Grieving Gardener

3 pm is neither time for lunch, nor dinner. In the cautionary world of Covid , it’s a respectable time to get a cup of coffee at a diner, bear-ly full of anyone. A quiet time for a cyber friend to materialize. A stranger, species unknown. Nothing much happens at 3 pm around home. Oliver is usually restless, knowing his 4pm dinner is right around the corner. By 3 pm, the day has become what will be documented in my personal journal. 3pm is neither time for lunch, nor dinner .

Waiting in the parking lot, so many thoughts swirled in my oceanic brain. Mental tides, ebbing back and forth over tide pools full of things needing to be done and undone. Wrongs. Rights. Truths that just needed accepting. Opportunities missing and missed. Full moon brain waves streaming, enhanced by 80’s songs on the radio, I watched cars flow East and West on Main Street. Everyone hurrying to squeeze the last little bit out of the day before nightfall. I sat waiting patiently, being one with a moment of thought.

There is a time for masks and a time to take them off in this Covid adventure in which we find ourselves. Arrival and introductory niceties finished and with the help of the sweetest waitress, we were guided to our table. The time, about 3:15pm. There, at that table, the beginning of a new moon cycle began. The topics flowed easily at our table by the window. In the beginning, sun wasn’t an issue until it was necessary to lower the blinds a bit, as it dropped in the Western horizon. Ebbing and flowing, the words never stopped. Back and forth. Coming forth, sharing information that took us back to important times in our separate lives. Talking and listening. Listening and talking. The moment took center stage.

The waitress deserves a huge tip. I plan to return today to add to that and hug her. I may even speak to her manager. Adorable as she was, she kept us in liquid and food. She smiled ever so sweetly sensing this table was just a little different. After the 4th or 5th attempt to take our order while getting nowhere, she simply told us to flag her down when we were ready.

I guess there was a 4pm and a 5pm yesterday. Pretty sure of it, because by 5:30, the blinds didn’t need to be down anymore. Darkness had settled. 6 pm? 7pm? By this time, I think I had eaten an egg, some bacon, and toast. Way too many cups of coffee were consumed. As late afternoon flowed into early evening, the hours ticked away. I found out so many interesting things about this person, his species seeming familiar. The waitress totally gave up on us, we, the couple that had taken over the table by the window. 8 pm? Still talking. Around 8:30 pm, or so, with reluctance, we needed to leave the table by the window, to sneak into the night and back to our own lives.

The time change has been very hard on me this year. Added hours of darkness have set me on edge, increasing my anxiety about the approaching depths of winter. Moonlight through a harmless apple tree plays like a Stephen King-ish movie through my bedroom blinds. Bitter winds have arrived, along with frigid loneliness. Affirmations of personal success and happiness fill the void and keep the jackals of despair at bay. Creating and attaining my unique dreamscape is now MY responsibility, and I am finding it is yet another skill I possess.

Around 8:30pm last night, a gentleman escorted me to my Jeep Wrangler, opening the door for me, after meeting for coffee at 3 pm. He stood well within my personal space and yet didn’t overstep any boundaries. With a brief and respectful hug, the night swept me back home. Hard to say how long we could have talked without revisiting stories of travels, life, family, and memories. We are two extremely interesting, well traveled people that enjoyed coffee and a late lunch/early dinner, at 3pm, when nothing much ever happens. I have identified his species as Friend. I, too, claim Friend as mine, because in life as I know it, there is nothing more important that that.

Some days a girl needs to get out in the fresh air. Yesterday was one of them. Some Mud Ducks hang around their distant watering hole and are quite content. Lounging about, whining about all the things that could be better but aren’t because it is too cold, or too wet, or just tooooooo. I find some Mud Ducks don’t yet have the concept of choosing happiness and growth, which makes my own first assessment of myself as a Mud Duck suspect. Yesterday, I became migratory fowl while looking at the brewing storm clouds amassing. I needed respite from my Christmasy nest.

New and interesting food sources in my little town don’t appear every day, especially during Covid. Slowly, I have tried and tired of each one, and yesterday, nothing sounded as if it would hit the spot. The the daily special at The Wig Wam, nor eating in a restaurant full of goofy bear decor, were right for yesterday lunch.

Braving the wind outside, I used my trusty new leaf blower to move leaves from the porch to the jet stream right that blew by my house. My 30 trees already know the routine. Leaf out, enjoy the summer, shed leaves and sleep. So, the shedding has almost finished and I am sure I hear many of them snoring. It is a mystery where all the dropped leaves have gone. I have cleaned up 4 trash barrels worth, but the wind has taken the rest far, far, away to lands unknown. For that I am thankful.

Oliver managed to get himself into trouble again, eating another path light, so, things in the house were quiet with him in Puppy Time Out, already asleep, while dreaming of how he will steal the next light. His one truly naughty side cannot be hidden. Oliver is a destructive chewer who never stops. Ever. Most toys are liver to him. He eats anything and everything plastic. Afflicted with a syndrome of some kind, plastic is his life force. I am am aware and careful as I can be. Yesterday, Puppy Time Out was a safe option for him, as I sat frustrated and cooped up.

Who better to jet away with than……The Wonderful And Most Entertaining Miss Firecracker!!!! For new readers, this wonderful woman and I became friends the minute we met while attending a Men’s Group Function in which our husbands were members. The four of us hit it off. She was a huge reason why we chose to move to our town, they having been here for 14 years. Never did we know 2020 and cancer would steal them both away, just months apart. Yes. Miss Firecracker!!!! Maybe, just maybe, she would be up for a trip to the desert home of Top Gun. I had been wanting to try a Sonic Burger, and there was just such a place right of 95.

Miss Firecracker, being just as cooped up and bored as I, jumped at the chance and in a few short minutes, we started on our journey 30 miles East. I was in my black and orange “Vaqueros” hoodie, jeans, and Ugg boots. A standard uniform these days, with winter almost here. She, on the other hand, was styling, as usual. In a darling black suede leather coat with fringe on the arms, her perky smile, sparkling eyes, and the most adorable macrame/crochet purse, her look was complete. We set out into the desert on our 30 minute ride east.

Traveling with a desert girl who knows things, it was fun to have her point out the mark on a huge mountain outside of town that looks like a primitive, hieroglyphic horse. Below that, a sheep’s head. There are more shortcuts to learn. More stories to share about two guys we loved so much. Traveling with her, we become fireworks, exploding across the horizon as we gasp and cover any range of subjects. Time stops and careens ahead at the same time when I am with her.

Rolling into the fringes of town, she mentioned she knew of an actual restaurant that we might try. With a turn off the main drag, we arrived at an adorable place called The Grid. It had something for everyone, and the parking lot was jammed with cars (less than 50 people, I am 100% sure) The outside was Nevada approved. You can’t judge Nevada with a mere drive-by. The most wonderful shops and stores are just through the door. Most exteriors look terrible, because they are sandblasted on most days by high, sandy winds. These are extremely hard on humans and buildings.

Miss Firecracker knew just where we should eat. A restaurant like something out of a Top Gun movie that I would envision. Polished cement floors, corrugated aluminum on the walls, exposed ducting instead of a ceiling. A place were things were discussed, hashed out, decided and agreed upon. A no-frills place where people go to chow down. On one side was a bar/eating area, complete with at least one pool table. The other side was the restaurant, which was considerably less busy. The place was industrially sexy, my favorite style of decor. Yes. Miss Firecracker elevated my mood with this suggestion.

On the way home, she full of Rueben and me of Hamburger, we hadn’t even touched the surface of all the topics we could easily share. The best Carpet Cleaner, past Shrine memories, whistful thoughts on our guys, topography of the high desert, shortcuts, and the wind. We chatted all the way back to her front door and the end of our luncheon date.

I am so grateful to have a friend like her. We share so many things. Her first hand knowledge of what it is like to go through this wilderness is such a comfort. I don’t need to explain if my eyes mist over at a sweet memory. Not needed is the background story to what VST was like as a man. She knew him. And I knew Mr. Motorcycle Jacket, her guy. Suave and well spoken. He came across like Bailey’s and Coffee, hold the whipped cream. He was smooth and sweet, with an added urgency of caffeine. He was a gentleman, first and foremost. An old curmudgeon to her at times, but they were the moon and the stars together. And now, the sky seems a little awkward without his presence.

Try going off your normal grid like we did yesterday. It was a mini-vacation to laughter and fun. Pick a new place to visit with an old friend. And, don’t forget to laugh. It feels great.

With details sorted out in my head for the memorial, Oliver was off to Puppy Camp for a week. So many oddities would occur all at once, leaving the perfect opportunity for Ollie to have a barking melt down during “Amazing Grace”, or a grand theft of Subway Sandwiches when no one was looking. These possibilities were more than I could deal with. Oliver and I discussed this, he assuring me that he understood. The Friday before, he and I drove to Carson City, where we had our first tearful goodbye ever.

The weekend was one for smoothing details, deciding on clothing, crying alone, and grieving. The house was quiet and the loneliest without my four-legged bestie following me around. The yard was groomed and in full bloom, sprinklers cycling on and off helping what should grow do just that.

I must speak a bit about the brilliance of my yard. I use My in a very temporary way, as we are all caretakers for the next occupants, honoring those that came before us. The creators and caretakers prior to me took CARE to CREATE beauty. The entire yard, not just a corner, but the ENTIRE thing is landscaped. All 1/2 acre of this yard is covered in landscape cloth. Then, covered with a variety of gravels or decomposed granite (DG). All plants are watered through two functioning and separate drip systems that are scheduled for varying times, giving proper water to each living thing in the yard. There are paths for walking and a patio of sitting. There is grass for feeling good under bare feet. There is decomposed granite for comfort where one should walk, and gravel over flower beds, not for walking. There are pathway lights, and up-lighting on the trees at night. This yard is my happy place.

The week before the house became mine, I have already spoken to the fact that I was freaking out. Yes. FREAKING OUT. 1/2 acre. Me. Alone. To care for this. 15 days a widow. Monumental. And for a few minutes, unthinkable. Well, the prior caretakers to this piece of heaven thought everything through for me, and it has been easy and fun to watch over WINTERPAST (for new readers, this is the name of the property since July 15th. Look up King Solomon 2: 10-14).

Thank goodness the jitters didn’t win. Slowly but surely, I had been moving my yard art into the right spots. The weekend before the Memorial, everything was waiting for company. I had figured out the arrangement for seating. Not Covid approved, the guests would be under the patio cover looking out into the yard. The family would sit on the lawn under two tents, looking back towards the house. Everyone would be shaded and seated. Although, NOT COVID APPROVED. By this point, I had long moved past worries of COVID. It had robbed me of seeing so many special guests, health compromised and unable to attend. It would NOT rob me of a special morning to say Good Bye.

Getting back to preparations. I made my way to the beauty shop to have my hair cut Saturday morning. My wonderful, amazing, beautiful realtor had given me a gift certificate. Maybe as a hint to my “Covid Non-Coif”, mournful and unattended, for sure. The beautician and I had met once before, she, a wonderful young mother, caring and sweet. We talked about the memorial and all the plans while she snipped and cut. A little bit here, a little bit there, in an hour she had me Memorial ready.

My next task was to decide on what to wear. How many times VST had delighted to look through bags of clothing I would bring home after a day of shopping. He loved it when I bought new clothes and wanted to see every last piece. On days that I didn’t find anything, he was as disappointed as me. He would drive me to any mall, any time, any where, if there was something I was looking for. The thing is, I hate shopping, so, he was usually off the hook.

Several years back, (like 10 or so), I had found an adorable dress online. Just a plan black dress. Empire style and loose fitting under the boobs, it would hide the 10-20 pounds that came and went like the seasons. 3/4 sleeves, it was made of a stretchy fabric that moved nicely when I walked, the dress was knee length. It revealed the slightest decolletage, of which mine, my 80 year old dermatologist once declared during my medical exam, was flawless. Just sayin. The dress came with a bulky pearl necklace. All for $14.95.

This dress had saved me on so many occasions when VST had a last minute invitation or function in which I had waited too long to buy something. It always fit just right. Skinny Joy. Plump Joy. This dress just fit. Through the years, it went to weddings and funerals. Parties and Meetings. Dinners. Hawaii. This dress had gone everywhere and done everything. It had danced in VST’s arms, safe and warm. It had pouted when VST was being a bull-headed man. It had seen Grandson’s sing, dance, and graduate. There wasn’t really a different choice that could be made. This dress would be the one in which I would eulogize my husband. Me, myself, and my little black dress.

Along with the black dress, I would wear black tights, last worn when VST and I went to dinner together for Valentine’s Day in Carson City. That was Valentine’s Day 2020, not another year or time. Just MONTHS before. My go-to shoes were, and still are, comfortable black flats. With everything the day would hold, flats were the best. In truth, I only wear flats and these happen to be my favorite. A mix of patent leather toe and flat black leather back, they hold a small bow on the top of each shoe. Stitching on the patent leather finishes such a cute look. They are my favorite, most comfortable shoes, and I wear them for special things. This would qualify.

No jewelry except my wedding ring and the gold cross VST bought me for Christmas 2019 would be worn. I don’t do jewelry. I’m not grown up enough to have patience for it. I don’t have pierced ears and I don’t wear a watch. Forgettabout diamonds for me. All of it is lost on me. It fascinates me to think I wore my beloved wedding ring for 32.5 years, every moment of my life. I took it off for very little, never finding it cumbersome or bothersome. It was part of my hand. Comfort Fit. When swimming off Waikiki Beach, VST always wore a little neck safe in which we would both put our rings for safe keeping. Other than that, we always wore our rings.

Until the heartbreaking day.

His fell off, VST having lost so much weight, it didn’t fit anymore. In truth, he didn’t have enough strength to deal with the added weight of a size 12 band of gold. Already so sick, he handed it to me. “Here. Put this away. It fell off.” My heart broke even more that day on the road to devastation.

No manicure/pedicure, or other fluffy, girly-type services were needed. On the day of, I would shower, blow-dry my hair, adorn large, black sun glasses and call it good. Makeup would be pointless. No explanation needed for that.

As I collected the clothing in one organized area on Sunday afternoon, it occurred to me that I would never wear this favorite dress again after July 15th. It would become kryptonite to my Super Hero soul. Repelling magnets, my favorite dress and I. I wouldn’t wash it ever again. Just like my beautiful wedding dress up on the shelf with the smudges and tears from the happiest day of my life, my little black dress would rest in the box, with her. The happiest and saddest clothing would need to nestle into forever, because I wouldn’t look at either again for a very long time, if ever.

Sunday, late afternoon, I walked around the yard picking a dead rose head here, a sprouting weed out of place there. The bird families had taken up residency in the little bird houses on stakes. When VST and I chose the house together in February, I had made note of them, thinking to myself that REAL birds don’t make nests in little wooden houses. These magic houses were on their second or third families already, the soft chirping of newly hatched finches adding to the sound of bird songs surrounding me. My lawn was lush and green, an inviting oasis in the high desert. Everything was the crispest green. The sky was the most beautiful shade of blue, as only someone who lives in the high desert can understand. Breathtaking. Big Sky. Big Dreams. Big Sorrow. Everything more pronounced when standing under the vast Nevada sky.

Sunday, I went to sleep with the setting sun, the moon rising to cradle me in her soft glow. A troubled widow found a more troubling sleep, as everything lay prepared for the new week. A week that would hold so much, more must wait. Every little detail needs to be written just so, because, THIS would be the week of the unthinkable. THIS would be the week I could no longer deny. I. AM. A. WIDOW.

Be Patient, dear readers. Time and The Memorial — Part 3 to come.

There is so much I love and appreciate about my new life, but one of the most special things is the special time I have found for writing. November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). This is a real movement made more wonderful by a Google-able website. In prior years, Write-Ins were held in San Francisco where authors of all levels would converge and have a giant weekend Write-A-Thon. I can only imagine how wonderful those weekends were for those lucky enough to attend.

Every October, NaNoWriMo emails arrive, encouraging writers to fluff their nest and get ready to write their novel in November. Every October, I would find the perfect coffee cup and imagine myself writing the days away in sheer bliss. In reality, VST and I were so busy living our full and exciting lives, that the new coffee cup would remain empty, and the nest would never hatch a novel, or anything more than a few chapters that went no where.

Throughout the year, NaNoWriMo sponsors activities, like Spring and Summer writing camps. During this time, you can cyber “bunk” with other writers and camp out in the vast wilds of the internet while writing from the safety and comfort of your own home. But, their biggest event is the entire month of November, when you are encouraged to write a novel.

A novel???? Yes. 50,000 words. It seems so impossible when I look at the number. And yet, every day, I am here writing at least 1,500. Which puts me on track for at least 50,000 words. In my old life, I was always hopeful there would be 30 days in a row to write. Each year, I would make it through a few days, or a few weeks, but never finish. My new life is so different, and now, I have the time, energy, creativity, and Oliver to help me meet my goals.

I mention Oliver because the first thing one needs to write consistently is a partner that understands and encourages. Please endulge me while I explain Oliver’s importance in my writing endeavors.

For new readers, Oliver is my 2 year old cream based, chocolate piebald wire-hairded, green eyed dachshund. He is afflicted with OCD, as I am beginning to believe I am, as well. His mornings must be the same every day and include the following peculiarities.

Oliver was raised in our RV as we traversed the country, traveling 50,000 miles in 3 years. He was our companion for the last 1.5. As a puppy, he learned to use pee pads. Now, for those of you dog owners that have tried to teach this method and failed, it wasn’t you at all. To teach Oliver to tend to bathroom issues on command has taken hundreds of hours, extreme patience, and consistency. But, at this point, there are no long walks waiting for nature’s call. Oliver is quicker than me with the morning duties, all in the warmth and safety of our bathroom on a pee pad. No snowy walks. No wet paws. No lost dog in the dark. Just us, as we take care of business in the morning.

Next, Oliver expects breakfast. 1/3 cup of dog kibble. Have you every looked at how small 1/3 cup is? Oliver gives me that lecture every morning. He eats so fast, I needed to resort to a puzzle bowl, which slows him down a bit. He then must have at least two treats. He counts, and will not avert his gaze or move a muscle until he has had at least two and I show him empty hands. Being stared down by a green eyed dachshund will make an honest person of you. I make sure there are at least two.

It is then my time to have coffee in my recliner and look at my iPad, while waking up a little more. I like to consider the blog choices I listed from the night before and see what I feel like writing about. I always have at least three written down, because you never know what a night of dreaming will do to creativity levels. For those of you waiting for “Time and The Memorial, Part 2”, please be patient. I want that piece to be a perfect reflection of a complicated and beautiful day. I MUST do it justice.

While I am having coffee, Oliver has taken up a new role as Writing Master. He sits with his bone in his mouth, staring at me, fully at attention. He waits. He moans. He wiggles a bit. He stares more. When he can take no more, he barks. All while wagging his most adorable tail just a little bit.

“Mom-oh”. Hurry up. Don’t you want to write? In the other room? The one with my other bed? I have my bone. I am good at waiting while you write. “Mom-oh”….. Hurry up. We need to work!

I mean, who can resist? Oliver knows so many words, but, the one he never misses is “WORK”. He grabs his bone and dashes to my studio. After a bit of gnawing on his favorite new bone, he snores ever so sweetly, with the clickity-clack of the keyboard under my chubby, Germanic fingers as his lullaby. He sleeps until he hears the computer turn off, and then, he is ready to continue our day.

Without Oliver, so many things in my life would be upside down. He keeps me on track and on time. In the early days of widowhood, I wished Oliver’s life was better. Everything was chaotic, and yet, so still all at once. He was the consistent life force that needed care. Oliver needed routine. He needed clean pee pads. He needed toys and comfort. He needed, so I looked past the Kleenex box to make sure he was okay. Oliver learned to give hugs and listen. He quickly gave up the inquisitive looks when I cried in the dark, and sat on my recliner with me, assuring me that everything would be okay.

Now, Oliver is the first to see this writer bloom. He would tell you that it is something to behold. “Mom-Oh” in her heart studded robe, and fleece pj’s. Hair in morning wonkiness, she is in “THE ZONE” as she concentrates on all the stories swirling in her brain. He sleeps, because he has realized there are no conversations to be had while she writes. He sleeps because “Mom-Oh” has found her HAPPY.

If you haven’t run out to buy a journal, or started to keep one online, please do so. Until you do, Oliver will make sure I continue to write for us all.

It had been a full day of deciding. Deciding to be happy, while fighting off tears. Deciding what things needed to be thrown away and what things needed buying. Deciding on who I needed to talk too and what moments would be silent. It was hot, and the heat made me decide that it was the perfect day for a hamburger, onion rings, and chocolate milkshake from the hot-pink roadway burger joint in town. It sat next to the U-haul place and across the street from T’s Flowers on Main Street.

The building is Milk of Magnesia Pink and has been for years. It screams that this place is worth the stop. Y is a spunky, funky tattooed woman who has a lot to say about everything. Her smile is contagious and happiness poofs out the “Order Here” window with whiffs of everything greasy and delicious. She is a young Norma Rae, “Sally Field” shapely, and fierce. She made it through the pandemic, and vows never to shut her doors again. Customers flock to her and today, I was one of many in line.

After ordering, a space opened up at the picnic table out front, and I took a seat, facing the road. My legs stretched out almost touching the broken sidewalk. Spotty grass, broken asphalt, and weeds made a mosaic in front of the restaurant. The building was new in the 50’s and had been one thing or another since then. Its plaster was cracked and weather beaten as many people and things are in my town. An old woman sat on the other end and side, facing the same way as I. We both gazed across Main, looking at T’s Flowers, and the unmarked house next door.

Without an introduction, she started a conversation.

“Do you know if the Book Store Lady opens very often? House next to T’s? You know? The used book store?”

I turned to look at her more closely. She was Nevada old. The high desert steals some things and she doesn’t give them back, ever. She steals moisture with intense sunshine, wind, and heat. She replaces soft, supple skin with leather, dried so long in the sun, it doesn’t burn anymore. Flowing hair is replaced with something resembling dry straw. Hopeful eyes dim. This woman was Nevada old. Petite, in her t-shirt and shorts, I had heard her order. Two “Y’s Bombs”, the biggest hamburger sold. Two of them for this tiny woman.

“Not sure, I just moved her in April. It hasn’t been open when I’ve been around. Was it a good place?”

“I used to go there all the time. I live up the road, East about 30 miles, myself. Just come here for the burgers.”

Her blue eyes shown out from hooded lids, and the wrinkles of time were gouged deeply in her face. I suppose she was sizing me up too, as we High Desert Ladies tend to do. Rattlesnakes and varmints need to be identified quickly in wild places when a woman is traveling alone.

With no conversation flowing, I offered up more information than I should.

“I’m a new widow. I haven’t taken the time to visit all the stores here. I’ll pay attention to the Book Store and check it out when she opens.”

“Probably dead. I’m a widow, too. 26 years. I miss him every day.” Her wedding ring, studded with diamonds, sparkled on her left hand as we both turned to look at it together. I hoped she hadn’t noticed. I was thinking about the woman and her drive of 30 miles to buy two huge burgers that would be cold by the time she got home. I thought of her widowhood of 26 years. Almost as long as I had been a wife. Was that what my life would become? Was this an omen? 26 years from now, would I be sitting in front of a hot pink hamburger shack, talking to a young woman of 64 about her new widowhood while waiting for my two “Y’s Bombs”? I was looking through a window into my future, which was hopeful and devastating all at once.

“Order 27. Mae. Your order’s up. 2 “Y’s Bombs” with everything.”

“That’s me. Gotta go.”

“Wait, I need to ask. How old are you? ” Not sure why I asked, but it was a question I had to know right then.

“90.”

And with that she was gone. My window closed. So many details about Mae I will remember forever. She was me, I was her. She looking back, I looking ahead, with 26 years meaning two very different things to two very different ladies.

So many questions were left unanswered that day. I would love to find her again and ask her to tell me about important way points to watch for on the way to 90. Some advice about what to avoid and what to embrace. Stories about the guy she loved so much that his absence still breaks her heart 26 years later. She was the friend that got away, floating back home through the dust of the high desert, 30 miles East, with two cooling “Y’s Bombs” on her front seat.

Oh, by the way. What is 64 years PLUS 26 years????????????? Yeah. Just another weird coincidence in this the wilderness of widowhood and the high desert, in which I find myself.

I lost VST in a car crash of sorts. Cruising down the road, always at the speed limit, life was just fine. Beautiful Nevada roads. We first noticed a few bumps. Then, swerved to miss a pot hole or two. Pretty soon, we were on washboard gravel roads, still cruising way to fast. An up and a down, a zig and a zag, violently, we lost control and hit cancer head on. He was gone, I survived. Only twelve doctor visits took him from not feeling great to dead. Our fatal crash with a killer disease stole him.

With deafening silence and all the time in the world to think, I made many decisions based on the facts I had to deal with. There couldn’t be a memorial in three days, or even three weeks, but, in three months, we would arrive at VST’s 66th birthday. This would be the perfect day to celebrate him with family and friends. The yard at Winterpast would be in all her glory. It would give travelers time to plan, and me time to compose myself just a bit. I could finish moving and get settled in. For me, the three month plan was an easy decision. One of the easier ones I faced.

I got to work on my monthly planner and made goals needed reaching. No whining. Nothing other than meeting these goals would be acceptable. If I did that, the memorial day would come and it would be glorious. I started with one foot in front of the other.

As people called to offer thoughts, prayers and comfort, I would mention that the memorial was going to be on July 15th. As the information was shared, the date was non-negotiable. A finish line was in sight, and I worked towards it every day.

In three months, I finished packing, moved all remaining boxes to storage, (this, aside from what the movers took, was 350 in number), dealt with a title company in Reno, (inept), a realtor in Carson City, (precious), a realtor in my new town, (adorable), a title company in my new town, (professional), a handyman, (a poor thief that got caught), agreements, signings, and Covid.

There was cremation, death certificates, urns to buy, and notices to send. There was an obituary to write. A biography to pen. 350 pictures needed for a memorial book. Friends to tell, usually talking while holding my phone to my shoulder with a crooked neck while multi-tasking.

There were professional movers, (based in Las Vegas — 6 hours away), new neighbors, (the best), old neighbors, (heartrendingly sad), hours of driving, more hours of crying, packing, unpacking, throwing away, disconnecting services, beginning services, choosing internet, returning ATT equipment, (one of the worst), and dealing with a puppy that didn’t quite understand.

There were decisions, on top of decisions, all dependently intertwined. Goodbyes. Hello’s. Discovering a new town, saying Goodbye to an old one. Purchasing a set of tires. Grooming a 1/2 acre yard. Purging and purchasing. Contracting our beloved RV to be sold in another state on consignment. Selling the rig and nervously awaiting the check in the mail from strangers that are now friends and heroes. All while figuring out how to live alone for the first time in my adult life. There were nights of dreamless sleep in a dark, endless void. Planning a memorial fit right in.

The weeks leading up to 7/15 gradually became routine. There was time for everything, and I did everything in time. The kids and girlfriends came for visits that were my oxygen. The house came together, appearing as if VST and I had lived there all along. And slowly, details for the Memorial were in place. I had chosen one of my favorite pics of VST and used that for everything. It was taken on a trip to Hawaii, and caught his expression just so. The tender, wonderful man with the kind eyes and the cutest smile. The picture held it all.

Because the service would be in my back yard, it was necessary to limit the number of guests. The memorial became an Invitation Only affair. Invitations were ordered from an online service. Double sided, ocean themed, and beautiful, complete with envelopes. These days, there is no excuse not to create stuff online. Quick, easy, and done in less than 30 minutes. The invitations were sent out June 13th, and the countdown was in full swing. So was Covid.

In a few days, I started getting hear breaking phone calls. Even though the service was outdoors, of 70 people invited, 1/2 didn’t feel comfortable coming to our home to say Goodbye to VST. Understandable, but a loss so sad. I was finally ready to invite people into my space to help my heart heal, and they couldn’t come because of a virus. Slowly, my guest list shrunk to 35 VIP’s of the most precious kind.

Each week, the house became more organized. Oliver was settling into our routine, and loved his springtime yard, complete with grass to romp upon. Trees leafed out, Irises were blooming throughout. Peonies, with their delicate pink petals, fragrance, and color became my favorite of all flowers. I didn’t know I needed them in my life before the first bloom. My sweet neighbor, T, had chairs and tables ready to lend. Dollar Tree provided many essentials, although I still couldn’t visualize where we would eat.

Upon hearing of my dilemma , a BESTie suggested I use the empty RV barn, vacant since the rig had been sold. The “barn”, (a completely finished garage for an RV) was cleaned and arranged with tables and chairs. It was the perfect place for guests to get away from the sun and visit. The walls were adorned with favorite family pictures and mementos from VST’s full and amazing life. Everything from his high school yearbooks, to his cap, gown, and hood from his doctoral ceremony were there. High school letterman’s jacket, next to favorite snow shovel. Pictures of the kids. Pictures of us. Just like that, the RV barn became a shrine to a beautiful life. I was one week out, and right on schedule.

Time and Memorial –Part 2 — tomorrow!

Thank you so much for reading my blog. It is making so many dreams come true. If you like my writing, please share this address with friends and family. Please contact me at Gg202071548@gmail.com. I would love to hear from you!!!!

Today, Month 8 starts anew for me. I was to take another mini vacation in Tahoe, but the storm over the weekend made me rethink all things I would like to and should do, being very alone. I decided to sit this one out and decorate for Christmas. I hadn’t decided on my monthly word until last night, when it came to me. Trust.

VST was not a trusting man. He was kind, insightful, and brilliant of mind. He was empathetic to a certain degree. Artistic, knowledgeable, and skillful in a multitude of areas. But, he was not a trusting man. That was destroyed on a Labor Day weekend long before I met him. I can honestly say, me being trustworthy to my soul and the true love of his life, even I never gained his full trust, as his injuries went way past those humanly repairable.

VST was street smart. He would always shake his head when I trustingly went ahead believing all kinds of things.

“Darlin’, think it through. It might SEEM like that is the way it is, but, what about…….”

He would be off and running to discredit liars and cheats we met through our decades together. Sadly, he was always right. Not 99% of the time. 100% of the time. And slowly, I stopped trusting many things myself. I just knew, I could and would always trust him with my life.

If VST told you he was going to do something, it would be done. If he said he would be at a certain place, he would be waiting. Goals and accomplishments set were completed with results exceeded.

In the 1900’s, when we were new, he explained something to me. Life was full of all kinds of people. Some were obviously in need of avoiding. Do that, he would tell me. The obvious ones, steer clear at all costs. We both agreed that was a good thing to do.

Then, there were a group of people that seemed nice enough. They weren’t robbers or cheats, but they were just those people that we wouldn’t ever really get to know very well. Nice people with nice lives that didn’t affect ours, they would never really be close friends. And, whatever situations they found themselves in, although we would listen, maybe even tearfully, they would remain just acquaintances.

Our inner circle was golden. True friends that we would go to war for or with. Some family fell inside that circle while some didn’t even make the first cut. And so, the Circle game began. By the end, he could just draw a circle on a napkin and we would immediately break into laughter, without anyone else even beginning to know what the joke was. Either in the circle or out of it.

Today, my innermost circle is void and empty without VST. We twirled and intertwined our Yin and Yang, contrary or opposite, and yet complementary, interconnected and interdependent, according to Hanyu Pinyin, a concept of dualism. That bubble of creativity that was us was unstoppable, or so I always believed. I never thought it could vanish into cancer. The place I am having trouble finding TRUST again is in that Yin/Yang center, finding opposing parts of myself to fill the void. No one else can do that for me. Without my own center balanced, I have little to offer to another. A mission set up for failure.

I am so blessed with those in my inner circle. The very BEST FRIENDS IN THE WORLD. OLD FRIENDS, AND NEW OLD FRIENDS. They call, visit, console, recommend, laugh, gasp, hold me, and are along for the ride. They are the ones I can trust to tell me when I am on the road to Crazy Town, and when I am on the right track. They tell me what I don’t want to hear when standing around the African Watering Hole. They remind me that I need to read my own blogs every day, and nourish my center. I love them for that.

VST taught me a lot about trust. He taught me that trusting another is the comfort that we all want and need. He taught me that a life without full trust is troubled, no matter how good things may seem on the outside. He reached his hand out to me during the last days of his life, showing me how far he had come on his journey. I treasured his trust more than I have any other person in my life, because, it was so hard for him to give.

I am trusting myself enough to know driving on ice in Tahoe for my first lesson in snow is not a great idea. I am trusting myself enough to know that the Veteran’s Coalition is going to be a great group in which to share my talents. I am trusting myself enough to know that things will get better with time, self love, and care. And, I am trusting myself to know that I am an intuitive judge of character, and that it’s okay to think about what my future could look like down the road.

Today, be grateful for those that have your back during this the darkest of times. They can see what we cannot at times, due to widow’s fog. Trust that they love you and will help you get through the wilderness on the way back home.

Through a stiff and painful night I tossed and turned, knowing that only half the job was finished after 8 hours. The new owner’s walkthrough was looming in 24 hours. I needed to unstiffened and get back to VC for one more more horrendous morning of cleaning. It couldn’t be as bad as the day before, right?

The drive to VC brought its usual flood of tears as I drove the 45+ miles. Through the flats, past the mountains, by the mustangs, turning on Six Mile Canyon Road. Up the twisty roads past the treated effluent that every newbie thinks is a wonderful mountain stream. Under the barren cottonwood trees, still my favorite. Up and up and up to 6200 ft and VC. In an hour, I was in the front driveway, Looking up at her. She, two stories high, scowling down at me.

Supplies and vacuum waiting from the day before, I got to work. My studio was bare, except for my large doll house. Another of my favorite hobbies. I wasn’t sure how to move it. I couldn’t lift it, let alone get it down the garage stairs and out to the Jeep. It remained. I cleaned.

My office with the post card view of VC through a wall of glass. The guest room. The closet.

When we bought the house, all the neighbors wanted to know what we were to do with two rooms that had no windows. Not one, but two. These rooms were part of Mt. Davidson, sunk deep into her side. Nine foot walls, holding Dunmovin steady and tight. The west walls of the basement were all without windows. One became my studio, while the other became a guest room, the perfect place when you needed absolute darkness on a sunny day. The remainder was a downstairs family room/kitchenette.

The problem with the guest room was that it had no closet. VST corrected this in January. I had noticed that this project was the one he had more trouble with than all the others combined. It was complicated and he was already sick. Angled and needing to look original, he spent hours making it perfect. Between his construction and my finish work, we succeeded, and another huge closet appeared. 9 ft. tall. Shelving on one side. Two rolling doors. Closet pole. Just like magic it appeared it had been there since 2004, like the rest of the house.

Two more downstairs bathrooms were scoured and shiny. The family room/kitchenette area was nearly complete. I was on the downside of done when I started on the kitchenette. This was another area of the house in which VST had installed beautiful dark cabinetry, as stately as the rest of the house. Granite countertops. Small Frig. Sink. Microwave. It was the perfect kitchen for guests. While the west side was nestled into the mountain, the East side of this room was all glass, overlooking yet another view of VC. The front door opened onto the lower deck, with stairs that led to A Street, neighbors, fun, and adventure.

So tired, and happy that I was almost done, I opened the first cabinet of 8, just to give it a quick once over. My eyes couldn’t believe what they were seeing. For in these 8 cabinets, overhead and under the counter, it was as if time had stopped. They weren’t packed. Nothing. Nada. All full of vases, dishes, Christmas stuff. Coffee cups. Party supplies. Extra silverware. ETC. ETC. ETC. I had missed the entire kitchenette when grieving, signing papers on two real estate transactions in two different towns, crying, mourning, watching Oliver, moving boxes, and all the rest. Basically, I had missed an entire room.

I was without moving boxes, as they were all at the new house. Tape, paper, and more energy to deal with this was not available. When the movers had finished the night before, the last items were pointed out one by one. After each, they were ready to leave, and we would find one more thing. I was determined NOTHING would be left to find in the morning. And, in the rest of the house, there wasn’t. It was just these cabinets that hadn’t been emptied and packed. There was no avoiding it. It needed to get done.

My tired brain remembered that there was still the garage to tackle. Just maybe there were some boxes there. Packing paper, no. But, boxes maybe. Five boxes remained, magically the number I needed. I carefully filled them and put them in the pickup. Non-breakables surrounded breakables, like an awkward jigsaw puzzle. After grumbling and mumbling, the basement was clean, with even the woodburning stove that had warmed us on so many winter nights glistening.

The garage was a beast of cobwebs, spiders, and the remains of a move. Two more hours on that, and after 6 hours, the house was cleaned. The lone item left was my dollhouse. The neighbor would meet me the next morning to place it in the Jeep. I had measured carefully. It would fit perfectly in the back. It would mean one more trip in the early morning to retrieve that last item.

Fourteen hours to say “Goodbye” to six years of our life together. The last six years created when we were sure we had 26 left. Would we have done it again? I can hear a resounding “Yes” from the heavens. VST and I were never happier than in the midst of a project. The bigger the better.

Could I have hired a maid? Of course. Would I have missed this Goodbye? Not on your life.

Just a note…….Today, at 10:30 am, not 11:15 am as his death certificate states, is the 7th Month since VST left. Seven balloons today, released into a winter wonderland, as it snowed last night. The first snow of the season. Everything looks new and magical under starlit skies. It seems it was seven decades ago one minute, and seven minutes ago the next. Smile on the snow, Dr. H, I have the shovel. I’ve got this.

Fall cleaning is in full swing here, a tedious and time consuming job that takes attention to the smallest details. I don’t know how one person can dirty up 1907 sq. ft., but I have managed to do just that. When I landed here April 23rd, the house was extremely clean, and I was extremely spent. Things were moved in without the attention I should have given them. I’m making up for that now.

The movers worked all day and late into the night of April 26th, delivering the second load from DUNMOVIN just before midnight. T and K had worked all weekend to put the garage together, and with the heavy furniture in place, Winterpast was looking oddly like home. There was one last task to handle. One I was dreading.

DunMovin needed to be cleaned. This would be my time to say Goodbye to a wonderful place full of so many memories. I wasn’t sure how it would be to enter the empty cavern, or what ghosts awaited me, but, it had to be done. And for me, it would be part of my healing. Seventeen days a widow, I arrived with bucket, mop, vacuum and supplies ready to tackle the job.

DUNMOVIN was a mansion. When VST started looking for houses, it was our intention to downsize from 2500 sq. ft. Planning to travel and use our time for other things, our sights were not set on the 3300 sq. ft., 6 bedroom, 5 bathroom, two story beauty we found, or rather, VC presented to us. She was meant to be ours from Hello. Over 6 years, VST and I transformed her, but, then, you already know that part.

Late Monday morning, I arrived for one of my last visits, ready to rock and roll. I didn’t factor in time for crying the ugly cry. Each surface that I cleaned held our dust. Our fingerprints. The walls had cradled our laughter and arguments. The ghosts were howling loudly that day, as I tackled each room. Torturous doesn’t even touch the surface. Draining, emotionally and physically, like ripping flesh from my body, each swipe with a dust rag left me spent.

I started with the room I thought would be the least traumatic. The upstairs guest room. Not surprisingly, it was one of the rooms that needed less attention, but the windows look out upon the “V” on the side of Mt. Davidson. My tearful cleaning spree commenced.

Then the hard part began. The kitchen. Designed, demolished, and installed by the two of us. The floor was of real oak hardwood that was created as we lovingly picked the order in which each board was nailed. The room was huge, being 33 ft. across and quite deep. VST spent weeks installing the floor that made the place a showpiece, one board at a time, while analyzing his own life. The walk-in pantry held winter provisions when the snow was too deep to get off the mountain during snow-mageddon.

33 windows needed to be cleaned. 33 windowsils. Blinds needed dusting. Baseboards were lovingly washed. Doorhandles and doors gave up their grunge. VST’s blue office was dust free when I finished, the paint referred to as “Old Man Blue”, being a shade too bright for my liking. His bathroom glistened.

The guest bathroom/laundry room that VST had remodeled starting on January 1st was scoured. This was one of the last beautiful pieces of handiwork left as a testiment to his perfectionism. Four hours later, I came to the hardest rooms yet. Our bedroom, closet, and master bathroom. I believed by that time, all my tears had been spent. But, no. The room slayed me as I lay on the carpet and wept into the emptiness. This was the room in which we said our final Goodbye. And now, it was taking one more Goodbye from me.

The closet, with it’s chandelier, was first. I had seen a show on HGTV in which two women installed a chandelier in the closet of an old farmhouse. It was adorable, and I announced to VST that I needed a chandelier in my closet. It was quickly installed, and became a talking point when showing the house. How frivolous and fun. How VST. The lady wants a chandelier in the closet, she gets one.

The bathroom was something out of a magazine, featuring a chromotherapy tub. I didn’t know this was a thing. I guess so, but not for me. I only tried this feature once. It involved flashing lights in different colors. I think it could cause epilepsy, myself. The jetted tub was soaking deep, with a drying cycle. I never understood whether the cycle was to dry the bather or the tub itself.

I thought of VST installing the rich, dark wooden cabinets himself, measuring everything so carefully. And then, I thought of the terminally ill VST I helped shower just weeks before, and the crying commenced again.

CRYCLEANCRYWIPECRYSPRAYCRYCLEANCRYWIPECRYSPRAYCRYCLEANCRYWIPE

Finally the Master bedroom was left, at hour six. This would complete only the upstairs. I was too old for this.

No longer crying, I felt his presence in this beautiful room. Four windows, carefully placed, showed VC as a painting looking out from the side of our mountain. Suspended in air, it was as if we lived on a third plane. Sugarloaf Mountain looked back at me in stunned disbelief that I wouldn’t be greeting her every morning anymore. How many days I had opened the door leading to the deck to hear the church chimes from St. Mary’s on the Mountain, or listen to the forlorn whistle from the steam train. In the spring, the children from the Jr. High giggled, their laughter coming in on the breezes that blew freely in VC. Cheers from the baseball diamond just past the park. The drama of a life flight helicopter landing right within view. Tourists driving turtle-slow to take in the beauty of our houses on A Street. All the memories flooded through my head as I swept lonely cobwebs and vacuumed one last time.

But, the worst of all, was the memory of April 1, when, only one week before he died, VST asked the Hospice worker to place his hospital bed by the window, so that he could see VC any time he opened his eyes. I remember coming into the room, and VST wanted to sit up. There were metal curtain stays on either side of the window to hold back the drapes during the day. He grabbed one to pull himself up.

“Hey, don’t pull on that. It might break,” I scolded him.

“Don’t worry. It won’t. I installed it myself.” He grinned at me. Of course, he was right. Nothing VST every built or installed would ever break. Period.

The last bit of cleaning done, I went to close each blind. I closed doors, telling each room “Thank You” and “Farewell”. At hour 8, way past my dinner time, I headed home, an hour’s drive East. The last few tears were leaking when the phone rang. Dead tired, I answered.

“Joy, is the house done?” It was my beloved realtor. Bless his heart. I think I said something that wasn’t very lady-like or nice. I had to hang up with his next remark, because there were no words.

“Couldn’t you hire a maid?”

Every day, my routine is the same. After tending to my coffee needs and Oliver’s breakfast, I read my email for a few minutes. This morning, the darkness was extreme, when I found a short podcast from William Defoore at “Goodfinding.com, CREATING HAPPINESS ON PURPOSE”. Is that the best life goal ever??? I think yes. The following are thoughts I collected while listening to this uplifting podcast.

Gratitude, appreciation and optimism are connected but they are not the same at all. We are grateful for things that have already happened, we appreciate things that are happening now, and we strive to be optimistic for the future. We can easily get stuck in the past. I spend my fair share there with VST, and all the things gone so long ago. I can also get a little freaked about the future, as I have shared in my writings about the upcoming Darkest of Winters. The only thing I really have the slightest control over is my dealings in the present. And for that, I strive to find the best thoughts to keep my mind the healthiest it can be in this year of healing.

Yesterday, I ended the blog by suggesting that you start thinking of things you are grateful for. Mr. Defoore suggested journaling them. I love journals and being a writer, have so many. For years, they stacked up, as VST and I ran around doing all the things we did. Sadly, I would love to read journals from those happy days, but, they remained blank. Now, every day, all day long, I reach for my journal, writing when I need, too. Reading entries from early April, I realize how far my journey has taken me through widowhood toward womanhood.

When journaling, a sentence fragment counts. You don’t need to worry about penmanship, grammar, spelling, or punctuation. It needs to be readable to you, and you alone.

So, start that journal with three things you’re grateful for in the past. We all can think of three things. If you absolutely can’t come up with anything, use my “New Widow” words. Family. Friends. Pets. Now, throw in Food. Shelter. Clothing. If you are truly blessed, add HEALTH. And from there, you are off and running. Don’t stop at three. You may list things for pages. We are so lucky in life, each one of us. Find those things that are personal to you. Write them down.

Next, for today, find one thing you appreciate. If it involves another person, tell them. For goodness’ sake, if you have no one else, tell an associate at Walmart that you appreciate their work. We should all do that, because THEY work long days so WE can buy stuff we need or want. Find the littlest thing, and make it big enough to say “Thank you”. Smile when you do this. If you don’t think a smile is possible, fake one.

Finally, before you go to sleep tonight, make the very last thought you have an optimistic one for the morning, even if it is the following. “I am looking forward to opening my eyes tomorrow morning”. I bet you have something a little better than that.

These three activities must be practiced every day. Give this a full three weeks, according to Mr. Defoore. When a dark thought comes about past, present, or future, reboot your brain. Change the thought to a pearl instead of a rock. Make this your life choice.

Long ago, I went through a horrendous divorce. Black, black days, with two little boys that needed constant attention to thrive. I found this method, but, didn’t recognize it as anything but a way to survive.

First, I saved my grief for 30 minutes from 10 pm-10:30 pm. I held it together the rest of the time out of necessity. But, during those 30 minutes, I could play all the “broken heart”music I chose. I could cry, quietly, so as not to wake them. Just anything that I needed to do, I did. The beauty was, after a few weeks of this, I found that many times, I was too tired to stay up until 10, and it wasn’t as necessary. And slowly, I got better.

I also made the observation that no matter how bad things were, the wallpaper in my kitchen would still be there to greet me in the morning. It was one little way of assuring myself that the world was still rock solid. My experiences had got me a little off balance, but, the world would be the same when I got through the bad time.

And, I kept one dream at a time alive at all times.

There you have it. Journaling. Gratitude. Appreciation. Optimism. Big lofty words that start with determination and one foot in front of the other. They will guide you through this wilderness, or any other in which you find yourself. Winter is upon us. The wind is howling outside. I appreciate God’s beauty in this season knocking at my door. God’s natural music, the wind plays just for me. I need to go make a pot of soup and enjoy the beauty of the next season.

If you every find you want to contact me, please do at Gg202071548@gmail.com. Sadly, I found a new way never to forget an email address. The year of your spouses passing, their birthday, and the date of their death. Done. Seared into your brain and totally personal. Another helpful tip from the Grieving Gardener.