeing them as opportunities.

Divorce had come knocking leaving him alone in a brand new house. He’d chosen the lot and model, and watched the build. During this process, there were frequent visits to the site, the construction under his watchful eye. Cracked studs were replaced before drywall went up. Every potential code violation, identified before the next step could take place. Eventually, with a 30-Something house-warming party, he moved in. VST had NO intentions of marrying again. He had his very own life and children with whom he cherished weekends filled with laughter. His parents watched as he slowly put his life back together, the handsome bachelor he was.

Fate has it ways. Across the street, in this very quiet little neighborhood, another handsome bachelor was making his home. A sexy, handsome bachelor with ties to VST’s past. High school friend, PA. Racey, nasty, sweet talking, scotch guzzling cattle baron PA, who’d stop shoveling real poop long ago. Now, a professional bachelor, he knew all the tricks of the trade. A Porsche driving, tanning-bed bronzed, flirtatious, real life, neon cowboy, riding the bars until close. PA dealt in women and lines. Club lines. Pick up lines. Sleek lines of very long legs in very high heels. Lines forming at his front door, leading right to his bed. Lines drawn when hearts got too close. Lines not to be crossed. Women’s “Do Not Cross” lines, which he always did. That was PA. Being short at 5’9″, he was easily lost in the crowd. VST, standing at 6’1 had the dimples and charm going, but in no way had the cunning and calculating personality of PA.

Across the street lived VST. Barely 33. 6’1. 194 lbs. Tanned. Salt and peppered hair under tints of dye, due to some vanity issues. Perfect smile, adorned with a dimple on the right. Manly eyebrows that could be raised independently adding to his quirky and quick sense of humor. Soft, hazel eyes were adorned with long soft lashes. His gaze was quickly averted from anyone wanting to linger a bit too long. Inside this man, sadness, loneliness, and anger were strewn about like discarded clothes after a night not remembered. No woman would be allowed past the windows of his soul ever again.

VST was physically fit. Daily, he would jog 5-6 miles, work a full day, and then ride his bicycle another 8 miles to see his parents finishing his routine with ride back home. He was health conscious, watching his BMI. Wide, broad feet supported the athlete he was. Strong and muscular, he worked hard, and played harder. He had goals and plans for his life, with no woman ever devastating him again. He’d no desire to have more children, because he had three of his own. You get the picture. His life was set. High octane schedule, brilliant visions for the future. Alone. 33 years and a few months. The world was at his feet.

VST and PA had attended the same high school. PA wasn’t a jock, but actually a short kid that hadn’t found bachelorhood as a handsome guy, yet. VST was a football playing guy who was sweet and quiet. Still sporting a baby face, he wasn’t like some football players, who played the girls, too. He was a genuinely nice guy. I know this because we were friends, too. He was mature, taking responsibilities for his own car and jobs after school. PA and VST didn’t really run in the same circle, but knew all the same people. They both loved school, and kept many friendships after leaving their Alma Mater in 1972. I stayed another year.

So, when VST and PA, on the same day, while both getting their mail at the same moment, both received an invitation to their 15 year HIGH SCHOOL REUNION, they met in the street. September 5th. D & D Ranch. $25.00 pp. 1972-1973 High School Reunion. Dinner and Barn Dance. Country Western Theme. YeeHaa!!

Guy speak followed.

“Hmm. You going?”

“Hmm. Yeah. You?”

“Hmm. Yeah. “

Fate and luck had made these two guys neighbors. On that particular afternoon, as lawn sprinklers hissed around them, they shared a cold one, laughing about life. Two handsome men, enjoying a summer’s day, while every woman on the street had an urge to water the front yard, immediately. Little did VST know, his life was about to change.

To be continued…..

Sweet Lady Dye and I shared some time together yesterday. She’s been a source of information about my new town, and someone I enjoy visiting with once every five weeks. Lady Dye is a beautiful gal, inside and out. Whenever she speaks of important matters, it is evident that she is kind and gracious, surrounding herself with thoughts of goodness and light. She has a true smile, while exuding optimism in her outlook on life.

During our visit yesterday, she shared the experience of a sudden and devastating holiday loss. While listening to the events leading to a tragic ending, I was transported back to my experience with VST. I thought nine weeks of an illness was very quick. Lady Dye’s person lost her husband in just days. I was reminded of how fortunate we were to have VST with us until he took his last breath. Lovingly comforted by those he trusted, he slept, surrounded by the familiarity of Dunmovin.

During Covid, families are separated from their loved ones who are hospitalized alone. Medical staff have become adopted family members, giving company and a gentle touch to those dying from this wicked illness. Our medical heroes have yet another role to play. Not a task they volunteered for, but one they are brave enough to assume. Caregivers to our loved ones dying.

Covid stripped this new widow of the comfort of children and friends, just as it had for me. Grieving in the age of pandemic isn’t something for the faint of heart. At a time when you need hugs from every angle, there are few. When you need friendly faces smiling at you and telling you everything is going to be okay, they are covered in masks, with only the gentleness of eyes looking on. Separation when you most need togetherness. It’s a cruelty that we, as Covid Widows, are experiencing in real time.

Covid has robbed us of the healing aspects of funerals, memorials, or celebrations of life. Reduced in size and intimacy, it has erased the ability to grieve together and feel for one last time a sense of community while saying Good Bye. Many special family members and friends couldn’t attend VST’s service. Dangers of infection to health compromised individuals increased making the risk too great. Although technology helped us bring family together, it wasn’t the same as being together one last time.

So now, another widow sits alone wondering what happened. How did it happen so quickly? Why was her spouse the one chosen? When will things return to normal? Answers found in unique ways as the journey of widowhood begins, those questions still run through my head on occasion. Slowly, an acceptance has come that some answers are not for us to know.

Blogging from this the 10th Month of widowhood, I turn back and offer a hand and a prayer to this newest grieving gardener. She will uncover unique and personal answers on her journey. I offer a listening ear and a hand in friendship. She’s invited to join me in the garden. We can exchange thoughts and ponder ideas from a new point of view, while remembering the hardest of days traveling alone. Thinking back, new and interesting commonalities may be found outside of widowhood. Just like that, a new friendship formed.

If I’ve learned one thing, it’s a very lonely place to be, even when surrounded by the people you love the most. Leading lady, center stage in a very sad play, you’re all lone, not being sure of the lines that come next. New widows, look for the hand that is reaching for yours. Enjoy the warm touch of someone willing to sit with you for a little while. Each day will be better. Not the same, but not quite as sad, as we make our way together towards spring.

Delicious visions during dreamy memories of VST visited me this morning, long before normal people recall anything. Working on a book to be released later this year, I’ve been playing with the pages in my head. Moving words. Choosing phrases. Grouping thoughts. Selecting the best parts of VST and me to include. Those that I want Great-Great-Great Granddaughters to read and grow to understand how VST loved EJ. Slowly the sweetest mental image to formed.

An unusual man lived in the heart of VST. A guy that would make movie goers swoon. VST had the heart of a cowboy, although he had no use for horses. A private detective, always looking out for the bad guy. A Rambo, in the swamps of life, ready to defend his heart, family, and life, itself. A “Charlie” (2 1/2 Men), always charming the gals. A Tom Selleck, being irresistible and down to earth with his deep voice and southern drawl. A MacGyver, always knowing how to fix anything. And VST, best of all, because he was a man not written about yet.

In my memories, VST isn’t one age, because, he never grew old or stale. Whether captain-ing our house boat, or redesigning our little cabin in the woods. Whether laughing on the porch with his mom and dad, or that boy standing at the end of the aisle I walked down so long ago. One after the other, the memories flash through, and I smile at how lucky I am to have shared them with him.

During life, VST was a husband, a father, a diesel mechanic, a manager, an executive, a business owner, a farmer, a designer, a builder, a landscaper, a mason, a roofer, a tax man, a government executive, a doctor of psychology, an investor, a house flipper, a retiree, an RV-er, and more things not remembered at this moment. He changed hats many times during his day, but wore no hat when he was just my VST. I could set the clock by his arrival home, with his voice calling my name to find out my location and activity. Through 33 years, there was never a doubt I was his girl. The one. His true person. And he mine.

Those were all things he did, but his essence was that which was rich, endearing, and unique. That which captured and captivated my heart. Beneath all the things that made him a manly man, (which I prefer), there was this unique individual with whom I shared life. If I used my senses to describe him, it would be as follows.

Visually, VST was stunningly handsome from birth to death. 6’1. Brown Hair. Hazel eyes. The biggest head ever, yet in balance with his body. Muscular arms and legs, with a long torso in between. A cowboy boot fan throughout his life, he later turned to Sketchers with jeans and tee-shirts, unless, he needed to put on the tuxedo that still hangs in my closet. He was a clothes horse, always dressing correctly for any situation. He turned heads, this not lost on me. He turned mine, too, and I never tired of admiring him.

VST sounded like bass drums and tubas. The kind of sound that rumbles in your gut. His presence was known, as he was not light on his feet. When he entered a room, heads turned to find him by sound. Dry humor and wit always followed his laughter, as he delighted in catching me in my blonde moments. Sometimes he was thoughtful when reminiscing, like Willie Nelson, and other times, playful like Bob Wills. When VST was silent, his thoughts marched on, reflected in a variety of expressions. VST was always heard. He made sure of that.

VST’s hands felt like strength, warmth, and hard work. Paralysis had rendered one almost useless, but it could still hold mine. Those hands never lost the calluses caused by hammers, pry bars, wrenches, and lumber. Psoriasis chiseled away at his vanity, covering every part of him except his face. His arms were strong enough to hold huge timbers at the cabin, but also, tender enough to hold the newest grand babes, just hours old. VST hugged just tight enough and long enough. I felt safety as we went through life. I felt improved in our union of two very smart people possessing double the ammunition to take on the world. I miss feeling his presence next to me as I fall off to sleep.

VST smelled like home to my heart. When we met, he exuded young, handsome guy scent wearing Polo cologne. But as the years past, there were times he smelled like drying raisins, other times like powdery cement. He smelled like Irish Spring and M&M’s. He smelled like Run and Coke and Coal Tar Ointment. Like fine Chardonnay. Like hard work before a long shower. Like dress up night at a ball. Like hot stage lights in rickety old theater.

Thinking back to the morning he left, there are so many things I wish I’d have planned better. The truth is, the unthinkable was happening before me eyes. As he lay, withered to skin and bones, I knew heaven was his reality. Widowhood mine. Stunned, as I watched, he slipped away so easily. But then, he would have, quickly figuring out a path and exiting. There was no time to plan a romantic Good Bye that would have played well at the end of a beautiful movie. He went and I was left.

Quietly, in the minutes before I rise to blog, I’m blessed to have memories of such a man. His loss has not gone quietly into the night. It wakes me at odd hours. It makes me cry on occasion, for the silliest things. It brings out the irrational side of me at times. It scares me and always will. All these memories also make me strong as nails. I had someone that was a brilliant and perfect match to me. My person. The one I am lucky to have known the best. And that is a dreamy memory.

January 10th!!! Month 10 is still new! Bundled in my fleece jammies with wool slippers on my feet, I remember fall and the lovely weather. The leaves rustling in brilliant color. Mustangs, standing on every hill, looking for water and food. Walks at any time of day, pleasantly breezy and warm. I also remember how much I feared this first winter alone. As it turns out, this winter is where I find my first book. It’s where I find myself cocooning and liking the quiet solitude. It’s where I find I am my own best company. Another surprise of widowhood firsts.

This month I find out what I’m made of, as it’s our anniversary month. January 23rd will memorialize, 33 years ago the day that VST and I exchanged vows in front of family and friends. Auntie God Mom, Uncle Cool Guy, and CC were there, “with bells on”. Not sure where that phrase actually originated. Getting dressed up as a girl, if we were attending a fancy event, everyone would go “with bells on”, yet I never saw one bell. Quite sure CC is shaking her head, because she definitely never wore a bell in her life. Now, Auntie God Mom is another story.

That morning, there was no way that I, as a beautiful young woman of 31, could have known how that day would drive my life through our forever. VST was devastatingly handsome. That was a given. His intelligence and forethought in every aspect of life took us on the best adventures, while I added Sagittarian optimism, spunk, and fun. We were a power couple that didn’t know we were while being too busy planning goals and living out each day.

Respect was a cornerstone for our relationship. I respected his core values and the essence of who he was. I received that respect in return. We argued, pouted, plotted, and did all the normal couple things while in disagreement, but, we never crossed the line into disrespect. Those issues we battled remained sacred, shared only between us. Neither of us were the type that included friends and family into our issues. Those were privately handled with respect. Some of our finest hours as two.

When I look at the world today, the lack of simple respect is astounding. Everyone insistent that their way is the only way, and that way will be how things will go. Somewhere respect and discussions about differences have been lost. Something that costs nothing but the time needed to count to 10, breathe deeply, and listen to one another. How simple. A prayer for respect in the world would be helpful.

January 8, I released 9 balloons, beautiful in their brilliant colors. As I released them, four got caught in one of my bare trees. I thought of many things at it happened. I know VST didn’t want to leave me, the kids, or any of his friends. He wasn’t ready to be whisked away by cancer. The tree at that moment represented cancer, holding VST’s brilliance in its clutches. But, the four fragile balloons struggled to get free and rise heavenward. They did one by one. It was so beautiful to see them finally disappear into the beautiful blue desert sky, one by one. He is free. He made it on that cold spring morning right before Easter. Respectfully, and with such great love, I let him go.

I respect all the things VST taught me. So many things, it would be impossible to list them all. From things about the workings of a toilet to tax information. From the hundreds of uses for duct tape when farming to unique and crazy dance steps only VST could pull off as his dimples charmed me. But most of all, I’ve learned that respect is a corner stone for any new relationship formed in my life. With that foundation, anything is possible and worth keeping a lifetime.

I miss you VST. Enjoy your 10th month in heaven.

Covid times. Boring times. Sad times. Isolated times. All true. But, also times when our brains can finally slow to a pace in which we find new outlets for creativity. 2021 is the year of publishing for me. This is not a “Maybe”. Not a “We’ll see.” This is a scheduled event now, in which my calendar holds dates and goals to be reached. As VST said always, “The unaimed arrow never misses.” Target goals are set.

For this year, I plan to finish my trilogy. Lofty goal, but, I have hours in a day to complete this. Much more valuable using time in this manner, rather than losing minutes to mindless television, or worse, wretched news. VST always had a television on. Some kind of noise was needed, even to sleep. I find the sound of silence so refreshing. There’s never a perfectly silent time. Always little noises around coming from life as it happens. I love days when the television remains off.

At this point in life, I have so many blessings. I am relatively young. Attractive, some say. Intelligent. Smart. Inquisitive. Energetic. Creative. Compile a list about the things you are. Every choice must be positive. You will find, you are things all your own! Just ripe for finding a new interest.

I hadn’t given webinars any thought at all, until I received a random email. Each webinar is about an hour long with a professional speaking about a topic specific to publishing. I signed up for all they have to offer. I’ve watched three so far. Amazingly, they aren’t advertisements, as one would expect, but instead, valuable information on self publishing books. One of the authors had a great point. If you are smart enough to write a book, you are also smart enough to publish it online. That is now my affirming statement.

So, think of something to investigate! Something out of the box! New! Courageously bold! Begin by researching it for 15 minutes on the computer. It could be anything from attending free Harvard seminars, to becoming a TED speaker. Learning how to cook French Cuisine. Learning more about the Bible. Training you dog. Just choose one thing and start to investigate.

I knew nothing about blogging when I started. I just did. Found a free site, with a free template, and in very short order, I was up and writing. Healing and happiness have flowed out of my fingers into cyberspace. For that and for you, my readers, I am eternally grateful. I won’t keep you any longer. You need to find that new interest. It will give you a new look on life. So, go. Have fun today!

Boredom is the true sign of a weak and a lazy mind. Auntie God Mom always reminds me of that. We agree on so many topics. There is always something one can do to fill an empty day. On my summers breaks from teaching, I could easily stay at home for a week at a time. Never move the car. Never even take a walk off our property, while just making a home while being a homemaker. I love having a neat and organized space in which to cocoon.

In the 90’s, I knew an elderly woman who taught me tips about cleanliness and organization I hold dear today. She was the Queen of Clean. At any rate, she once explained to me that she never saved cards. Beautiful cards from family who lived far away. Read and tossed. Sentimental cards from her husband of 60+ years. Read. Smile. Toss. An old habit it was of hers. I’d never seen anyone so adamant about this. One day, I asked her reason, needing to know why she was this way. In her very sage and wise way, she answered.

“Joy, someday Bill will be gone. The last thing I want to find is a lovely card from him reminding me of the very moment he gave it to me and the hugs we shared on that occasion. I love Bill’s cards and he knows that. But, to keep them is like keeping a drawer of grenades. There may come a day they’ll leave me in an explosion of tears.”

Over time, I reflected on her words while deciding my own position on cards. About ten years ago, I finally decided there was some truth to what she said, and started disposing of them. She was right. As long as everyone was above ground, it was easy to smile at their beauty and then give them the Heave Ho. I was pretty thorough, or so I thought.

Yesterday, while finding things to do to pass the day, I noticed the drawers in my nightstand needed de-cluttering and so I began. Spare change. Old eye glasses. Things in that needed to go out. Pens and pencils that had migrated from my desk. All the usual suspects. Quietly, under a flashlight, a measuring tape, and three books, the grenades waited. Ready to make me explode into a flood of tears were two cards.

The first one read as follows.

“Happy Birthday to my Wife, Who has sensational charm, A dazzling wit, A fun-loving nature, A smile that won’t quit, Incredible passion, A gleam in her eye…And a husband who knows he is one lucky guy.” Love you, VST. Thank you for such a good 32 years. (Hallmark Cares) Two little bears were on the card in a variety of cute poses, just as little bears on cards often are. It’d been more than a year since I’d seen this, being given on my 2020 birthday.

Well, that one was hard. But, the next one was even more so, written on our Anniversary last year.

“What do I mean when I say I love you? I mean I’d do anything for you. I mean I’m in this for keeps. I mean your funny and smart and beautiful to me. I mean I love you. That’s what I mean. Happy Anniversary.” (Hallmark)

Sweet enough in luscious, heavy cream stock with roses on the front. But what he wrote himself blindsided me.

“Thanks for the best 32 years of my life. Love, VST”

In his shakiest, sweetest, left-handed writing, his words and sentiment alone were precious. Just like that, he could have been in the kitchen bringing me a bottle of water. I find myself wondering how nine months could have passed since he died. He just wrote this for me. He just held me as we shared a kiss and I told him “Thank you”. He was just here. But, JUST is nine months ago today.

Having time to think about this experience, I have no advice for or against saving cards. I know these two are the most precious things I could have found while cleaning out a nightstand drawer. Cards that have rested there waiting for me to find them. A message to remind me how lucky I was to have a man that knew how lucky he was to have me. Yes, VST. Absolutely the best 32 years of my life, too. Thanks, VST. Happy 9th Month in heaven. Tell everyone Hello for me. I miss you.

In this brave new world, one of the saddest things lost is the telephone conversation. Remembering the days of corded phones, life needed to stop while we chatted with a new love or best friend. Drama or gossip, it was delicious and shared over the phone. The cord kept us grounded. Tethered. Conversations had a beginning, a middle, and an end. How many times we would wait for the phone to ring. How many times would we cry when it didn’t. So much drama existed around the phone, life and death included.

When our children were home, life on the farm was hopping. On weekends when I cooked for seven, the kitchen was a busy place around meal times. I would always have Best-ies checking in to see what weekend activities were planned. It was for those multi-tasking moments that I purchased a 20′ phone cord. It was great for allowing me a working range from stove to sink. From cooking to washing dishes. There I was tethered to the wall, yet able to move around the room. Those were days and conversations I wish I could have all over again.

Now, phones are an obnoxious necessity. Every phone should contain I.C.E. contacts, in case an emergency strikes. Phones capture our every activity in selfies. They know our locations in case of danger. They hold our daily calendars. Entertain us or our kids. All hold the all important TEXT messages. And we can still receive an occasional phone call.

When texting was new, VST thought I’d made up the word “texted”. Each time, he’d correct me, saying one should say, “I sent a text message,” or “I typed a message.” After years, he finally accepted that texting and texted were words.

The last text received from him was on March 30th, days before he died. We had spent the morning in Reno with T and K, getting a liver biopsy and paracentesis. Not a fun morning at all. He was sore, tired, and needed a rest when we got back home. I needed to take K to see WINTERPAST one more time as I continued with the purchase. So, K and I left him in the care of T, his son.

His last message to me read, “Where are you?” Looking at that message now, I wish I’d have just taken a nap with him. Held him a little longer. Not let him wake to find me missing. At that point, he depended on me for everything, and my absence was upsetting to his state of mind. His question was honest and heart felt, as we were always together. 24/7. That’s the way we rolled. Two-for-one. His message remains a haunting reminder of the question I ask often of him now. “Where are you?”

Texts should never be used for anything significant. Not for long dissertations about troubling things. About sadness or anger. They should never be a substitute for being there, or at least talking by phone. Sharing important feelings is one thing that sets relationships apart from random interactions. That’s the part that artificial intelligence just can’t get right. Words on a screen are not the correct way to handle the most important parts of life.

When I’m in “Barbie’s Jeep” driving, there are 10 choices of predetermined answers. From “Okay” to “I’m running late” with eight choices in between. That’s really what texts should be for. A little message that you are on your way, or may be late. Not a way to be “present” while you are really busy doing other things.

If you are lucky enough to have family and friends close, please call them the old fashioned way. Let them know you love hearing their voices. Listen for laughter as they delight in your call. Let them share audible tears with you if you need to cry. Be human, and talk. Distracted driving is something we should avoid. Distracted interactions is another. Pick up the phone and call. You won’t regret it.

Reflecting back on the holidays, I’ve taken notes of what worked and what was an utter failure. Being alone failed. Not going to happen again, with a cruise for the 2021 holiday season booked and waiting. Yahoo!! Monthly words and gifts representing VST and I were a huge success. About this, I share.

Each month, a focus word was chosen that we personified. Anyone that knew us would have agreed words like Adventure, Friendship, Ever Lasting Love, or Aloha were great descriptors. During the holidays, choosing Rejoice was perfect, as I rejoiced in the beauty of having VST as my mate for 32 years. For the first 6 months, I purchased a Christmas present reflecting each word. Something tangible that I could open and hug Christmas Eve. This was ultimately a great idea, as these were the six presents I had to open this year. Although he had been gone 8 months Christmas Eve, the need to buy a present the last two months wasn’t there. I stopped buying gifts at Month 6.

Ordering things each month, two were personalized. A blanket with special words organized in jigsawed fashion, and a personalized book. Both came gift wrapped, so there was no peaking for months until Christmas came. Both made me cry in a good way.

The blanket, although not the quality I would have liked, is a beautiful thing in which to cocoon myself on chilly evenings. Navy blue and white with fleece backing, it had words and phrases about us. January 23, 1988. VST loves EJ. Oliver. Things about our lives. My favorite. “Home is where you are, Darlin”. I chose the words carefully, turning them into something beautiful.

The book was an entirely different surprise altogether. I’d looked on a site that promised a personalized hard bound book for someone you love. I entered very little information, including our names, gender, and color of hair for each of us. Just a few little details. Never did I expect to get the book that was delivered. As I read this little story, it was about us, as if VST had written it for me. I’ve only been able to read it once, so far, on Christmas Eve. How it managed to reflect our lives together is a mystery to me. Maybe artificial intelligence located in my new fridge???? Spies listening? At any rate, it was perfect for me. With each gift, I enclosed a little card to myself reflecting on important things I should remember. What he WOULD have told me if only he COULD. Those were the right things to read on my very sweet first Christmas Eve all alone.

Happiness was represented by another cute gift. I bought a Giant Sunflower tire cover for my Jeep Wrangler. VST always called the Jeep “Barbie’s Jeep”. Although he did the driving, we bought the Jeep for me, never dreaming I would be the sole driver just one year later. The sunflower will represent me as I drive along new roads, having fun doing it. I haven’t seen one on the road yet, so, my ride will be individualized. Just one great big sunflower, my favorite.

Deep in Widow’s Fog I was during Month 1 – Food, Shelter, Clothing. Always finding myself cold, I was in need of was a new sweater, my old ones becoming threadbare. The sweater came from Amish country. Four ply cashmere, black, thick, and beautiful. When wearing it, I’ll get a special “First Month Gone” hug from VST. He loved supplying cashmere to warm his forever-cold wife. Thoughtful in the sweetest ways was he.

For Adventure, a framed selfie of my first solo Lake Tahoe Cruise in August now sits on the book shelf. When looking at that picture in Lake Tahoe frame, it takes me back to the drive up the mountain that day. I felt so free and adventurous. It’s a mini vacation every time I look at it.

Faith, is spelled a metal sign. Simply, Faith. It hangs with two beautiful pictures K had framed for me. One of VST by a pristine Sierra Lake, and the other of the sunrise on the morning he left us, while we had him still. The sky was cloud-filled, colored the deepest oranges and purples, at the time of day I love the most. K caught that, keeping it for us as a memory and reminder that Faith is all we have in life.

So, it’s January. If you’re a person that doesn’t start things unless you can do it for the entire year, start now. Choose a January word. You have time. Write about it. Put up signs around your house to remind you. Write it with erasable pen on your bathroom mirror. But, most importantly, wrap your heart with it, like a warm blanket. When things get tough, it’ll help you stand tall and remember the person you lost in the best way ever. A hug from them. A hug to yourself. A beautiful way to remember we must celebrate ourselves!

I love the morning in a ridiculous way. At 4:45 AM, my eyes spring open, and I am first thankful that a new dawn is about to break. A daily miracle, it comes so quietly that at first it isn’t even noticed. Slowly, our eyes can see more and more of the outside world. Finally the day is born at sunrise, bright and shiny new. Strength is found in knowing many things positive and life affirming will occur and wait to be acknowledged.

Being a true morning person has had an affect on relationships from time to time. There are those in which the day can’t possibly start before 10 AM. There might be a stirring, or temporary wakefulness, but dreams again take over and sleep resumes. When I was a working teacher, I would love Saturdays in which I might have the luxury of sleeping in a little bit later. But, with farm chores those days didn’t come often. As a retired couple in the RV, the day was half over by 10 AM, with hundreds miles in the rear view mirror. Those arriving early at the next destination got the best spots. There would always be time to rest in the late afternoon before dinner. Through the years, morning routines were reinforced over and over.

Wondering what happens late in the night, I may try staying up past 8PM sometime. I wonder if the magic of the stars can persuade me to flip my internal clock. What different people would I meet and find common interests? Would they understand my views on life? Would they understand me at all? What activities does one undertake at 10 PM? What stores are open if you happen to need a bolt or washer for a DYI project at 9:45PM? Lighting is terrible at night. Things lurk in the shadows ready to pop out and grab you. The toads come out to eat my lawn at night, while the owls ask “Who”? All these things are so much easier when slept through.

I find that my nights are perfect for winding down the jitters of the day. Breathing in and out, anxious fears quiet as I find comfort in dreams. Darkness is a time for privacy, while listening to Oliver make soft puppy sounds in dreamland as he sleeps. I find comfort in hearing the distant train rumble through my little town, whistling at the crossroads to warn night travelers. The wind sings a lullaby, as I listen carefully to the weather the night brings. Even snow has the ability to muffle sounds of the night, making its presence known. Far away, other morning people prepare to end their days, as well. Ending our early shift, and letting others carry on through the dark hours.

Whatever type of person you are, try flipping for a day or two. See what programming catches your interest on television. Go for a walk and see the changed rhythm of the neighborhood. Venture out in the car, seeing what you might have missed. For me, morning will forever be my true love. Beautiful, egg and bacon, orange juice mornings. Sprinklers hissing, garbage trucks rattling, and the day rolling on towards noon. I love mornings. Have a great one.