Grieving Gardener

Good morning, dear readers,

Every girl needs a little holiday. I will be back tomorrow.

Joy

Widowhood and retirement change this person’s views on weekly life. No longer are there two special days of the week to wait for or avoid. For decades, weekends were the days that held all the things that overflowed from the week. Fun things. Extra work. Chores. Time to think. Time to escape. All of those things wrapped up into two silly little days.

Nightly television programs were like stepping stones to the two days of the week we didn’t have any scheduled. Saturday and Sunday held a rhythmic sequence all their own, and we cherished them. Now, Saturday and Sunday are just two more days inserted into the 300+ days I’ve lived without VST. No meaning or function, they are like all the rest for me. Some days, they are hard to live through.

In the 1900’s, without things like Netflix or YouTube, a person was at the mercy of Saturday or Sunday morning cartoons. With little else to watch, one would be encouraged to actually open the door and see the world outside. Maybe even spend a day in it. Now, we are all easily seduced into hours of entertainment at any time of the day or night. It’s as if the world has turned into the interior of a giant casino. Anything you want to do can be done 24/7. Rhythms I grew up with are gone.

These days, the one constant is the seasons. Thank goodness for the solar ballet, keeping some yearly cycles predictably recognizable. Yesterday, sitting inside my house, the most beautiful day was on display outside. I’ve noticed that my trees, mature and grand, are stretching their buds, getting ready for life, again. It will take a little more time, but, the swelling of the branch tips tells me spring is just around the corner.

Last week, the holiest of time in the Christian faith began with Ash Wednesday. In my state, even the practice of placing a small smudged cross of ash on the forehead is now a distant memory, and ashes are sprinkled on the head. It seems every single tradition we have is being eliminated, all in fear of a deadly virus. At a time when faith is needed the most, it’s being challenged in strange and sad ways. Traditions are being eliminated, leaving many of us wondering what will be left when all the restrictions are lifted. I sat pondering this in my house, as the sun warmed the day.

It was then my something caught my eye at the back fence. A happy little gathering of the cutest kind. The birds have returned. Little ones, big ones. Red breasted robins hopping across the lawn. Little finches meeting up like old friends, deciding who will be lucky enough to move into the high rent district of my two little bird houses. Squawking crows overlooked the entire party. Just like that, the weekend entertainment had arrived on wings. Busily, the new tenants were racing to and fro, carrying little bits of fluff for the new nests. Winterpast slowly comes to life, as the calendar marches on towards March.

Sunshine is great therapy for those of us that grieve. Spring is a time that reaffirms the cycle of new life, after a winter of sadness and grief. There are amazing miracles happening in our own back yards, while we heal. Just open the window and watch. Happiness can surprise you on the wings of new little friends just doing their thing on a beautiful day.

Just a year ago, if someone would have told me what today would bring, I would have said they were crazy. Unthinkable it was that VST would be brought down by cancer. With very minimal pain for a guy that was in perpetual arthritic pain, there was no way we could have known how soon our goodbye would come. A counselor referred to this situation as being similar to death by car crash. In many ways it was just that fast.

As life often does, the sudden finality left us all reeling. Remembering back, it was suggested in the sweetest of words that VST and I would take long walks together and say the proper farewell. That we could have “Love Story” moments, heart-breaking-ly sweet and tender in which we shared our last words with one another. Death had other ideas. There is nothing sweet and tender about cancer. There was no time for deep conversations that tied everything up with a bow.

Two days before VST passed, I had the rare moment to sit and hold his hand. He was slipping into a coma, but still held my hand as he had so often done strolling into Lowe’s with his Darlin’ at his side. Even though he said nothing, he was listening with eyes closed, and an open heart. As we sat quietly, I thanked him for the life he shared with me. For sharing my deepest worries and best successes. For being the one I would tell my secrets to, while knowing he would understand better than anyone else. Talking through my tears, I shared until he had slipped away from me into a world between here and there.

VST died the next day. He took half of me to heaven. Plain and simple, there is no other way to put it. Life went into a strange mode in which I needed to find my way alone. I continued to talk to him every day, while sharing my grief with the one person that would understand. My VST. I talked to him about everything. Wearing a mask while driving, it didn’t look weird as I continued to tell him about the latest problem or success. We had reversed roles, and I was now the driver, while he rode shotgun. Listening.

As the days turned into months and the season rolled on by, the conversations became less. Earthside friends filled in for him. Until I find myself in today.

Grief and widowhood are the strangest experience anyone can ever go through. Truly, a wilderness of the unexpected. The mind plays cruel tricks when you think you might have heard footsteps in the kitchen, or someone in the bathroom. You think of something sweet you just need to tell your loved one, and in a nano-second, you catch yourself remembering that you need to hold that until you meet again on the other side. But, each day, things get better. Slowly, you find yourself again. Little by little, you accept that life is different now that they are gone. You heal.

These days, I find that my sorrow has been replaced by a joy from deep within. There are so many things for which to be grateful. Just this morning, I was thinking of VST and his distrust and dislike for doctors. Having a brilliant and analytical mind, he knew very well how to choose the medical path right for him. I have no doubt, if given two years of medical treatments or one week of Hospice, he would have chosen the one week. He left me on his own terms, quietly closing the door as he escaped on that spring morning last year. As he left, he was no victim, but finding his own path to heaven with God’s help. I know that as well as I knew his scent in the dark, or his hand holding mine.

These days, when thinking about him, I often smile at stories that we wrote together. The kids. The farm. The mountain house. The cabin. VC. RVing. Just being us. The happiness we wrote as our life story is in my heart. I can turn the pages and remember it all any time I want, and now, it is comforting. The focus on what we created brings a peace that quiets the voice of what might have been. There is a comfortable place for the two to exist in my heart now, and that brings acceptance and closure.

No matter where you are in you journey of grief, please know, things will get better. They will never be the same. That’s a given. Somedays you will slide backwards. Somedays you will catapult forward. It is a crazy journey, this path through widowhood. But, as in any journey, it is possible to end up in a place of peace and happiness, with the best memories comforting you. It is this I wish for us all.

Belief in yourself is everything. Listening to a webinar by the prolific and amazing author, Kennedy Ryan, her main advice to new writers was simple. Make BELIEF your #1 strength. It’s an amazing superpower that can allow you to achieve more than you every dreamed you could. Believe IT into existence, whatever IT is for you.

Almost retired from teaching in California, VST and I were busily packing to move to Virginia City, Nevada. We had found our home and each weekend would drive six hours on Friday nights to get there with a load of our possessions. We did this 52 times before we were really able to say we were Nevadan’s. Often our friends would question us. Why? How? When? Few understood our need for a new adventure in a place where we knew no one, nor had family. They were mystified, while we believed in our plan.

One day, I was at a Lobby in a Hobby Store when I found the best coffee cup. White with gold polka dots, the inscription on the cup said, “She Believed She Could So She Did”. It was written for me. Throughout my life, things have happened that seemed insurmountable, if not for a core belief that I could survive and thrive. Sheer belief in my ability to conquer whatever problem stood in the way. VST and I shared this belief.

When VST and I first moved to VC, I was hired as a one year replacement for the science teacher at the VC Middle School. Although I’d taught a variety of classes from K-12, being a middle school science teacher is a whole different animal. I believed I could and I did. Nights that I wanted to cry, I did, but just a little. While drying tears, I buckled up and prepared curriculum for the next day, convincing myself that those kids were lucky to have a superior science teacher. Me. That year, our tiny mountain school of 96 kids had 6 entries in the Northern Nevada Science Fair, with one of my 8th graders taking 1st place in Environmental Science. I believed I could, but, also helped him believe he could. So we did, winning First Place!

When VST passed away, I needed to embrace that statement more than ever. There were many times when boxes way bigger than me needed hoisting down flights of stairs. They needed delivery to a storage area, only to be hoisted and moved again when the new house was mine . Financial issues needed to be handled quickly, but in the correct way. This by a woman that didn’t even know how much my monthly pension was, because VST was our banker. Decisions about the estate needed to be made from a woman that wasn’t a lawyer. Me. Friends needed to be selected when all I wanted to do was pick the first person I saw at Walmart and invite her into my life.

Through all those crazy times, it became clear that the more I believed in myself, the more I could accomplish. Little by little, the decisions that I’d made turned out to be right for me. Friends I picked are delightful. Winterpast became the best home I could have moved to. The new spa now bubbles away in the back yard. Oliver is thriving. My heart is smiling. Everything is okay.

It’s easy to get entangled in the triad of sadness, fear, and anger. I’ve written of these three comrades before, but they encourage a fourth. Self doubt. When those four get together, mental mayhem follows, leaving me to doubt everything. Believe me, when the sewer went down last week, those four had a field day wreaking havoc with my search for happiness. Thank goodness everything is now working as it should, and I am returning to normal.

I’ve needed to believe I could drive in a snow storm. That I could be the lone Hospice nurse. That I could let VST go when he needed to. That I could stand on my own two feet proudly, while honoring his memory. That I could take care of a 1/2 acre yard. That I could find life again, while smiling. That I could be strong enough to cry sometimes, too.

All those things are huge accomplisments of which I am very proud. But, I also found life will continue to throw hurdles at me. I can’t avoid them. I just need to believe that I can get through anything in life, because, quite frankly, I can. With belief, we all can accomplish great things.

The latest test will be my book, self-published later this year. My business waits to be created, about which I am learning by watching webinar after webinar. I’m able do this. I must do this. I will do this. This is the year, because I want it to be. I believe it is. And, so, it will be.

Readers, whatever you are dreaming, believe it IS already. No matter how fantastical you think the vision, just believe it to be attainable. It could be the smallest endeavor. Those are good places to start. Just believe in yourself. The rest will fall into place.

Widowhood has taken me on a trip I never expected. The highest of highs, and lows that seemed subterranean, with ghosts and goblins scarier than giant wolf bats with grizzly teeth. A haunted house freak show, with surprises around every corner. A distorted carnival mirror of life showed me things in wavy form, making it difficult to discern what might be real and what imagined. And yet, I made my way through the last year growing into this beautiful woman, more sure of my steps every day.

My words, I held dearly. For my new readers in all the far away places I’ve only read about, I chose a word a month. These were my life rafts as currents of days and weeks carried me forward. I was an unwilling traveler at times, just wanting to lay down in some leaves and forget about it all. Time had other ideas. These monthly words helped me identify what was real and necessary for healing.

1.Food, Shelter, Clothing

2.Friendship

3.Love Everlasting

4.Adventure

5.Faith

6.Happiness

7.Truth

8.Aloha

9.Rejoice

10.Respect

11.Optimism

When grief attacked my soul, the monthly word would give me focus on the parts of VST and I that were so precious and buoyant. Those words lifted me above snapping alligators and howling coyotes. They held me close to VST’s heart and the life we created as two child-rich but penniless kids in the winter of 1988. They helped me remember what my core values are made of and what VST helped me cherish in life. They healed me from the inside out.

No one can really understand what grief in solitude is like. When I moved to my sweet little town, there were those that made reference to the reputation of the place. A truck stop. A wide place in the road. A haven for addicts. Less than desirable location. My little town had a reputation she just couldn’t live down in the minds of those that had never given her a chance. I moved here and fell in love with every little scar. Every little wind storm. Every tumble weed or broken down mobile home. For, she and I are a lot alike. We’ve been through some stuff, yet we are survivors.

Now, the scariest part of the journey begins, because a year ago, my sweet VST became suddenly ill. I look back at my calendar and weep. His first test was last year on Valentine’s Day. Even then, the doctor was ruling out heart disease, and not the true monster that was cancer. I look at the words on my calendar and can see a difference in the handwriting. I remember the confusion overtaking our lives when VST was losing his mind. Those memories combined with the date on the calendar, one year later, produce a venom that is sadness X a million, and that is grief. That is now. “One Year Ago” is in the next room, waiting. April 8, 2021.

These monthly words are now all around me, and I have a comfy raft of them. I can lay back and bob along when raging rivers come while focusing on the stars. The best of memories that are US, cradle me while covering me from the cold. I’ll make it through, I just might shiver a little in the process.

These words are also doing something else. These are qualities I’ll not live without in my life. As I surround myself with new friends, I find those words are descriptors of the quality of friends I select. Overflowing, they will be abundant in the last chapter of my life. I’m choosing to make that so, with God’s help. When you combine all of them, you find true paradise. That was my life with VST, that is my life now, that is my life until life is no more.

Miss Firecracker and I had dinner last night, after her return from a fabulous trip across the country. She and I talked about our widowhood, and know we’re through the thickest of the forest of widowhood. We’ve both found acceptance in our hearts that life is here and ours to enjoy while embodying calm and happy. Through dinner, we laughed. A Lot.

The restaurant held only one other couple, young and sweet. Before they left, the man came to our table.

“Ladies, Thank You for bringing laughter to the restaurant. It was so nice to hear happiness coming from your table. No one laughs anymore.”

Upon visiting, we found that he and his wife were new to the town, taking a chance on her like I had last April. He was uncomfortable interrupting, but he had to tell us “Thank You”. Miss Firecracker and I cracked a few jokes with them, and immediately, we had two new friends. That’s just how she and I roll.

Our journey is okay now, she and I. We are widows. We were wives. But, First and Foremost, WE ARE WOMEN. Two very strong, beautiful, wonderful women to be reckoned with. Watch out world. We are on the move.

Angels are all around us. Sometimes life is so overwhelming we just can’t recognize them. There are many situations in which women remain vulnerable and at the mercy of the world. Broken plumbing is that such situation. Today was that kind of day.

After visiting with my tele-doc, whom I adore, I handled the medical side of feeling better. Don’t forget that option when an illness creeps up on you. Yes, tele-docs are not for every medical problem, but, for many, they can provide excellent care. From start to finish, I had a prescription in less than one hour.

However, the plumbing problem remained an odorous situation. Around 8 AM, I received the nicest call from the first angel of the day. A receptionist from “A Plumber and a Wrench”. She was ever so kind, informing me that the technician would be arriving around 1 PM to fix the problem. Immediately, I felt a ton of bricks lifted off my shoulders. Although I couldn’t use any water in the house, someone was coming that would remedy my plumbing nightmare.

Indeed, the sweetest guy named Johnny arrived right at 1 PM. He was here to fix the sewage elevator lift pump. After a little while, he came to me to report terrible news. This type of pump cost $4,000 and was manufactured in New York. It would take days for it to arrive and another day to install it. There was no escaping the problem. I would need to budget the fix. Period.

Going back inside, I again felt the weight of the world and realized how vulnerable we all are. In the blink of an eye, anyone can experience a problem in which creative thinking is needed. For some things broken, I know what to do. In this case, I was at the mercy of the plumbing company.

It was then that a mysterious neighbor named Schnauzer Dad walked by and changed the entire narrative of my problem. He informed sweet Johnny that this was a city problem, not a home owner problem. The city would fix it all. Furthermore, he drove home and got the direct name and number of the man to call. The rest was handled by Angels in Overalls. People are so kind when they learn of a widow’s loss. Most can’t begin to understand the true loss, but they want to. They know it must be the worst thing in life that can happen to someone. It surely is. Johnny promised to stay and make sure I was in good hands, even though he could have run home to his baby son and wife.

Truckloads of city Overall-ed Angels flocked to my yard. They fixed the broken pump, which I find out now, even has an alarm that should have gone off alerting me to the problem. I now know that. I also know that I am not alone in this independent state I find myself in. I can ask for help, and help will arrive. An important lesson when one is in the barren wasteland of plumbing problems along the journey of widowhood.

Angels don’t always appear trumpeting on high. They can be found when you least expect them, but always when they are needed the most. They come in all shapes and sizes. Some even smoke cigarettes and have a cross tattooed on their forearm. My angels swooped down in City trucks, clad in blue overalls to save my day. Lots of laundry to catch up on today. Keep your eye out for angels in your life.

Illness of any kind is no fun at all. An ache here. A pain there. Pretty soon, they all get together and insist that you stop and rest. I found myself in this predicament during the last few days. When your body is complaining, it’s easy for your mind to chime right in. Pretty soon, you are a sad sack of pity, having a party for one. Well, I didn’t fall quite that far, but found myself with happiness a fingertip out of reach.

Moving slower than normal, I’ve been sloth-ing around. Watch a sloth. They can’t even reach for a piece of fruit quickly. Wearing my favorite sloth PJ’s, I was that slow when reaching for my coffee. It was then that I decided to retrieve the mail. On my front porch, strange new odor hung in the air. A pungent odor, unmistakable, that can put terror into the mind of any new widow. Even the strongest of the strong widow. Effluent. In layman’s terms, liquid waste or sewage.

Winterpast has an odd design. Although attached to the city sewer system, she sits below the pipes at the street, making it necessary to have a SEWAGE LIFT SYSTEM, (the maintenance all my responsibility, of course), like a very necessary elevator lifting everything away from my house to the street. THIS is broken. For two weeks. And now, it complains loudly, by leaking liquid into my yard. This, I discover, while ache-ing and pain-ing on the way to my mail box.

Along with this disaster, (which I am still trying to mitigate), there is another one. My new spa, pristine and wonderful, sits in the back yard without a cover. I paid for a cover that wasn’t delivered. A windstorm blew in, with and entire night of 60 mile an hour winds. Leaves blew in and found their way into my bubbling vat of soothing jets, (at least 1,052 of them). Right after discovering the problem in the front yard, I discovered that my spa had turned a beautiful color seen in watercolor paintings. The leaves were clogging my brand new dual suction, turbo charged filters. All because, the cover I bought and paid for hasn’t yet arrived.

Plopping down on my couch, I will confess to you, I had a few thoughts that didn’t include happiness. With those, I realized, I had to stop. I first needed to listen to my body and take inventory of what I could do to change either of these situations.

With a phone call, I was on the line with “Plumber and a Wrench” in the next town. Now, I know a lot about a lot. But, a woman seldom has an interest or desire to really learn about plumbing. I could seat a new toilet with the best of them. Sewage Lift Systems are way above my pay grade. When talking, Mr. Plumber gives me the following advice. Wash no dishes. Launder no sheets or towels. In fact, save the Tide Pods for another day. Do not bathe or shower. In fact, run zero water through the house. He assured me they would get right on this. He has now disappeared into thin air. I’m following his advice, but, can only do so a little while longer.

As for the spa, a cleaning was necessary. Soon, the bubbles of happiness were again crystal clear. A call to the spa company gave me answers I didn’t want to hear. It may be another week or two until the cover arrives. But, it will arrive. This will just be part of the crazy story of my first year as a widow.

That left me with one decision. One and only one. My mental state. I could cry. Get angry. Ask “Why Me?” Curse. Yell. Be frustrated. Want to pack a bag and bug out. Yes. I could do all of that, and did some of that. What I needed to do first was STOP. Just STOP. Put on my pajamas. Clear my brain. Have some tea while in the STOPPED mode. I listened to my breathing. And the wind. And Oliver’s snores. Things calmed. Although all the problems, aches and pains were still there, they felt different. Like a warning that life was going at too fast a pace. Sometimes it takes a strange whiff of something in the air to make us take stock.

I feel better today, although not 100%. I plan to lay low and continue to make phone calls to my new best friend, Mr. “Plumber and a Wrench”. I’ll sit in the hot tub and bob for leaves, while allowing the healing nature of the water to soothe my tired body. I need to remember that my widowhood is approaching dark woods. Things are more difficult than I anticipated on these last days before the one year anniversary of VST’s passing.

I need to practice lazy, as my extremely wise and sage God Mom would say. Everyone needs to make sure to use that skill sometimes. Today, it’s me. Today, find some time to stop and take inventory. There is a solution to every one of life’s problems. Some just take a “Plumber and a Wrench” and a little patience.

To my adoring fans. I am truly sorry for the change in routine. For the last few days, I’ve been under the weather. Nothing serious, just not feeling my best. Still choosing happiness, I’ll be much happier when I feel 100 %.

On top of that, a violent wind storm blew through last night. Nerve rattling wind speeds which shook Winterpast as it rolled through. Sleep was not very sound.

This morning, I woke up to plumbing problems of the worst kind, needing immediate attention.

I will return tomorrow. Your concerns about my well being are so sweet. I love you, my dear readers.

There are some things that seem so impossible, they might as well find me standing on the streets of Katmandu while petting a vendor’s monkey. Treasures sometimes sit right under our noses waiting to be discovered, eliminating the need for exotic travel. Off ramps driven by every day, never exiting, could hold the most beautiful wonders one could ever see in their life. But life keeps us trapped in routine, enclosed in four walls, double-masked and afraid. I assure you, I would rather die of the virus than stay inside one day longer. My eyes need to feast on the high desert beauty, while feeding my hungry soul.

Every writer faces difficulties producing interesting material day after day. Imagination needs to be fed by new experiences. When a piece is produced, there are hours of pre-write that provide the final piece. Experiences and excursions provide food for the most interesting blogs. So, without divulging everything, know that I have been working on the pre-write stage since last Friday morning at 3 AM.

A few weeks ago, I started thinking about Katmandu. First of all, as a writer, the name is fun to write and more fun to say. It conjurs up images of exotic mayhem and energy, with sights and smells that would punch a person right in the face. A lack of presence and focus in Katmandu could cost you your life. Katmandu would be a moment in time never forgotten. A vivid immersion into life. Not a place to visit without a serious forward observer pointing out bad guys doing bad things.

For months, my soul has pined for one little adventure out of my house. This longing has fallen on too many deaf ears to count. Watching the mustangs, my mind has reflected on freedoms that have all fallen away to leave me boxed in a desperate state. Turning 65 left me to reflect on very real reasons I cannot just jump into my little white Barbie Jeep and rush into the tomorrow of the high dessert. Tethered to my house and sterile environment, I have searched high and low for a friend that longed to cut the cord and go on an adventure, even if it was off a BLM road just a few miles from my house. I needed to be away, for an hour or two to roll around with the tumbleweeds next to heaven under an angry cloud streaked sky.

My Jeep is not an average geriatric ride. A 2019 Wrangler, she is trail rated. She has been wanting to be tested in a way that included more than going to Walmart for a dozen eggs. And so, with the stars aligned in an extremely odd way, I found myself on the top of a mountain, in the highest of deserts, on the windiest of days, overlooking the world. The path to get there took a driver more skilled than me. At some points, being at a 17 degree incline, my heart pounded as my pulse quickened. But, in the end, there I was, feeling like I was dreaming. In 360 degree panorama, a desert landscape soothed my heart. Thirty to forty mile an hour winds ruffled my hair and chilled my bones. I found my Katmandu.

The exotic thrill of being on a high mountaintop with no sign of other humans can’t be explained. This isn’t a place I could ever drive myself, and isn’t a place I knew existed until a few days ago. One slip of a wheel would have sent my trail rated jeep down a 500 foot adventure of a different kind. I want to believe the effort it took to go to this place would be beyond most people with bad intent. This was a place where my heart was next to heaven in a way it needed to be for the shortest of times. I didn’t need to put on an oxygen mask, or carry high mountain equipment, because this place already existed in my normal world. Someone just listened, while kindly offering to be my sherpa for the day.

Dear readers, I know my limitations and would never attempt to return to Katmandu alone. A very steep climb to a small perch on top of the world will remain a place only the most experienced guides could handle. A place that I have know seen, which I can return to in dreams. My Jeep will need to realize her driver is one that put a sunflower tire cover on the spare tire. That speaks volumes about my ability to visit Katmandu on a whim.

I plan to construct a very tiny sign and return there one day soon. I will plant my sign as proof that I traveled there on a very windy and rainy February day. As for the sherpa, with all my heart, I thank you for seeing a weary soul and realizing that wild things can’t be tethered to four walls and survive. Wild things need to breathe fresh air and experience life. All great sherpas know this.

The high desert nourishes my soul. I can’t think of anywhere VST could have helped me plant roots that would fit me more. I’m not a fragile girly girl waiting for my next shopping trip. Anyone who knows the hoodied-me already knows with car keys hand I have a crazy adventure brewing in my head. Stay tuned. I can’t wait to share them with you

Through my journey so far, I have been blessed with the BEST FRIENDS anyone could have every asked for. While my heart has been shattered in unimaginable ways, an army of the best people on earth have been there to check in, listen, make me laugh, and cry with me.

My very oldest friend is really more like a sister. We met when we were just toddlers. I have a vivid memory of our mothers, young women each with many children standing in the driveway. Songbird had flaxen hair, worn in curly pony tails on that day. She hid behind her mom’s leg as they talked. I don’t remember what I was doing, except thinking this girl was so cool.

Through the years, we shared bike rides, school, secrets, and talents. She was a musician from the day she was born. She taught herself to play the piano and guitar, never learning to read music. We wrote songs together, me helping with the lyrics, and her providing just the right tunes. Her house was the fun one to hang out in, and that we did. She was the only daughter, of which I was envious, being from a family of five girls. Her private bedroom was her sanctuary, something I could only dream of having. Private space.

She was gregarious, always making friends. She made the cheer squad. She even kissed VST after he made an amazing play in football. She married at 18, and went away to see the country packing her guitar, all of which I found fascinating as I trudged off to college. She divorced and I married. She married again, and the cycle of who was pregnant and which new baby was coming began. 34 years ago, I was present for the birth of her daughter, coaching her as she brought this miracle into the world.

She remains one of the most beautiful women I know as the years have rolled on. Funny, insightful, and vibrant. Heartbroken at the news of VST’s passing, she shared her sorrow with me. For, it was she that had insisted I went to the high school reunion in 1987, where VST and I met. Although we live in different states, she remains an anchor in my life that I am so lucky to have her.