Grieving Gardener

Daylight savings arrived like an abrupt door closing in my face. I wasn’t expecting it to affect me this much. The sunset was at 4:54 pm yesterday. Oliver was wondering why his dinner was one hour later. The total darkness after the blue moon of Halloween was startling. This isn’t what I have experienced in winters past.

VST and I had a running debate for all the years we were married. He was a spring summer person, enjoying the fast pace the ranch and life demanded. He loved preparing for harvest from bud break until leaf fall. His skin turned the most beautiful caramel color, and he lived for shorts and tees after working in shirt and tie all day. Even on the hottest of Fresno summer days, his smile said it all. He was summer’s boy.

I, on the other hand, waited for the time to change back, giving me one more hour of precious sleep on that first day of change. I loved having dinner ready as night fell. I felt the silence of the vineyard, grabbing a few days of peace between the last crop and preparations for the next. The greedy vines could sit for just a moment while they went to sleep for the winter. There were a few weeks when they were not demanding all our attention. Winter held more vacation days, letting me nest in my red and green home, while wrapping up in my favorite sweaters and Uggs..

Once we retired, winter was a time we would flee in the RV. A run to Cayucos. Walks on the beach. Visits with my God Mother, TJ, and her friends in Cambria. Delicious Thanksgiving Dinner home cooked with A Street Friends in VC. Christmas. New Years. All with VST and I planning where the rig would take us next. Sitting at Bubba Gumps overlooking the Colorado River in Laughlin? Or walking along the cliffs observing the varying antics of the elephant seals near San Simeon. We always had something chosen to avoid the winter snows of VC. Something warm and sunny. I guess in doing so, I never was hit with darkness at 4:54. For if I was, it was in warm surroundings with the man I loved.

Now, the house has a different feel. Last night, I couldn’t get the lighting bright enough. The shows on TV were not for someone who has working brain. Oliver went into his nighttime surrender to deep sleep, sensing it was 6:30 instead of 5:30. I was too bothered by the extreme dark to even begin to think of sleep. Strange, because the dark has never bothered me before now.

I often laughed at old people that went to sleep with the sun. I’m understanding their rationale more today. For, in dreams, one can still travel to sunny, bright, warm places. Strolling along Waikiki beach, the tradewinds still blow over brilliant seas. In dreams, I can be anything but the old widow I find myself today, bundled in sweats and waiting for the morning sunshine to arrive.

This new dilemma will give me challenges to overcome, but, they are not insurmountable. Crafts, DYI Projects, and new books await. There are plenty of things to do to fill up the night other than sleeping. I will discover new hobbies and find beauty in the night.

I just wasn’t ready for No Color, No Contrast, on this blackest of mornings awaiting sunrise.

Please indulge me with a horrifying bit of humor for the mind. Although Halloween was yesterday, as I write, we are technically still in Halloween night. The sun has yet to rise here in the Northwestern Nevadan Desert. Things are still creepy and eery outside. The perfect setting for the story of ……………. The Rat.

It was just a year ago. VST and I had made a trip to the Central Coast in the rig. He was already acting a bit different, and I really personalized all the reasons that could be. We never expected there was a physical reason for the changes we both felt. I worried that we had entered a “30+ year curse” in which so many couples of our age found themselves. VST was clammy quiet, but worried about everything.

VST’s favorite gadget was his Garmin navigation tools, having one in each vehicle. He would punch in every waypoint we intended on visiting, and home, as well. I sat in silent, hateful judgement of wires. I despise unsightly wires. He would drape them like party streamers, until I finally just kept my disgust to myself. Behind his desk were balls of wires, all intertwined and covered with dust. They ran under his desk, between the television command center, and sometimes, right through the room.

On the dash of the RV, wires ran for the Blue Ox Braking system to the Jeep, following behind us. The satellite radio system had its own set of very long wires bringing us Willie’s Road House. Even the hand’s free phone system in the RV had wires. The Garmin completed this spaghetti-fied mess. I did my best to wrap and separate them until I decided I needed to contemplate why they bothered me so much. Probably a deeper psychological problem best left for another day.

When we arrived at our favorite coastal RV park the next day , we discovered that we had finally been awarded SPOT 1. Now, let me explain. SPOT 1 is the premium spot of the entire park. You are welcome to Google “Bella Vista by the Sea, Cayucos, Ca”. SPOT 1 is at the front of the park, with only a road and empty lot separating the camper from the entire magnificent view of the Pacific Ocean. SPOT 1 is the desire of all the other spots at this RV Park. It is randomly awarded based on empty status and your arrival date and time. We finally, after three years, hit it right. SPOT 1.

I happily set up shop, while VST worked on hoses for water, and other things. More cords were inserted from plug to rig. Our satellite dish brought us Larame, Gunsmoke, Bonanza, and Channel 2 news from home. I set out hamburger to defrost, and in under an hour, we were living in SPOT 1. VST was still a ball of nerves after the long drive and offered to take Oliver for a walk on the pier. Ollie never turned down a walk, and off they went. VST with his braces, cowboy hat, and cane, and one very happy little dog. I can see them now on their jaunty way. Jaunty–expressing a lively, cheerful, self-confident manner. Boy does that word fit. I always smiled when I saw them head for the pier, which was right outside our window. Did I mention we were in SPOT 1?????????

That evening, VST started worrying in earnest. There was a storm on the horizon. A bad one. The first of the season. Although Cayucos was unbothered, the Eastern Sierras and Northwestern Nevada would be hit hard. High winds. Snow. We could be trapped like the Donner Party. The storm was predicted for the day after our plans would take us home. THE DAY AFTER!!!! Nestled into SPOT 1, it was a restless night of tossing and turning.

May I interject. VST and I had an ongoing difference about living in the moment. No matter how he tried, and try he did, VST could not enjoy the peaceful nature of an “in the moment” experience. He was always “HOPING FOR THE FUTURE AND WORRYING ABOUT THE PAST”, in Joni’s words. This could be so frustrating when driving through miles on U.S Route 395, through some of the most beautiful scenery in the entire US with antlered elk grazing along the road. VST would be mind-locked in worries about weather two weeks away.

On our first beach morning, breakfast was lacking energy. It was as if the miracle of SPOT 1 had an energy drain to it. The day was full of distractions and more weather talk. I was finding the trip tedious and stress producing, so I turned to my novel and the sunshine on the entire lawn we enjoyed because we had been given SPOT 1. Other campers would walk by with looks of disgust, thinking we had purchased our way into heaven. A couple actually stopped to ask how they could reserve such a spot. VST just worked Weather Bug with a worried face, noting the the predictions for the storm had been moved up. The storm would begin in 32 hours.

Moving the rig from VC to Cayucos and back involved four days, two going, two coming, and 1,200 miles of gas and money. It involved going over Tehachapi and Montgomery passes. It involved at least two RV parks, and lots of patience. It also involved 20 hours of driving on VST’s part. My point being, going to Cayucos was a commitment we liked to make for 10 days. Otherwise, the trip was just to involved.

The next morning, as soon as I opened my eyes, VST was looking into them.

“Honey, we need to leave tomorrow morning. As early as possible. The storm is huge.”

“Okay.” It was all that I could come up with at that moment.

When preparing to leave, I like to have a few hours ahead to slowly repack the rig and savour the memories made. So, Oliver and VST left for their walk and I started to bag laundry, and do a bit of cleaning to make negative energy productive. They returned sooner than I had expected.

“Honey, if we’re leaving tomorrow, can we leave today at noon?”

There were just no words. Use your imagination at my frustration and his hopefulness all rolled into one at this very moment.

I am a creature of habit, majorly OCD about some things. The rig was ready to go in no time, without my little routines included. With my irritation and his desire to get on the road, it actually went rather quickly. We were driving down the road to home around noon. On Hwy. 46, to Hwy. 41, to the road to Wasco, towards Bakersfield and beyond. I was looking at my phone. No longer in the moment, I was trying to divert angry steam to some sort of useful energy. Possible new Keto recipes? Christmas decorating tips? New emails?

When.

I.

Saw.

It.

THE. RAT.

YES. A FULL SIZED NORWEGIAN ROOF RAT.

SITTING ON OUR BEAUTIFUL DASH. WITH BLOOD COMING FROM THE NOSE.

STARING AT ME. IN THE EYES.

Horrified, I turned to see VST had seen it at exactly the same time I had. He was now looking just as horrified. My first thought was of his cat-like reflexes. He could jump to grab it, thereby causing our rig to roll out of control and wreck. We were both frozen and fixated on this creature from hell. Still traveling at 55 mph+, VST didn’t move, but pulled off at the service station found at the next intersection, driving us to the back of the lot. The rat didn’t move. Like a laser through my skull, his beady little eyes never let his gaze drift from mine. It just sat there staring at me.

“What do you have to remove it?” VST quietly asked, still clutching the steering wheel.

I found the following. A pan lid and a wooden spoon. He could slide the rodent onto the lid and whisk it out of the rig. VST could do this. He was the man of the moment and capable of such acts of heroism.

The door opened, with a swish, whisk, whoosh, and “OH #$$%^^^$$”, he missed. The rat didn’t. And was now hiding under my seat. The terror increased.

VST didn’t waver in his resolve.

“Don’t worry, Darlin. We’re going to WalMart for supplies.” And off we went.

Our trip to WalMart was straight from Comedy Central. Of course, no one there could have known the problem we were desperate to fix. We bought the following. Large, long cuffed, impenetrable, fireproof, leather gloves intended for cleaning out fireplace ashes. BBQ tongs of the extended variety, shiny spikes for grabbing meat on the ends. An exceptionally large rat trap. A smaller glue filled variety, which caused much debate about the cruelty of being stuck in glue, versus having your neck snapped instantly. One mirror on a stick, created for looking under automobiles. And, a bag of peanut M & M’s. Because, every one of our endeavors went better when we shared a bag of peanut M & M’s.

We went with purpose across the vast parking lot. Both deeply entrenched in the moment. Our ROCKY moment. Our moment of victory against a lowly rat. Our moment of complete partnership towards one end goal. Elimination of the rat in the most efficient and humane way possible.

Upon entering the rig, the silence was deafening. Oliver did not make a whimper. Nor did he ever “RAT OUT” the intruder through its entire tenure in our rolling home. We would speak about this, he and I, after the resolution of the problem at hand.

My seat was checked with the extended mirror. NO RAT. (NR)

The couch was checked. NR. Under the table. NR. Behind the Bed. NR. Under the Bed. NR. Under the frig. NR.

The last place it could be was in the bathroom. Slowly, gently, quietly, we stood. Tongs in one gloved hand. VST crouched. Ready to attack. I slowly opened the door. Ever. So. Slowly……….. And……… Then ……… I …………… Saw……… It………. And………..

SSSSSSSCCCCCCRRREEEEEEAAAAAAAMMMMMEEED.

VST SWOOPPEDGRABBEDRANANDFLUNGTHESQUEALINGRATOUTOFTHERIG.

A more perfectly executed athletic manuever I have never witnessed in my life. We embraced, nearly in tears. The threat had been eliminated and we needed to get out of dodge. We were in California. There could be a RAT RESCUE group and we could be arrested for WHATEVER. It is California, folks.

The trip home was less tense. VST was definitely in the moment after that. The tension and anger of the earlier morning was gone as we relived the moment in laughter. For the tiniest time, the present outweighed the coming storm. It was one of our funniest and finest moments, never knowing it was next to the last time I would be his wingman on some fantastical journey taken by us. VST, are forever my hero. A shrine is almost finished in the garage to honor the day you took HERO to an entirely new level.

My widow weight loss has been negated. I find comfort in food. Period. Especially Carbs. Can you relate here?

The days after VST died were a blur. Although no casseroles arrived at my door, the first thing that did was an amazing lemon cake. Moist and heavenly, adorned with a beautiful stenciled design out of powdered sugar. Of course, this was from our dear friends who were just retired from years at the restaurant in town. Just the perfect amount of flour, sugar, sweetness, and tart. It went beautifully with a side of tears.

Cafe del Rio in VC really kept me alive for my last days there. Due to Covid, they were only open for dinner Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Those days, at 4:05, I would drive down to retrieve my dunch. Dinner-next day’s lunch. I am a huge fan of their Steak Tacos. You will not be disappointed. And better yet, the Gospel Fried Chicken. MMD is now a convert. The secret recipe is straight from heaven, along with mashed potatoes, the best slaw, and of course, corn steamed and cut right from the cob. Truly a masterpiece.

Although I know I kept the frig full, I really don’t remember much else. For those three days of the week, I had fresh, hot, food. The rest of the time, I made do with whatever. It didn’t matter.

VST and I were always chasing the last 20 pounds. For two years, we were on the Keto Diet, and did so well. VST trimmed off 50 pounds in a flash, me 30. It was the way we enjoyed eating anyway. I made delightful recipes, including cheesecake, tasting just like the real deal. We had lasagna, peanut butter cookies, and ice cream. We lost weight keeping our carbs at a measly 20. Just start looking at nutritional values. Even cold syrup has carbs. Lots of them. It was easy to eliminate most.

I loved my dieting buddy. We would both have cravings on the same day and decide together that it would be okay to stray from our diet. The next day, we would find our resolve and again and get back on. I miss having my partner in dietary decisions.

Once I moved, life was different. I now live in civilization where it is possible to get food delivered to your door. What a concept!!!! I make a call. 20 minutes later, the hottest, freshest pizza arrives!!!!! Subway is just down the street. Chinese food? Ready in ten minutes with a phone call. Burgers so juicy they drip all over. The list goes on and on.

I can say, Subway has done the most to sustain my life. One six inch sandwich lasts for lunch and dinner, with a White Chocolate Macadamia Nut Cookie (a nod to the islands, of course), and a bag of Classic Lays on the side. I could exist on that for many weeks, and have. It is so my favorite, that Subway catered the lunch for VST’s memorial. Always fresh and custom, they are my go-to place when I need two quick meals. I mean, JARED did it, right???

Things were going okay. My widow weight was good. I had lost 10 of the 20 pounds I needed to, and was feeling that I might actually “reduce excess poundage without risking overexertion”, (an example in the dictionary for poundage, which I found so perfect in this example). Overexertion is something I try to avoid at all costs, perhaps a topic for future blog.

My downfall showed up in a box from Amazon. Cuisinart Ice Cream and Gelato Maker with a commercial quality compressor-freezer and fully automatic operation. Oh My. In 30 minutes, this whips up the finest homemade ice cream ever. In all honesty, MMD, in one of our early conversations, inspired such a frivolous purchase. Any person in whom I would have the least bit of interest with would need to demonstrate a true love of ice cream. Quite important research.

VST and I shared that love. As newlyweds, VST, more than once, went for emergency hot fudge sundae supplies at midnight, coming home with all the trimmings. When things were just on the brink of falling apart at the ranch, a quick 25 minute drive into town to Baskin-Robbins would make things seem less dismal. The comfort in a cone would renew our resolve to fix our problems and move on. That never changed. Funny thing, we never invested in an ice cream maker. He would have loved this machine.

I discovered, on MMD’s last visit, that my recipe substituting Splenda is, indeed, a very good recipe. Perhaps now, Keto is back in my future. With this new recipe, the carbs will be very low, the fat content very high. Again, VST is smiling for me.

With the ice cream problem fixed, I come to my next big appliance purchase of the month. The Ninja Foodi 5 in 1 Indoor Grill. Not 3 in 1 or 4 in 1. 5 in 1. It Sears. It Sizzles. It Air Fries. It Crisps. It Dehydrates. All with Cyclonic Grilling Technology. It is just flat out amazing. So far, I have grilled steaks and hamburgers, both being delicious. I crisped a frozen quiche and it, too, turned out wonderful. This is now on my favorite appliance list.

Cooking for one is nearly impossible, and definitely not fun. With these two appliances, I am hoping that my diet will expand from 3″ Subway sandwiches 2xdaily, to some more interesting choices that are Keto friendly.

If you are thinking of trying Keto, be sure to consider the following.

1. Splenda substitutes for sugar pretty well in any recipe without too much of an altered taste or texture.
2. Almost every single recipe has a Keto adaptation online. Just google what it is you want to make and look for the substitution.
3. Look for Sugar-Free condiments at the store. There is No-Sugar Added Ketchup, Sugar free BBQ sauce, and even Teriyaki Sauce that are all delicious.
4. Reece’s Sugar Free Peanut Butter Cups are so satisfying. Just remember, the sweetner used has gastric consequences. Just sayin.

My favorite Peanut Butter recipe is the following.

1 cup of any peanut butter, 1 cup Splenda, I egg. Mix. Roll into balls and flatten with a fork. Bake at 350 for 10 minutes. Enjoy. They are also great if you add 1/3 of a cup of Sugar Free Chocolate Chips by Hershey. Yes, they have such a thing in the baking isle.

Comfort foods. We need to find comfort where we can, when we can. Sometimes the extra pounds just need to be there for a bit while we find our way. Heck. Now that I remember the date, the diet can wait until TOMORROW! HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!

I am living between wife and widow. Swaying towards the past, leaning into the future, trying to find my balance in the middle without a terrible fall. Rather like that childhood toy, the punching clown. If you have kids as old as mine, they might have had a similar toddler’s toy. A four foot blow up clown, with a weighted bottom. Toddlers loved to punch the nose and sending it flinging backwards, with a return trip up to knock them down, resulting in giggles and “Do it again’s”.

I hate clowns. Grief is the worst of all. White paste faced, exaggerated emotions, overly decorated to be one thing at all times, clowns can be any living thing underneath. Evil. Sad. Compromising. Denying. Angry. Bargaining. Depressed. Any real feelings might even be noticeable through the makeup, but the outward illusion dominates the focus of others. Anything at all can be painted on the outside. With clowns, you never know what you are going to get once inside. Just like grief. I REALLY hate clowns. Not to be trusted.

This Halloween doesn’t find me in the costume of a clown. Even though I feel like the clown toy as I bob and sway, my center is happiness. These days, I am anchored there most of the time. A gust of memories might blow me back a bit, but resilience helps me return to center. There are less times that memories of being the wife I am no longer disturb my peace. There are more times, the terror of aging widowhood sneaks up on me. I cannot let the old woman in.

We all have experienced it. A surprise visit from mother or grandmother in the mirror. It’s shocking, to saw the least. In my bathroom, I have a picture taken when VST and I had been married for a moment. This girl. Beautiful. In blue lace, with bluer eyes. A sweet girl in love, apparent in the expression she had for her VST photographer. The prettiest of pictures, that one is the one I think of as me. The reality is, those days are gone. The old woman has a foot hold and is setting up shop.

I never knew so many things could sink and sag at once. Grief has accelerated the process. New clothes, a bit of walking, staying busy, finding happiness, these thing have all helped. But, the truth of the matter is, I need to embrace the fact that I am of Medicare age. Signed up and waiting for December 16th, when I will be a part of that new system. I think the most similar experience for me was going into school as a kindergartner. A milestone in life. Now, I find myself a full fledged, card carrying, senior citizen.

Willie Nelson asked a great question. How old would you be if you didn’t know the day you were born? Some days, my answer would be 120. Other days 12. But his question made me realize, most days, I would not say 65. My average would be somewhere in the mid-forties to fifties. Happy years that were so incredibly busy and full with careers, projects, and love.

The old woman at the door. I cannot let her rob me of choosing just how I feel by pasting a number on my forehead. Life should’t be defined by passing years. The moment doesn’t depend on a number, but on choices, opportunities, and experiences.

The kids, who are adults, came to help me on the 8th of October. They helped me make that day a beautiful celebration of 6 months of survival as a widow. They helped me make it a beautiful day of honoring their dad, 6 months an angel. We decided to decorate for Halloween. One of the things I selected was a paper witch, which obviously flew into my door. Her flattened body can only be seen from the back, and she is hanging on my door. She has new meaning. That is the old woman. Tried to get in. Smashed flat as a pancake on my door. Sorry honey, the old woman needs to stay away for now.

This ageless woman has things to do. Words to write. A book to sell. She needs to see Hawaii about 50 more times. And go to Paris for the weekend, just once. She needs to love again. She needs to keep laughing and embrace life. There is no time for hours rocking away the day while wallowing somewhere between wife and widow. She needs to find the next in between. That place between Widow and Woman. Happiness is there. I know because I am spending days there. Sorry Old Woman, there’s no time for you right now.

Goodbye. Such a word. Sometimes Bye is a Good thing. Many times not. Yesterday was both. Good because the reality is, MMD and I have very full and busy lives that need tending. Business, writing, family, friends, and our day to day existence are all outside of the bubble in which we placed ourselves for a few days. Not so good for the obvious reasons you might think. We had a wonderful time just being mud ducks. Yesterday, there were no outward tears, only promises of a return. With that, he took flight and was gone.

Coming home to the empty house just was. Not anything descriptive. It just WAS. Everything the same as before, just quiet. A cup of coffee, half filled and cold. A bar stool askew. Laundry in mid cycle. Dishes in the sink. Evidence of activity only hours old.

I sat in the recliner with Oliver and thought for awhile. Just took inventory of the events from Saturday past until now. Every little detail, joke, and look. I filed them in my brain for easy retrieval, while periodically texting with MMD as he flew over the desert I love so much. Hawthorne, Mina, Luning, Tonopah, Goldfield, Beatty. Places I have eaten and slept, but never seen from the air.

The rest of the day was spent resting. I finished watching The King and I, and, sadly, the Kind still died. I stretched a Subway sandwich between lunch and dinner. I held Oliver and told him secrets he assured me he will hold dear. With some things he agreed, with others he gave me his judgmental gaze, before promptly falling asleep from sheer and utter boredom. With little else to occupy my time, writing brought solace through thoughts and words swirling in my head. MMD had landed safely, while focus and clarity settled my soul.

At 4:20, my phone alerted that a text had arrived. I always like to guess who is contacting me before looking. The list of possibilities is short, but I didn’t expect this.

On the screen flashed one picture, no text was needed.

The visual was confirmation that I HAD seen the name on the house. I could really drink this in without being considered a stalker. The image was so perfect. In my mind, there was nothing that would symbolize VST and I better than two mustangs in a clearing, surrounded by trees. We had found a safe place to settle and rest, protected from the dangerous elements of our world. Although we were part of a much larger herd, for a time, we were traveling alone, enjoying the fresh grass and each other. That sign said everything VST would have wanted it to say, and yet, was totally chosen for new owners with their own stories and reasons for selecting it.

How did the Mrs. know that this would mean the world to me? How did she decide to send it at just the right moment? Did she see me at the moment I saw this for the first time? I had been so stunned, I didn’t notice if anyone was present. She couldn’t have known that this visual would bring me back to the wonderful day MMD and I had shared on Sunday. Her thoughtfulness and sweet soul I first met when I found a still warm loaf of bread left at the back door after VST had died. I had cried the ugly cry then, too, in the midst of Covid solitude and grief.

The picture reminded me that I stood so many times eating grapes at the top step from a very abused and neglected vine that, in spite of that, provided summer sweetness. I spent hours painting railings and trim, washing windows, or spraying the patio to prepare this home for them. The perfect naming spot had always been right where they hung their plaque, we just hadn’t known that.

I immediately sent a text to her, thanking her for the picture, and letting her know the ugly cry had got me at the initial sight of something so unbelievably humbling and beautiful. I also sent her the link to the blog, saying the day had been documented under the name DunMovin. A few minutes later, she assured me that she, too, had experienced the ugly cry while reading it. The Mrs. is a good, good woman. DunMovin is hers to love.

Virginia City, Nevada. She pulls all the strings. She knows things. Important things. Lasting things. She chooses her own. She keeps some people. She lets some go. I think maybe, just maybe, she had a little bit of compassion and sorrow at how things ended for me. She is making amends and we are settling our differences, little by little, Virginia City, and I. Through the sweetness and grace of two very dear new owners, VST is smiling. There is a name on a place he loved so much. A perfect name for two that have come home, a perfect name remembering two that moved on. In that, I find peace.

Note–Today’s piece includes bolded words from a song I listened to last night (ALL BOLDED WORDS WRITTEN BY JONI MITCHELL). One of the most beautiful pieces from Joni Mitchell, I had never heard it. If interested Google “Joni Mitchell, Come In From The Cold”. It speaks about me at this time in my life. But then, it’s Joni, my soul sister. Thank you for being patient with my creative endeavor. Enjoy.

I FEAR THIS SENTENCE OF SOLITUDE, TWO HUNDRED YEARS ON HOLD.

Frost will not be denied. Near Halloween, its killing ways come a few days earlier or later, but, always with immediate results. The last few days of balmy autumn are behind us and the mornings are frigid. I haven’t been paying attention, finding my happiness in the sunshine rays of late mornings and laughter at my own watering hole with MMD. Just forgetting anything but moments now.

OH, AND, ALL WE EVER WANTED WAS TO COME IN FROM THE COLD.

I AM NOT A STONE COMMISSION, LIKE A STATUE IN THE PARK.

As the cold came upon the high desert the last few days, the winds grounded Goodbye. I had time to relax at the pond, getting to know MMD better. A good thing and a bad thing all mixed up in a pile of leaves. Winter is almost here, which will lead to early darkness and snow. No matter who the visitors are, the cold will turn them away towards warmer places.

In just the time it took for my gaze to turn upward seeing MMD drop from the sky in a Bonanza of possibilites until the today of farewell, my yard has taken on a new look. It morphed over nights, reminding me of the dying spring last with VST. Leaves that were golden and beautiful now cover the ground in brownish grays. The bone chilling reality of winter’s approach is here, and I must say, I feel a bit threatened and alone.

LONG BLUE SHADOWS OF mustangs, grasses grazed on by the road, OH ALL WE EVER WANTED WAS TO COME IN FROM THE COLD.

Days have passed and truly, the laughter has been the healthiest of medicines for me. I’m a realistic woman, knowing that when happiness lights on your shoulder, you need to embrace the moment and enjoy it. The chance for real communication shouldn’t be ignored or squandered. Meeting at a pond doesn’t guarantee anything except some water and rest, for lifetime alliances take years to create. Just facts of life at the watering hole.

DOES HIS SMILE’S COVERT complexity DEBASE AS IT ADMIRES? (JUST A FLU WITH A FEVER?) ARE YOU CHECKING OUT YOUR MOJO OR AM I JUST FIGHTING OFF GROWING OLD (JUST A HIGH FEVER)? ALL WE EVER WANTED WAS TO COME IN FROM THE COLD.

I often question how MMD and I both appeared at the watering hole of internet dating at the right time to find each other. He, the polymath. Me, the sapiosexual. (Please look up the terms before judging.) Months have passed and I’ve not tired of his quick wit and intelligence. The watering hole has been an interesting place to hang out, but, one never lives their lives on the run. That fact is not lost on me.

I KNOW WE WILL NEVER BE PERFECT, NEVER ENTIRELY CLEAR. WE will GET HURT AND WE will JUST PANIC. AND WE will STRIKE OUT OF FEAR. (YOU WERE ONLY BEING KIND).

So, MMD will again migrate today, heading west towards a life not parallel to mine. For now, our lives can only intersect at future points. Initial loneliness at the watering hole will diminish as new memories appear from far and wide, just to settle, drink, and rest awhile. For now, there are plenty of leaves to rake.

I FEAR THE SENTENCE OF SOLITUDE, TWO HUNDRED YEARS ON HOLD. OH, AND ALL WE EVER WANTED WAS TO COME IN FROM THE COLD.

It’s amazing how many shortcuts I have discovered during my years in Nevada. They hide in plain site unless you know them, and once you do, they are your first choice. Ramsey Weeks Cutoff. Turn right at the red barn. Left at the biggest cottonwood, not the one that is dead. Down the dirt road until you come to a fork in the river, and then, there you are. Nevada is full of shortcuts, often convenient. Sometimes the roads are not groomed, or even there at all. Dirt roads, gravel roads, ways unknown to Garmin. Ways full of the most amazing sites and sounds saved for those who know.

VST hated new shortcuts. It takes trust to turn on a road hoping it joins up to the main highway somewhere along the way. Therein was the problem. VST was a black and white guy that wanted everything mapped out before the Jeep ever left the drive. ETD and ETA were always calculated along with approximate time used in between. He metered minutes like gold, maximizing time and squeezing the most out of life that he possibly could. I find myself not as good at this.

Now, the shortcut for which I am searching doesn’t exist, anymore than teleportation. A turnoff from unexpected grief and sadness. The road through my wilderness is odd. Things can be going along great, even marvelous. New friends. Unexpected phone calls. Welcomed visits. Happiness. Calm and quiet. But for the briefest moments, terror in the dark woods. Fleeting thoughts dangle. What if? When? How will I? Why? How could it? Where are you? Treacherous obstacles that can trip up the most solid individual, resulting in racing hearts and sweaty palms.

I navigate through, hoping to avoid a fall and massive head injury, or worse. Sooner than soon, the path clears and I arrive at new and wonderful destinations. Thankfully, the detours are less these days. But, they arrive when they want to, not exactly because I have chosen to turn in that direction.

It is said that grief will not be denied, lest it will be there to fester later, like an unhealed wound. This worries me. These days, approaching Month 8, I find myself content and happy. I look around and marvel at the semblance of order I see in my day to day life. It is similar to my old life, but a new life all its own. I look at pictures on the wall hanging in new groupings or places they haven’t ever been. A “kitchen” picture now hangs in the bedroom. A favorite vase always in the china hutch now hugs fresh flowers on my dining room table. New perspectives on old belongings. Every aspect of my life is now mine to decide. I own the results.

Anger has eluded me so far. I question what exactly it is that I should be angry about? I suppose I could sit on that bench for awhile, rolling around in Anger-ville, but it seems pointless. It also seems a shame to cloud wonderful years of my life with bitterness. For any dark thought, I can always come up with thoughts of gratefulness that are comforting.

VST was a proud, stoic, funny, intelligent guy. I must believe in my heart that his passing was exactly as he chose. He had been sick for longer than we embraced the reality. Looking back, the visions of things to come were appearing in lonely nights in Cheyenne, and even on the bluffs of San Simeon. Unidentified and years prior to death, there were cancerous moments that remained unexplained until, in retrospect, everything became clear. If we would have discovered the end years before, the end would have still arrived. Cholangiocarcinoma will not be mitigated or denied. Like seeing an unavoidable car crash from years before, while speeding towards the inevitable with eyes wide open. I am thankful that our car crash was immediate and final, and I know VST felt the same.

This road of grief will lead me through different landscapes, but, I am still in control of me. For those moments when it becomes overwhelming, I know God will walk with me through the worst, and heal me. Knowing that, I continue on.

Yesterday, with internet down, I went on a visit to VC. My friend, Mr. MudDuck, MMD, was visiting and we decided to venture out to buy a cowboy hat, as his had been lost. VC is a great place for such purchases, with hats ranging in cost from $30 all the way up to $Thousands.

The weather was a beautiful golden day, autumn leaves showing their color all the way up Six Mile Canyon. Bright blue skies were above the beautiful mountains surrounding VC. Sugarloaf Mountain watched over the town, already bustling with tourists by 11:45. The usual fight to find a parking space was on, and we parked toward the south end of town, and walked back to the hat shop.

So many choices were on display. Stetsons, straw or wool felt, in every type of brim possible. Black, tan, grey, brown, and every color in between. We were in hat heaven, and after a complete search, settled on a chocolate brown Stetson that fit just right. Happy with the purchase, we walked around the town a bit, and I ventured into the post office to check my mail box, which was empty. I guess it is time that I relinquish my keys and possession of the box back to the Post Mistress, giving up my last physical tie to VC.

Noon had passed and we were both hungry. We decided to visit the restaurant that had kept me fed while VST was so ill, and after he was gone. The owners had been so gracious, watching over me and making sure my orders were hot and fresh when they were picked up. We both ordered the Gospel Fried Chicken with mashed potatoes, gravy, and cole slaw, which was just the best.

They seated us by the window in front of the 100 mile view, while the ghosts of so many meals past ran through my head. How many times VST and I had eaten there with all the A Street Gang and the former owners. How many special parties had been planned and celebrated. Just last January, VST and I had enjoyed a meal, announcing that we were planning to stay for at least another year in VC. I remember the neighbors all happily cheering. It was then, VST announced that our house had a name that he had chosen. The DunMovin House. Period. Because, we were DUN MOVIN.

At the end of our lunch, the new owners brought us a piece of cheesecake to share. When VST was so sick, and after he had passed, I would call in my orders on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. So many times, there was a piece of cheesecake included, just because. Just because they knew my heart was breaking. Because they knew it would make me feel the least bit better. Because they cared so much. That cheesecake was LOVE.

MMD had mentioned that perhaps we could stay in VC for the night sometime, so it was the perfect time to take a ride around the town. I found myself driving right up to A Street to view the Cobb Mansion, a lovely old Victorian that would be a nice place to spend the night. I kept traveling down A Street past neighbors, thinking of all memories six years could hold. It had been impossible for me to return even for a few minutes until recently and now, there I was, almost to our old house.

The new owners obviously loved her as much as we had, and she looked just the same. MMD commented on the deck and how fantastic the view must be from up there. I assured him it was. And, then, I saw. I burst into the ugly cry, almost driving off the road as we went past. MMD didn’t understand what I had seen that he hadn’t, and besides, wouldn’t have understood what made the tears flow instantly.

To go back in time, VST had passed and it was the Friday of my moving weekend. T and K were visiting to help with the move, when the phone ran. It was the new buyers asking if they could stop by. It was the perfect time for them to do so, as I had time to show them lots of details about the house.

During their visit, the topic of naming houses came up. I mentioned to them that although there was no plaque on the house, VST had, indeed, named it DunMovin. I shared the story of the day at the restaurant with neighbors surrounding us while they listened intently.

“Well, this is interesting, because on the way to see you tonight, we were having a discussion about what to name the house. We couldn’t come up with anything,” said Jim. ‘How would this name have been spelled?”

“DunMovin.”

“Just as I would have spelled it myself.” He smiled. “We shall name the house ‘DunMovin’ in honor of VST.” Just like that.

Getting back to yesterday….. I was looking at the top deck, when, my gaze fell to the front door on the bottom floor. To the side, in at least 10″ letters was the name “DunMovin” in flat black metal, sharp and crisp. It was then, I lost it. Well done, VST, well done.

That part of my life is finished. Like a deliciously wonderful novel, in which the reader slows their pace to make it last longer. It was the most beautiful story lived in real life together there on A Street. In fact, VST was DunMovin here on earth, and has moved on into his new heavenly digs. I pray the new owners find every bit of sweet loveliness built into all VST’s projects with skill and perfection. I hope it wraps them with comfort, as it did us.

DunMovin House, A Street, Virginia City, Nevada. Go see her. She is magnificent.

Waiting for widowhood to come is a grueling task. VST and I often talked about our wishes should the unthinkable happen. It would usually be banter about who would check out first, and why. ending up with both of us being certain we would be the lucky one to go. Never did we see our Easter surprise approaching. Yet, we watched it approach for at least two years, unrecognized as the killer it was. When the diagnosis came, we were told we had two months. In reality, we endured Hospice services for 7 day, and VST was gone, the worst of the cancerous nightmare, nine weeks, from start to finish.

VST was my guy climbing the hill to come home to me every night. For the last 13 years, we lived in the mountains, trying to get as far away from civilization as possible. While working, each of us chose a one hour commute to and from work. As a teacher, I was always home first. Dinner on the stove, my internal clock would alert me to the fact that he was on his way home, no matter what I was doing. Then the phone would ring, confirming it.

Each day, he would wind his way home, coming “the back way”. After dealing with management stressors of Child Protective Services, his safe place was back on the hill with me. He would call as soon as he left work, the strain in his voice palpable through my phone. He was never allowed to discuss details, so we would talk of DYI projects, or the latest play we were involved with. The twists and turns would lead him back and forth, as he unwound like a spring, until his voice would be gone, because the reception was too poor. Ten minutes later, he would walk through the door. I lived for the car on the hill, taking turn after turn as he came home to me. My life was the richest when he was there. Once home, he shed his suit and tie, and became VST. Sporting shorts and tees with his bronze tan showing through, he could forget about the horrors of the day and just be.

Through the years, we became involved with a theater group offering melodramas to the mountain community. That involved night time drives up the hill to become people we weren’t. He always made friends so easily, and soon became the hero of the theater with his booming voice and handsome looks. He easily made every damsel swoon, on stage. In real life, I was lucky enough to be his leading lady.

When we moved to VC, the hill became a mountain. Mt. Davidson. Geigher Grade, a Nevada State Highway, was the mountain road we used to go to Reno. Many people avoid VC because of it, due to many possible hazards. Boulders, some the size of small horses, fall so often, the road crews groom it daily. Blinding snow in the winter often closes this route. Mustangs saunter across it in the winter, standing on the road in the middle of blind curves to lick the salt. Geigher Grade is not for the faint of heart.

Once we moved to VC, I stopped driving for six years. I can’t give you a reason why, except that VST was a wonderful driver and he loved it. I was a wonderful driver who hated it. So, he drove and I was wingman. This worked, until it didn’t. When cancer came knocking, I suddenly became the designated driver after never having driven in the snow. How I avoided this, I know not. But, avoid it I had.

VST had a doctor’s appointment in Reno, and by then, was too weak and sick to drive. So, just like that, I was now the driver. There was an added tension in the car, as snow was still falling in March. Not enough to close GG, but enough to create ice. Enough to engage the 4 wheel drive, which will help you navigate through snow, but not do much to mitigate a skid on ice. I didn’t mention that in many places, the plunge from GG, should you skid off, was 500 feet or more. Straight down. Unsurvivable. Eleven miles of switchbacks, and the most heavily used route to VC.

As we left for the doctor, VST in his patient way, had to explain, through pain and confusion, how to engage the 4WD, and when to slow down. He watched for ice and horses until he fell asleep, half way down the mountain. My first drive in snow was a total success, even earning a compliment from him, although he did mention I went over the yellow line twice, smiling at his critique.

Today, I remember that boy on the hill hurrying home from work to my arms for 32 years. You could set dinner on the table steaming and he would appear with a “Hey Darlin, it smells great in here. Let’s eat.” The house has stopped smelling great at 6 pm, because cooking for one just isn’t the same. Dinner time might be at 3pm or 8 pm now, because it isn’t planned around another, just me.

I am sure at some point, I will be again waiting for a special person, but, there are no hills where I live now. Just flat straight roads. There is little snow here, and the sense of danger is much less. I am slowly becoming the person that makes friends easily. My driving is safe and sound, and, even though I still don’t always love it, I am finding my way.

So, where in the heavens, can that boy be? I am sure he is driving up hills, laughing all the way. Making friends, and find new parts to play. Save the best part for me, VST. I will happily be your leading lady when I arrive someday.

To write is to breathe. To write your life is to listen to your inner soul and translate thoughts and feelings to paper or computerized characters. Such a quiet, unassuming activity to those watching from afar. All encompassing if done right, the writer is transported to another plane to heal, while giving memories life. I am a writer. I knew this early on.

I wouldn’t ever agree that my childhood existed on a REAL farm. A REAL farm would have at least three animals in excess of 1500 lbs., along with the smells and noises that go along with that. A REAL farm would have a barn with a loft full of hay. We had neither. We lived on a vineyard of 40 acres. Roughly 16,000 Thompson Seedless grape vines, most planted in the early 1950’s of a variety that is almost entirely extinct today.

There were animals on our farm. Hundreds at times. But, to me, they counted not. They didn’t whiny, neigh, or moo. They didn’t give milk. You couldn’t ride them on grand adventures. The only thing they did is provide meat. For a family of seven, that was everything. They were a great source of food, but little other value to a writer that needed visual confirmation of truths. My truth was, we lived in the country, not on a farm. We needed a horse.

One day at school, my wise teacher announced that she had read about a contest just right for me. It was a writing contest. My beloved teachers knew that I was a special writer even in grade school. Knowing my longings and my heart, in her most beautiful, calm way, she whispered, “Joy, the prize is a Morgan colt.” She had my full attention.

The Morgan Horse. Equus caballus, all traced back to a stallion named Figure born in 1789, suitable for beginners. Totally American. Everything about the Morgan horse became first hand knowledge to me by the time I returned home that afternoon. Racing into the house, I told my mother at once that I would be winning my own Morgan horse soon. That we needed to ready a corral of the correct proportions and build a big red barn, because it needed respite from the hot summers and our wet, dreary winter fog. We would need to go shopping for brushes, buckets, halters, leads, and everything a horsewoman would need. Because. I. Was. Winning. The. Horse. Period.

My mother was in her own world at the kitchen sink and didn’t lift her head to say Hello, or even hear me enter the house.

Education was key as I was growing up. There was always plenty of lined paper, pencils, erasers, and a dictionary too heavy to lift that we were required to use when we ran across a unknown word. I quickly grabbed everything I needed and got to work. Two hours later, my finished piece in hand, I ran to her for the first proofreading and suggestions. Her words killed my dreams.

“A what? What assignment is this? For what class? Where is your homework for tonight? Look at the time. Child, we have no room for a horse, nor are we getting a horse, nor will this writing win anything but a trip to the trash. What is that woman teaching you these days?”

In astonishment, I looked at her with wide, broken eyes, as my manuscript dropped flatly to the trash, unread. Dreams of my favorite scent, horse sweat, vanished. Someone else would win that colt to love and cherish until it died. I had already decided that colt was my real family, and would be until I was at least 40, becoming the oldest child in my dreams. Secretly retrieving it, I mailed off that very entry with a stolen envelope and stamp, uncorrected and genuine. I waited at the mailbox for weeks, often sitting at the drive for signs that a beautiful horse trailer would drive right around the corner with my horse inside. This added up to a lot of waiting in the wind for nothing.

My writing spirit didn’t die that day. It was born. In my darkest days, it was writing that has helped me survive life. Through the death of my boyfriend to cardiac arrest at just age 16, adventures in the Swiss Alps, college, a solitary life in Moldova, marriage, children, divorce, and life, key parts were memorialized with writing. Joni Mitchell, who is perhaps one of life’s all time BEST writers through lyrics, once wrote, “Laughing and Crying, it’s the same release”. I would concur. However, I would add writing to the laughing and crying.

VST was not patient or understanding of my literary needs. He was going, doing, and noisily planning projects years down the road. Being left handed, handwriting was a tedious, laborious task that he tried to avoid. Writing memorialized too many clues about personal feelings for others to find in years to come. It revealed too much of his very private heart. He was always silently curious about the fascination and love I had for writing. I always felt he was annoyed that the pencil was not something he could fully win against. He only mentioned one time in 32 years that he would love to know what I was writing in a personal journal, and I declined to share. The judgement would have taken me back to the sink and my mother so many years before. VST never fully appreciated that I am a writer. And a good one.

Now, open the floodgates and let the words roll. There is no one here to discount them as they fly out of my fingers onto the screen. No one to change a story that, in my memory, is correct and factual. No one to say, “You Can’t Write THAT!!!!” “You Shouldn’t Write THAT!!!!!” “A Nice Girl would never say THAT!!!!!” Or worst of all, “That is Terrible. You will NEVER publish anything”. No one except myself, and that voice is weakening every day.

I wrote a few days ago that I am a woman to be reckoned with. I embrace those words. Although the Morgan horse was never mine, I live among the mustangs now. We are free agents here on the high desert. Fat and sassy. On the move. Choosing our next steps with wise eyes and full hearts. We are Nevada. I wonder what stories they would write if they could. If I listen and watch carefully enough, I bet they will tell me.

Buy a journal. Write YOU!!!!!!