Grieving Gardener

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.

A year of firsts. Widowhood is that if nothing else. Some things are done for the first time. Some things are done for the first time alone. First time to contemplate a life before widowhood. First time to see things from an opposing point of view when it is too late for apologies. First time to understand the true beauty of being with your soulmate. First time to grasp the tragedy of losing that. A lot of firsts to digest.

I awoke this morning to an odd combination of weather alerts. A Fire Winter Storm Watch for Lake Tahoe. In my little town, 68 miles away, a Fire Weather Warning. Such great news to receive before coffee. I had planned to go to Tahoe once more before the winter snows begin, with reservations for Monday-Wednesday next, my last visit being relaxing and fun. Oliver has reservations for his Doggie Sleep Over Extravaganza. But, navigating snow is not something I feel like dealing with, so my plans may need to change.

I have already written about my first experience 4-wheeling in the snow last spring. I have yet to experience driving in the snow and ice alone. I am sure that will be a post all of its own. On yesterday’s daily walk, a neighbor was out shoveling horse poop. Folks that is the cold, hard truth of living with mustangs. They poop. A lot. If not cleaned up immediately, more mustangs come and poop on top of original poop. It is not romantic, wonderful, or convenient. You need a flat shovel at the ready. You get the idea.

The neighbor informed me that the snow isn’t a big deal here, which I had already researched. In his six years here, there has only been one time that the storm dropped 5″. He had purchased a snow plow for his lawn tractor and has used it one time, and that was because he had just bought it and wanted to. So, as far as being snowed in for days, which was the case in VC, I plan to have hot chocolate and enjoy every flake. That will be a good first, as poor VST would just about worry the snow right out of the sky.

On the 12th, I am going to my First meeting of the Veterans Coalition here in town. To say I am excited is an understatement. I plan to help in any way I can, being that NEW volunteer that so many groups long for. This group has raised money for 8,000+ wreaths for the cemetery here in town ($10 each, not bad for a little volunteer group). December 19th, one wreath will lovingly be placed on every grave. The group also helps with funerals of fallen heroes at the cemetery and I’m going to sign up to help with as many of those as I can. One first discovered, is that I have way too much time on my hands with nothing to fill it. This is just what I need.

A First illness is under control thanks to Tele-Doc-On-The-Screen and Valtrex. Just as she said, it appears meds were started so early, a nasty outbreak may not happen. I am fully aware an illness it is, using the next week to rest and nap. Thank goodness Valtrex works for me.

For the First time, I am fall cleaning and decorating for Christmas alone. Last year, VST was really into it. He even purchased his own special office decorations that I am excited to hang this year. He was jolly and enjoying every minute, until I came up with a cold which I promptly shared with him. It was a sweet, even if sniffly, last Christmas together in our winter wonderland. No gift exchange. No big meal. Just two old people making sure they had everything needed to mend. We had been invited to an A Street gathering, but he sweetly asked if we could celebrate romantically, just the two of us. I will never forget his sweet request, a bittersweet First. This will be the First time I need to give myself holiday memories all my own.

Make a list of your own Firsts. You will be amazed at how many you have already accomplished. Be sure you prepare for difficult holiday Firsts and plan how to make them your own, while honoring the thoughts of all the wonderful holidays past.

Yesterday began as a hopeful election day. It ended late into the night, the darkness of winter a stark reality. Hopeful. Optimistic. Upbeat. Positive. All these traits naturally hang around me like colorful flags waving in the breeze of my life. Not much breeze or flag flying this morning. Read on.

Doctors are not part of my routine. Anyone who knows me knows I have little interest in hanging out in a doctor’s office complaining, to whom ever will listen, about my lumbago, (of which I don’t suffer). If I break a bone, I will go to urgent care and get it set. Otherwise, I’m not interested wasting time listening to someone’s educated opinion about all the things that may or may not BE wrong or GO wrong with MY body. I am in tune with my daily aches and pains, and will accept the outcome of MY decision on this. It is non-negotiable. With that being said, one would be correct in deducing that I do not take medications or vaccinations. I fully embrace the fact that my life may be shortened or extended due to this, my own personal decision.

I have self quarantined like the rest of the world, and during my grief, this has given me privacy to do all the things grieving widows do. Yesterday, I found the following quote by Franz Wright from his book “Walking to Martha’s Vineyard”.

“Death doesn’t prevent me from loving you… Besides, In my opinion, you aren’t dead. (I know dead people, and you are not dead).” VST understands this logic completely.

Yesterday, a dear girlfriend and I decided to share lunch on election day. It had started out that we would share an evening election party, but, after thinking about a very long drive on the Loneliest Highway in America, we decided against it. Two babes jetting out into the night in a White Jeep Wrangler along such a deserted highway would be asking for trouble. Include the fact that black horses crossing a highway on a blacker night spells instant death, and a lunch date seemed far more appropriate. Over spaghetti and garlic bread we remembered our dear husbands, who were dear friends with each other. Miss Firecracker (FC) is a more recent widow than I, and we had lots to share about our guys.

When I got home, I felt an electrical sunburn-ish feeling on my right cheek in a localized area near my eye . Hmmmmm. It was uncomfortable and not something I could just ignore. It then hit me. My aversion to doctors had left me without an office to call. This situation very well escalate to the level of a broken bone quickly. At 2:00 pm, I had little time to sit around and wonder just “What? Oh what?” the problem could be.

I sprang into action, not waiting another minute. I did have an educated idea about what this could be. SHINGLES. This topic had been discussed with two different girlfriends in the past few days, and now, their voices rang clear. “If it happens to you, DON’T wait.” At this point my skin looked normal. Nothing to see there. But, the underlying pain was not anything to mess with.

My newly acquired health card, issued as I await my 65th birthday, was in my wallet. Luckily, my plan has a feature for Tele-Docs. I quickly downloaded the app and phoned in. In less than two hours, I had spoken to a lovely physician of my choosing, had an anti-viral prescription phoned to the local pharmacy, driven to retrieve medication, stopped and picked up a Subway sandwich, consumed dinner, and taken my first pill. 1,000 mg., 3x a day for 7 days. By taking this medication, according to the doctor, if I was LUCKY, I might not get any blisters at all.

Lucky?????????? In 2020??????? Lucky would mean VST would still be here. Lucky would mean we would be yelling at election results together, and mourning the loss of so many beautiful things about our country that are vanishing as I write this. Lucky would mean that my face doesn’t feel like it is on fire, with a dose of electricity running through it. Lucky doesn’t seem to be hanging around my door too often these days.

Wait. That thinking needed change immediately. I rebooted my brain.

I am thankful for the beautiful physician that confirmed what I already knew. I am thankful that I have the resources and awareness to get on medication before this gets worse. I am thankful that I am a healthy woman with common ailment, quite treatable. I am thankful I have great friends that gave me a head’s up. I am thankful for my new Cuisanart Ice Cream maker, because, everything is better with ice cream on the side. I am thankful Sweet Mr. Mud Duck’s phone call was patient and supportive, assuring me that I would feel better with medication. I am thankful for our sweet kids’ election texts, from kids that are really not kids but adults. I am thankful that God doesn’t give me more than I can handle.

Miracle of miracles, I am the luckiest woman in the world flying the flag of hopeful optimism again, even if the breeze barely blows right now.

Gratitude. Embrace it today. These are the scariest of times. Be Grateful for the beauty of your moments.

For those of you that have a dog, you already know. One big expense in your budget is your furry friend, especially if you are a widow. Oliver is my link between the W’s. Wife. Widow. Woman. If you are not a pet owner, please indulge me, and try to understand, although, to NPO’s , it must seem that we PO’s have lost our minds.

My discount puppy was quite possibly the most wonderful Christmas present VST ever gave in his life. Although Oliver wasn’t a present, because you cannot make a present of perfect and pure love and friendship, Oliver was delivered into my arms in a snowy parking lot at the Atlantic Casino in the middle of an intense snow storm on Christmas morning 2018. That, in and of itself, spoke to VST’s determination to fill my arms with this little ball of fluff. He drove us carefully off the mountain in a blizzard. We both noted that at 4 months, Oliver wasn’t very small. Abominable Snowman Feet. Not Dachshund-ish at all. Not in any way except the stubborn one. Oliver was a unique and special puppy.

It wasn’t many hours before VST was the one asking if Oliver had enough toys. During the following days, VST selected the station that held Oliver’s favorite music, left on when we went on errands. It was VST who set the surveillance camera at the right angle to watch him as we had lunch at our favorite restaurant, making sure it was the camera that had speaking options to calm Oliver if he was scared. VST made sure Oliver had the best bed. The comfiest blankets. Throughout their time together, the best walks.

So, in my “Wife Life”, Oliver became a link we didn’t even know we needed. We BOTH doted on this dog. He drove us both nuts. Potty training was a joint effort. We became a little triangle of a family, exchanging love at every angle. Oliver was trained to the rig, and a Rig Dog he became. He was faster than I at gas guzzling pitstops with his bathroom breaks. Clean Pee Pad and a closed door were his only requirements. Oliver loved the beach as much as our own living room.

If you are considering a pet, start saving now, because having one can be quite expensive. It depends on your willingness and need to find ways to spend money on them. Most things are NOT necessary. Your pet will never know they are deprived unless you tell them, unless you deprive them of their meals and love. The rest is gravy. Oliver gets lots of gravy.

Yesterday’s vet appointment is a perfect example. I could take Oliver to the local Humane society on Thursday. There, they give shots for a nominal fee. A vet is present and will answer questions. The documents are proof and you are good to go. I could do that. There is one very close to the vet we visited. Many people also leave their dogs home when they travel, paying the neighborhood kid $ a day to feed and play with the pooch. I have two neighborhood kids that would happily oblige.

When needed, Oliver goes to Doggie Day Camp in Carson City. His Doggie Hotel is more than an hour from here. I justify this because the kennel is as clean as my house. The guests are quiet and content. It is not a jail, but a respite from owners that can be quite annoying. I know Oliver will be safe and happy when I pick him up, hence I don’t worry when he is there and I am elsewhere. There is one more reason. Oliver’s vet is in the same building. So, if there WERE a problem, they would contact me immediately and provide necessary care. To me, this is a huge comfort, even though Oliver is 2 years old, healthy, and won’t be getting sick any time soon. Just in case, I choose this place, because, in 2020, I have had to use up my “Just In Case’s” on many unexpected horrors.

Due to Covid, the vet experience in Nevada is as follows. You drive up and phone the vet’s office. They answer and ask you the patient’s name and a car description. A tech comes to your car at the appointment time, asking many questions about Covid and your possible contamination. They take the dog. You wait in the car. When the appointment is done, you have the option of Face Timing with the Vet through an iPad a tech will bring to you. The exam is discussed.

Results of Oliver’s exam.

1. He is overweight. Now, he devours 1/3 cup of food 2x a day. Then, he eats his daily 5 calorie treats, fallen apples, my solar pathway lights, any bones laying around, his disposable water dishes, blankets, envelopes that might have fallen on the ground, and dust bunnies for dessert. He is better than a vacuum. What will happen when I cut down the portion to 1/4 cup, which is about 10 pieces of kibble? I bet I will look pretty darn enticing to the little dog. No can do. Oliver has lost 2 pounds to have a current weight of 23 pounds. He is not losing anymore.

2. Oliver growled at the vet as she was staring into his eyes with a bright, blinding, irritating, nasty exam light. I don’t blame him. I say this as a retired teacher with disrespect intended. REALLY????? This would be like me finding a parent in the parking lot to tell them their child growled at me with attitude four hours earlier in the classroom. Deal with it, Ms. Vet. That is why you get the big bucks. Did he bite you????????? She blabbed on at how Oliver’s eyes were exactly the same color of green as her dog’s eyes, except her dog weighs 100 pounds. Hey, Ms. Vet. Diet? I suggest you put that chubs on a diet. Growl on puppy.

So, after all the driving and waiting, I get the bill before I get Oliver back. $70 for a healthy dog exam, the actual vaccination fee of $17.85, included. Go figure.

Bottom line. Oliver has been a bridge from Wife to Widow to Woman. As a widow during the last seven months, he has been my constant companion and tear mitigator. He is my blog editor. He makes me laugh when it seems I have forgotten how, and he snuggles and listens to my deepest secrets, which he will never share with anyone unless, of course, I cut his food to 1/4 cup twice a day. We shook on that deal. Whatever he needs, I will provide until our days on Earth together finish.

If you have a pet, go out today and get them something unexpected. It will be great for you both. Dollar store has a great selection of all kinds of goodies, and of course, the sky is the limit from there. Spend time outside, but watch the solar path lights. They can slowly disappear. I have now found they are a three step adventure. The top providing yummy wires. The supporting tube full of squishy deliciousness. Then, for a little digging fun, the yummy stake.

Oliver. VST, you fill my heart, still, through the best gift ever given. Sending love your way, VST. Your Darlin, Mrs. H