Grieving Gardener

By Ralph Blane and Hugh Martin

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Let your heart be light

From now on

Our troubles will be out of sight.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas

Make the Yule-tide gay

From now on

Our troubles will be miles away.

Here we are as in olden days

Happy golden days of yore

Faithful friends who are dear to us

Gather near to us once more

Through the years we all we be together

If the fates allow

Hang a shining star upon the highest bough

And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Joy

‘Twas two nights before Christmas, when all through the home,

With a sprained ankle, I sure couldn’t roam.

One stocking was hung by the chimney with care,

Sewn by me, when two small boys were still there.

Oliver was nestled all safe in his crate,

Dreaming of how doggie treats would taste great.

Old movie and me, my ankle raised high,

Had just settled in for needed sleep in the night.

When my cell phone did light and ding with chatter,

From my Bestie, CC, “Now what was the matter?”

I told her through words I would be okay,

She promised to check in the very next day.

With the Christmas Star shining, what could make me so blue?

If you’ve been reading, I don’t need to bore you.

Again, movie my focus, pain in the foot,

The cell phone complained. Now where was it put?

Daughter was checking in, so far away.

She knows how to read me and just what to say.

“Things will be brighter, just remember the good.

Sleep well, and the ankle will heal as it should.”

Hope, Faith and Trust, I depend on tonight.

Santa is great, but these three do delight

A soul that is weary, battered, and blue.

I hope for tomorrow, and have Faith anew.

When the phone complained again, just once more for good measure.

A new friend checked in, one that I treasure.

Company tomorrow? Dinner brought for Miss Lazy?

“Can you check tomorrow?”

Wait……..

What???????

Am I crazy?

This AM after sleeping, I’m not so grumpy

Not feeling so blue and down in the dumpy.

Today will be one last to get Christmas right.

With Hope, Faith and Love, my spirits take flight.

Down with sadness, self pity, and blues,

Up with Carols, good food, and friendships true.

Up CC, Up Miss Firecracker, both of you know,

When troubled about life, to you I go.

Up Daughter, TJ, and Cambria Goddess, too,

What would I do without my Christmas angels, You????

Smiling, I’ll enjoy our dinner tonight,

Christmas Eve and Day will be just right.

So Dash Away, Dash Away, Dash Away all,

Off to the grocery store, down to the mall.

Finish the wrapping with ribbons and bows,

With love for each other, happiness grows.

I send you this, My Christmas wish true,

Merry Christmas, Dear Friends, with love to you.

*Thank you for reading and helping me through my first Christmas as a widow. Your steady love, friendship, and prayers are helping me grow stronger every day. Merry Christmas!

The simplest of errors can cause one to have a restless night with a very swollen ankle. My advice for the day. Don’t trip on the dog bed. Here is the entire story, with all the details included for prying minds.

After having breakfast and a lovely morning, I was planning to get dressed and have one more run at Christmas shopping and food gathering for the next few days. Simple as that. With the purchase of the new couch, I’d moved everything around in my living room, but hadn’t bookmarked their new places in my memory banks. The dog bed was in a high traffic area, and I made note of this, but hadn’t moved it.

Into this mix, add the fact that I have Size 11 feet that are always getting jumbled up and waiting to trip me. Even on my best days, I’ve always been a clumsy mess. With VST at my side, he more than once saved me from terrible falls. I’m in awe of anyone that can actually do a sport, as that is way out of my ability. Let’s have a writing contest, and I’m in. But, a game of anything that involves movement of the body involves injury for me. It’s a given.

So, yesterday, I tripped on the dog bed and came down in a very unflattering fashion heaped on the floor on top of my poor ankle. It made terrible noises as this happened. Then, there was silence and pain. Immediate. Oliver enjoys private time in his crate after we write. He’s still a puppy and into things he shouldn’t be. So, he enjoys Puppy Time Out while I fix my breakfast and get ready for the day. Slowly, I inched my way to his crate, in which he was rather frantic at seeing Mom-Oh on the ground. Together, we thought about the situation for a bit, while assessing the damage.

No blood. Good. No protruding bones. Good. Foot in same snake-like shape. Good. Pain. Not good. If foot moved…more pain. Really not good.

After minutes of thinking of a plan, I contacted Daughter, who said I should wrap the ankle to prevent more swelling. I took Advil– maximum dose. Immediately started ice and elevation, (continued throughout the day and night). Miss Firecracker flew into action and ran to the drugstore, delivering an Ace Bandage, the cutest Santa, a box of cookies, and a Get Well card. The best friend in need, is a friend in deed.

For the rest of the week, I’ll be watching old movies with this swollen ankle elevated and on ice. I’m able to hobble around to take care of the necessities. Oliver is watching over me and had a talk with me last night about the placement of the dog bed and retention of such information. He also gave me lots of kisses and is making sure I’m not too lonely. He assures me that if I had to have a Super Power, he prefers writing.

I hope everyone remains upright. Don’t trip over anything. In this Christmas season, things are often moved from their usual places. Keep an eye out for trip-able objects. Have fun planning for the next two days. Stay warm and happy. Love to you all.

Thank goodness the winter solstice is upon us. Today, there will be the fewest hours of daylight in 2020. With the year as it has unfolded, I’ll gladly turn in a few minutes earlier tonight to enjoy this, the shortest day of this annus horribilis. According to The Old Farmer’s Almanac, if you go outside at noon today and observe your shadow, you’ll l see that it’s the longest one you’ll cast all year. This year has cast shadows on all our lives in one way or another. A collective sigh of relief and prayers of hope from the world will be heard at midnight on New Year’s Eve 2020, because 2021 must be better than the year we are finishing.

As a gardener, I’ll be delighted that the daylight hours will slowly be lengthening now, as we move towards the Vernal equinox on March 20, 2021, in which day and night will be of equal length. I’m looking forward to the lengthening of days in which to split and transplant my thriving Irises. Peonies, resting their eyes right now, will break through the soil in the spring. My aged roses all need proper pruning as they sleep, for the best chance at gorgeous blooms next summer. Gardening provides respite from day to day worry-demons. It has given me hours to reflect on my life as it is and the direction in which I intend to go. Today, there are 90 days to organize our sheds, sharpen our tools, condition our soils, and order new seeds and bulbs for winter planting before spring arrives. I plan to use each one to the fullest.

With Christmas Eve on Thursday, my week will be carefully choreographed to avoid emotional pitfalls. This holiday season has been a tough one in many ways. The cruel chains of Covid Quarantine have been restrictive, keeping us from visiting family and friends. So, this week, I’m making a conscious and deliberate choice as to what the days will look like. I’ll be careful to add in nourishing meals and plenty of rest, while also adding time for fun.

I’ve been enjoying daily mail call, as I’m hearing from family and friends from near and far. I’ve forgotten how wonderful it is to receive Christmas cards and the beautiful wishes inside. They’ve been more meaningful this year than ever before. Everyone in my life has gone out of their way to shower me with their prayers and best wishes. What a blessing that has been, during this the year of the unthinkable.

As I plan my week, I’m going to be very honest about my wishes. I need extra quiet time for reflection. As I find myself on the path of healing, I’ll listen carefully to those that mention how happy I look, because that is the truth of the matter. Through personal growth this year, I’m discovering happiness deep from within as I trust my faith. My grieving process may be different from others. That’s okay. There is no handbook for how one gets through this wilderness. We all need to find the unique way that works best for us as individuals. That’s helped by respect from friends and family as we make our way, sometimes in rather clumsy fashion.

Enjoy the first day of winter and this Christmas week with its magic and wonder! If you are struggling, start to list all the things you are grateful for this year. Even in a year as bad as 2020, we are all blessed. We only need to start listing the ways.

I write my blogs at 5 am. I. Am. A. Morning. Person. My best work is before 6 am. Stellar ideas come to me at 3 am, sometimes nudging me to write them down in my ongoing and very private journal. I’ve always been a morning person. Perhaps that stemmed from the childhood joy of running out into the morning stillness on the farm to find newborn lambs sheltered by a protective ewe. Or, to grab a morning hug from a farmer dad that left the house very, very early. The need to irrigate 40 acres of thirsty vines before teaching school all day. The front row beauty of amazing sunrises on the Virginia City deck with our 100 mile view. First in line to say “Good Morning” to VST. For all those and a million reasons more, I’m up way before dawn.

On this early morning, some thoughts stirred in my awakening brain. Things important and vital for my ultimate happiness. Being this morning creature, I miss a morning creature that stirs the way I do. Coffee. Breakfast. Morning Channel 2 News. Planning for the day. I’ll never be a night owl. I struggle being an evening crow. Morning person all the way. I miss eye-gooped, bad-breathed, dream reviews with VST. I miss our routine. He was always the first to say, “Good Mornin, Darlin” in his sexy VST voice, chipper and happy. Every morning. Quick to start the pellet stove on frozen VC mornings without a complaint. That man never woke up with pickle face or wrong-side-of-the-bed-grumpies. If I did, he patiently waited for me to wake up. Ready to plan the day, he would often remind me , “We’ll have enough time to sleep when we’re dead”. I miss my morning guy.

This week, I got through the first birthday in 33 years in which there wasn’t a card written out to Mrs. H staring me in the face when I first woke. For as much as I hate birthdays, we had that one heartfelt tradition that died with him. I won’t ever celebrate my birthday again, even in that small way. The absence of that silliest act set the tone of loneliness for the remainder of my wakeful hours. Goodbye to acknowledging such a pointless day in my life, too many years ago to matter to me anymore. Celebrating Christmas is enough for me.

Next, a tomorrow full of dreams need to fill my future. Not anything extravagant. Travels through sunrise beauty in dust-shrouded places like Mina and Luning. Sneeze-and-you-miss-it-places like Buford, Wyoming, population 1. Plans to stand in the awe inspiring presence of Mount Rushmore, or again watch the lifted tails of angry bison. I’m starving for simple travels over hundreds of miles of conversation and wide open spaces. I promise myself I won’t die yearning for this. Oliver may need to practice his duties as Service Dog Wingman, but, one way or another, I will be traveling again.

I thrive on spontaneity. The hardest thing in the world is waiting to do something. Anything. Winterpast is a wonderful resting spot that is my beloved home. Now, I need to find a new rhythm of here and gone. VST and I had that. Always a trip planned. Miles on the road, the journey being the reason. There is romance supreme in heading out while looking over the horizon in the same direction. Sharing different visions, a mural of ideas is created. Projects we wanted to complete or destinations for future trips discussed. VST was my perfect travel partner. My heart longs for that again. Like trying to read a map and drive at the same time, traveling solo through life is so damn hard. Dangerous, too. One wrong turn and you can be upside down in a ditch.

This morning’s epiphanies made my heart smile. Like feeling something painful in your shoe, and discovering the tiniest fox tail embedded in your sock . You knew something hurt, until you found the simplest answer. Such obvious stressful points I can’t overlook.

1. I will never be a night owl. Not even an evening crow. Morning person all the way.

2. Hold those birthday candles.

3. Need to get on with it and plan my first adventure for 2021.

Those are my AHA’s. What are yours? Start with the small ones, the bigger ones will reveal themselves along the way.

Holidays are so complicated. From the tangle of lights and boxes of Christmas decorations, to the more intricate parts of family life. Nuclear or extended. Biological or chosen. Lives are so busy, especially when little ones are involved. Work and normal life are now complicated by added bills and activities that extend normal day activities. Concerns about Covid and maintaining traditions loom over us all.

My house has been decorated since Thanksgiving. Being in a new place, it was necessary to again find new places for my favorite decorations. Some didn’t make the cut for one reason or another. Finally, I just couldn’t handle another emotional box of memories and decided the house looks just fine. Red and green pops of color cheerfully add a bit of zing to WINTERPAST (the name of my house), rather like blooms in the dead of winter.

Television commercials blast blended families of different ages and colors, all smiling and showing a Hollywood mix of smiles and laughter. Perfect people. Perfect food. Perfect dogs. Perfect packages. Perfectly romantic. I don’t know about you, but my first year as a widow is anything but. I have no great expectations that Santa is going to slide down my fake chimney and put the zing into Christmas morning. It’ll be just like any other morning around here. Oliver and I having our boring breakfasts, blogging, and deciding what to do with ourselves until nap time. Great expectations I have none.

What I do expect is to embrace peace these days before the 25th. Quiet reflection on the real reason this is such a special time of year. A time that many different religious groups choose to have their holiest of holidays, cherishing family and friends as they celebrate. I expect the scale will climb a few pounds, which I will deal with after the fact. I expect that the sadness in the pit of my stomach will be a little more pronounced for the next few days. I expect to be sad a little more than normal, the loss of VST stinging every time I see a Christmas decoration he gave me so long ago, or hear one of our favorite carols.

Great expectations will be on hold as far as gifts go. I plan to get Oliver a new bone, but please don’t tell him. He is expecting an entire bag of dog treats. Can’t do. He’s on a strict diet.

As for me, at the time of my choosing, I will open the gifts under the tree that represent my Widow Words. When VST died, I decided that each month would be represented by a word signifying our relationship. When I was unable to go on, I would focus on those words, rather like a Lamaze focal point used in natural childbirth. If it helped me birth a 10.5 lb. baby without drugs, it could sure help me get through the pain of losing VST. Just like that, they worked. At the end of each month, I purchased a Christmas gift representing the words, and wrote a letter to myself to go along with the gift. These are now under my tree. This was perhaps one of the nicest things I have ever done for myself. So, at a very quiet time when Ollie and I are ready, I will open the presents and letters, and have a very long, private cry.

My great expectation for this Christmas is that many painful memories can finally be put to rest, like melting snow after a storm. New traditions can be put in place, so that next year, when I open the boxes of decorations, sad memories of my first Christmas as a widow will be tempered with memories starring me as the Goddess of Christmas Now. I refuse to revisit Grieving-New-Widowhood, when I’ve worked so hard to heal from that point in my life. I have no great expectations. Just a wish for a quiet and lovely holiday season in which I continue to get stronger every day.

Planning a full day of shopping, Miss Firecracker invited me to come along, but, I was returning from my mini-vacay after picking up Oliver from puppy camp. Oliver was wiped out, as he always is. I can only imagine the fun times he has with new furry friends as Sweet Michelle spoils him rotten. We decided the next best thing would be to meet at the TeePee for dinner.

Miss Firecracker finds it fascinating that I usually order a hamburger and fries. I love H and F’s. Not at home, because I can never get the buns grilled just right, or the patty yummy enough. I’m always looking for a restaurant that has just the right combination of fresh bun and perfectly cooked patty, with crispy fries. Not huge, not small, just the right size. The TeePee has just that burger, so that is my go to meal. Miss F finds this funny. I guess it is peculiar.

There is never a lack of subjects to cover when Miss F and I get together. We, too, have the most interesting things in common. Weird things that solidify the fact that we understand one another. Period. There are no boundaries when we’re in discussions. I’m pretty sure the patrons next to us enjoy interesting eavesdropping. Could be a chocking hazard at some points in our conversation. I noticed the waitress making several rounds past our table. I wonder how much she pieced together.

We share a friendship that involved camping trips with our guys. After you’ve camped with us, you quickly become honorary family members, because you know too much. You find out things sitting at a campfire that are delicious and real. Miss F and I have had those times, sharing great discussions with VST and B&C (Baily’s and Coffee). We were a fan club of four, with our visits never long enough. It seems a blessed coincidence, although truly tragic, that we now travel through widowhood together.

It was Miss F that sold me on the good things about my new town. She was correct in her recommendation for VST and me. At the time, we were all alive and kicking, planning lots of get-togethers, continuing on our path of friendship and fun times. With Covid, it was impossible to visit with them after I moved in without VST. It was unthinkable that B&C died in August before I had even received a Welcome-Home hug from him.

As we visited over dinner, our conversations went to places that only seasoned wives would understand or have experienced. Our experiences were similar in many ways. B&C and VST were two of the most intelligent men you could meet. They were both vainly sexy, working a room with a glance, being chick magnets until the day they died. But it was obvious they each had a chick-a-dee that held their heart in her own heart. The sun rose and set on us in the eyes of B&C and VST. Period. Of that, there was no denying.

They could and did DRIVE US NUTS. Miss F and I can talk about those things, because we are the only ones that have that right. Telling her things private takes me back to the fact that VST and I were normally joined in an extraordinary union that brought two dynamic individuals together. But. We were still just a normal couple with normal problems that others have endured. As similarities are discovered, Miss F and I giggle, laugh, and sometimes leak tears. It’s a sweet way to validate that we did share something wonderful that’s gone.

By the end of the meal, an important point was shared. Yes. We miss them. Greatly. Passionately. Sorrowfully. And yet. We move forward because we must. We have chosen to leave behind the wake of Kleenex boxes and grasp the friendship we have which allows us to share constructive grieving. We are the LUCKIEST GIRLS to have met up with these two guys in the 1900’s. We did things other women would only wish they could. Blush-worthy and outrageous things with extraordinary men that loved us deeply. Now being blessed with a rare friendship, we are finding our way through widowhood into womanhood as the new Goddesses we are becoming. For that, lucky doesn’t even begin to cover it.

*Thank you, Miss F. You are my lifeline. My raft. My friend. I love you. J

I am a true morning person. Prior to retirement, when my life was overflowing with “Musts”, I learned that by getting up by 4 am, I had two hours on most people in the world. Bonus time to squeeze more out of my days. There was still never enough time as VST and I danced as fast as we could. Two careers stole 10 hours a day, including commutes, but, that left 14 hours a day, in which to choose our activities. Deciding we could sleep when we were dead, many, many days were fueled on 5 hours or less sleep. Doubling our productivity, we lived enough for four lives instead of two.

Now, I still awaken at 4:45, ready to tackle the day. I’ve chosen to omit television from my life, which has cleared my head for much more creativity. In my experience, visual stimulus robs the brain of the ability to create magical places and things.

As a third grade teacher, story time was a reward for me. It was never included in scripted minutes to which teachers must now adhere. As I did for cursive, too, I shaved time off other subjects, because story time was something that my kids and I needed. Like air. After lunch, little bundles of sweaty happiness knew. They came to our reading carpet and got a story rock. While they sat to listen, the rock was to remain in their hand, not to be thrown at Sally or Rob. These were thinking rocks. Smooth and flat, they fit a small hand nicely and were to be manipulated as the story unfolded. During suspenseful times, the rocks moved between their little fingers. The bigger wiggles ceased, my students looked on. Not with a pure gaze, but with visualized words flashing before their eyes. The rocks were my educational strategy, long before spinner fidgets. Quieter and less distracting.

I had a favorite book, which became an annual read. “Because of Winn Dixie.” It was one that I read every single year because of the voices. They were in rich southern drawl, which I read in a very entertaining way. The kids ate it up. I loved reading it to them. Winn! Winn! The character, India Opal, hadn’t had the easiest life, living with her father, The Preacher. Her mom was absent, never even introduced to the story. The kids related to Opal. When I started reading the award winning book to them, it was brand new. Right off the press. No movies. No visuals. We created our own out of the words. Each of us would have known Opal on the street by individual ideas of her height, weight, hair length and smile. We knew her in our hearts.

After I had read the book many times, the worst of all things happened. Towards the end of my 3rd Grade adventures, when scripted lessons and minutes timed by the principal had robbed so many teachable moments, rich and joyful, “Because of Winn Dixie” became a movie. My class being legendary, new 3rd Graders came in knowing my “after lunch story time” was a priceless adventure for the mind. Everyone was giddy when I brought out the book. But, the saddest thing happened. Slowly, the rocks couldn’t work over whispered spoilers. Kids commented on the color of the actresses red hair, the size of the dog, or anything else Hollywood had dictated by visuals to be absolute. Just like that the magic was stolen. I never read that story to anyone again.

Most of my best stories are totally without visuals, forcing me to make sure I get the words just right to allow the reader to visualize what I’m describing. It would be so interesting to see the results you all come up with. It would certainly show me where I need to improve my descriptions. Even for stories I have told for years, my mental visualization changes over time. The stories mellow, or disappear because they no longer hold my interest. Others become stylized and cartoon-ish as I struggle to remember exact details, and create a bit of filler that suits the situation.

One of the most difficult situations for any story teller is when a co-participant in the story corrects your version. I’m sure that are many of you that are smiling if you’ve ever been interrupted by a spouse, just the wee bit jealous that they weren’t the one sharing the delicious tale. VST was the best at this. I would always take the bait. In this way, I suppose were were most entertaining as we bantered through. I miss his interruptions, as they validated that all the rich and precious memories I have did occur. With him. Over the last 50 years of life.

So many stories. So little time. Be sure to read to someone in your life at some time in your life. Reading a story and doing voices is not only wonderful for the person listening, but the person telling. It is especially wonderful in a classroom, with 20 sets of eyeballs watching their own visuals, while a teacher captivates them in southern drawl.

1900’s models, we met, divorced from past love. Hello, Old Friend. Will you? Yes! 32 years married. We coupled while happy, sad, inventive, supportive, argumentative, passionate, trusting, and honest. Best friends, we embraced our good sides and accepted our bad. We ran through life holding hands, grieving deeply at life’s losses while rejoicing success.

Gripping the trifecta of Health, Time, and Money while enjoying retirement, we skidded into Cancer’s grip, never seeing it coming.

Nine weeks in 2020. Sickness left skin, bones, and my broken heart as he snuck away into death’s final Forevermore.

I grieve alone.

*********************

I am always looking for new and unique ways to express myself. Some days, I experience minor writer‘s block, but, most days, my words are a conscious stream of energy that pours through my fingers in two hours or less, including editing. I enjoy the fact that the pieces come together as I visualize them, easily and effortlessly, once the topic and title are chosen. With that gift, I am blessed.

So, when I saw the challenge of explaining a relationship in 100 words, I decided to try it. Good writers need to limit words once in awhile to choose more descriptive phrases. The fewer words one has to work with, the more creativity is required to say things in just the right way.

Volumes would be needed to describe VST. Mr. Melon Head, as a dear friend referred to him, had a lot stored in his massive brain. He was a complicated man that took life seriously. A big, old softy. A ruthless business mind. Great judge of character. A man that loved deeply and completely. He was Dr. H to me on romantic cards we exchanged on holidays. I was Mrs. H. Forever, he will be VST, and to those closest, such as Auntie TJ, who gave him the name, he will forever be missed.

I challenge you to try writing about someone you love, using only 100 words. If you are writing with Word, you right click and a box will come up on the bottom of the screen. In that box is a counter, which will tell you how many words you have written. Very helpful to know. Have fun with a concise description of your loved one. 100 powerful words can say so much.

To pass many lonely nights, I’ve been watching old movies. Funny. I think of one title and three more come to mind. These old friends have helped me fill evenings when I am too tired to read, but not tired enough to fall off to sleep.

Growing up in a house of five girls, spanning a bridge of 16 years from oldest to youngest, I was imprinted with music from many different decades. My mom’s music was added to the mix. She loved it all, having exposed all of us to musical notes and instruments. Church choir. School Choir. Piano, accordion, saxophone, guitar. We changed with the times. Musical trends and preferences became harder for my mom to accept as years went on. By the time I was falling in love with Joni or Crosby, Stills, and Nash, she was clutching her ears wondering where she had gone wrong.

One safe genre on which we could always agree was musicals. I could listen to them, over and over, watching the stage sets, photography, and costuming. Each time I watch again, I find something new that is strangely important and relevant. I can’t say that I have a favorite. I love them all. South Pacific. Oklahoma. West Side Story. Evita. Mama Mia. And my latest favorite, Come From Away.

Fiddler on the Roof. I remembering first hearing of this movie when I was in high school. My oldest sister and her husband, needing to escape from their small children, had gone out on a date night. The next morning, she called Mom, bubbling over about this amazing movie. Nothing else would do but that we all went to see it. At the time, I liked the songs about forbidden love. I saw myself as the young daughters trying to break deep traditions that would anchor them to a life outdated. At that very moment in time, I, too, was experiencing love forbidden by parental restraints. VST and I, sang the sad song, Anatevka, for a choral performance.

A few weeks ago, I watched Fiddler on the Roof for the first time in years. This time, when I watched it, something else was so evident. Love and family are all any of us have.

So many times, VST and I talked about life if one of us died. Always theoretical, of course. Cancer was not invited into our home. It broke the door down and stole VST, smashing dreams in its hateful wake. Destroying what could have continued to be. Stealing what could have come. Leaving a wake of destruction and quiet, as if three decades had not ever even happened.

Aside from my devastating loss due to cancer, 2020 has shown me that at any time, an invisible and deadly threat in the form of a microscopic virus could rob all of us of a way of life and traditions we hold dear. People who were our friends might be forced to behave differently than their heart desires. Places that had been comforting might become dangerous. Traditions that were loved might become banished. Life will become bleak, unless the love for family and friends prevails. With that love, all things are possible to endure. All things.

As I watched the story unfold, it had a richness and melancholy that I had not embraced or fully understood before. The same story, yet heard from a different point of view. Yes. Bleak. The outcome of their story we all know. The outcome of ours has yet to be written. The love of fathers for their daughters. Of husbands for the wives. The love for places dear. New love. Old love. Love, in the end, is what we have when the important parts of our lives are distilled, insignificant things falling away. With this love, new traditions replace old.

In this, a most beautiful season, connect with those you love to remember those we have lost. Through memories and stories told, it will help us journey through these tough times.

A Note.

A cyber shout out into the universe. Happy Birthday, Karen Bowser, a dear sweet Central Valley school friend and neighbor girl. 65!!! Who would have thought those two hotties swimming and going motorcycle riding with the bad boys on that summer day so long ago would turn 65?!?!?!?!?! Have a wonderful day, however you decide to spend it. I miss you and hope life is treating you well. Joy

If anyone happens to know Karen, please send her my birthday message. The universe has a way of delivering the best messages. J