Grieving Gardener

Halloween is nearly upon us, beginning the cycle of holidays over the next weeks and months. Hard to believe that Easter 2020 was the start new beginnings for me. As the months have marched on, only one dreaded anniversary has passed so far. I made a conscious choice to celebrate instead of mourn. I have those same intentions for the next three months, so my planning has already started.

In VC, Halloween was a major event. On C Street. Perfect place considering the ghostly inhabitants that are regulars in the town. In case you didn’t know, VC is full of spirits, liquids and the other type, too. For a time, there was a Zombie Run in which participants went overboard to dress up, choosing a type of character. Walking Dead or Victim. Each Victim had a flag. The Walking Dead were to steal the flags of the Undead. All of this in a town built in 1875. At the start of the race, the runners were trapped in shipping containers and released at certain intervals. Very Halloween-ish.

Local kids dressed up and participated in the parade down C Street, while the shop owners had candy for them. Up on A Street, it was silent. No doorbell rang. Nothing. Just another day in VC. I might mention Halloween is not the only holiday celebrated in my state. October 30th is Nevada Day, formerly known as Admission Day. There are huge parades and celebrations then, too. This is all very confusing and busy, with parades going everywhere. The two events compete with each other. Both get their share of attention.

VST and I only dressed up a few times for Halloween during our marriage. The most memorable time was when we were newly married. We were invited to a REAL adult Halloween party. The host was sparing no details and it was important that we looked just right. I sewed two full body costumes. VST went as a felt shark. I went as a cute fish. It was one of the most fun nights of my life, and the costumes were a hit.

My kids, who are not kids but fun loving adults, came to visit me just a few weeks ago. They helped me decorate the house with appropriate ghosts, spiders, and ghouls. Again, I find myself in a neighborhood in which I may have two resident Trick or Treat-ers, my favorite neighborhood brothers. I already bought them special treats.

For my Halloween plans, I intend to do the following. Black light cleaning of the bathroom. This is truly the scariest thing you will every do. Buy a black light at the pet store. It is meant to identify wayward kitty and puppy urine. When urine is present, it glows under the black light. If you want to see it in action, please go to YouTube and Look for “Gals in Grace-Black Light Cleaning”. I hope you find this as hilarious as I did. Black light cleaning is not for the faint at heart and a great way to spend Halloween morning. The upside is that during Covid, we cannot be clean enough. So, run to the store, get one, and try it out in your bathrooms.

I plan to watch scary movies all day. I’m going to make a special Tonic drink for the evening, and enjoy the magic of black lighting. The quinine, present in Tonic, glows, making a ghoulish concoction. I don’t drink alcohol, so my “drinks” are always virginal. But, this is a fun thing to do whether celebrating alone, or hosting a party. One year, the A Street neighbors were down and we all had ghoulish libations. Such a sweet memory.

The time is changing the day after Halloween. This is a small challenge, because Oliver and I get up every day to go to work writing very early. By 5, he is awake and wanting his breakfast. On November 1, we will all be wanting that extra hour of sleep, but, Oliver doesn’t wear a watch. It may take a few mornings for him to adjust his sleeping schedule. Maybe me, too. I love this time of year. The darkness gives permission for my early bedtime. Dinners of rich stews and casseroles. Bright star lit skies. A need for extra blankets on the bed. All delicious to me. VST hated this time of year. He was a Spring/Summer guy. To my Fall/Winter, he cringed, knowing the cold would bring extra pain and hours of darkness that he could not create things outside. On this we never found common ground, but were happy for our partner in their perfect time of year.

November 1 is the day I give myself permission to start decorating for Christmas. I love having the house fully decorated for Thanksgiving. So, the boxes will slowly come in. This year, I plan to go all out. I just purchased a large yard display that simply says “JOY”. I plan to enjoy Christmas music all season, and say Merry Christmas to people I meet. I plan to wrap myself in the meaning of the season. Love. Birth. Happiness. Wonder. Family. Memories. All of it.

On Thanksgiving, I have my day planned. Oliver and I are quite thankful for each other. We are going to spend the day watching TV and cooking the best Thanksgiving dinner of my life. Complete with all the trimmings. We’re going to share cuddle time and be grateful for all the wonderful blessings we have, eating too much and going into a turkey coma together. If others can come, there will be plenty, but, Ollie and I will be enough, by ourselves.

I am planning to have an afternoon Meet and Greet holiday party for those on my “New” street on my birthday. I haven’t met many of the people that live here, and this will be an opportunity to have a party with my New Friends . Of course, the little boys down the street will be invited, as well as the neighbor next door that is one of the “Gals in Grace”. I plan to invite old friends from my life in VC, as well. Any of you that know me know I don’t celebrate my birthday, ever. It’s on December 16th. Just the worst time of year for a birthday. This year, that day is going down as the BEST day, and I plan to enjoy every minute.

A Holiday letter will be to everyone that helped me get through 2020, another tradition that is new to me. I have a long list and will enjoy sending cards out to my cherished angel friends. It will be another way to tell everyone how much they are loved and appreciated. It will reaffirm how much I needed them to get through this year.

My main point here, is all of these things are conscious choices. I have been DREADING the holidays. In the past, they were not always happy times for me. Silly. Always a lot of extra drama, being a blended family. Birthday blues. Empty nest. All in all, some were pretty miserable. Enough already. I now KNOW reasons it would be okay for me to be miserable. I am CHOOSING not to be.

I was watching “The King and I” last night, after a phone call left me Sleepless in Fernley. In the beginning, Anna and her son sang a song that made me smile. “Make believe you’re brave and the trick will get you far. You may be as brave as you make believe you are.” So, bring on the holidays. I will be writing about every messy little bit of it.

Dear Readers,

Please share Grievinggardener.com with anyone you think would benefit. In the first month, I now have 733 separate hits from 184 log ins. I am grateful to my loyal readers. Thank you so much.

Being a new widow is incredibly lonely, we can all agree. When widow’s fog starts lifting, the wilderness is quite stark. In my case, I have given you a view into my very rich life with VST. All that is categorized in memories now, leaving me to chart a new course. I miss having a friend to hang out with, just to enjoy day to day things.

I am a healthy woman. At 64, I am on zero medications. My last cold was three years ago. I do not suffer from arthritis, lumbago, vertigo, spontaneous combustion, projectile vomiting, or hives. Nothing. I’m healthy. I do not question this, but thank God for giving me such an amazing body in which to live. I know my limitations, wishing I could hike the Pacific Crest Trail just once in my life, but, that isn’t possible. I refer to myself as a normal 64 year old woman.

So, being normal in this age of Covid, and being left to what choices remained, I decided to try my hand at internet dating. One morning, being very cautious, as VST led me to be, I found myself at WalMart buying a $100, non traceable credit card to make my purchase of PREMIUM Services. Without PREMIUM services, some sites don’t even let you see pictures of gents you might SMILE at. At the Rounder with a million choices, I knew every person in Walmart was looking and thinking, “OHHHHHH, the Widow Ho(WH) is going to go online now.” Funny, our minds can sabotage so many things. Far from any WH, terrified, and queasy from the experience, I paid for the card and raced home.

I did a Consumer Report’s comparison of sites and picked “The #1 Choice With Singles Over 50.” Wouldn’t you?

Now, if you have ever gone online just to pass time, there is a different kind of website you might go to, as I have. More relaxing and just as good a chance of finding a real date, (wait for explanation of what that is in a bit). Explore.org. Wonderful, beautiful site with lots of choices for visual entertainment. The one that is the best comparison to internet dating is the African Watering Hole. As I watch this very moment, the comparisons are astounding.

First, I notice the birds chirping in the background. This would be comparable to the profiles everyone writes about themselves. Everyone who internet dates is the following. An outdoor expert who skis, kayaks, snowshoes, snowboards, hikes 500 mile weekends while carrying all necessary camping gear and a telescope for star gazing. They pack along 5 Star meals that they have cooked on their very own Wolf brand camping stove. Their BMI is under 5. They are a perfect 6’1″ with children and grandchildren that are all beautiful. They want only those to answer that align with their astrological sign, political views, knowledge of DYI projects, and gardening skills. On their down time, they review wines and travel extensively to Italy to help with grape selection for the next year’s award winning vintage.

I notice the beautiful setting at the African pond. Now, many people think it prudent to post the following in their photo gallery. Pictures of sunsets. Their new mani/pedi. Their pets. The ceiling. Their boat, motorcycle, garden tools, or cars. They post pictures of themselves on the Great Wall of China which from the year 2000. And the list goes on. All pictures are as beautiful as the African watering hole I am looking at, except when they are not. Men without their hair combed. Beards. Lots of beards. Combed and uncombed. Muscle shirts. No shirts. EWWWWWWWWW. All respectable and approved by the site. All telling individual stories without saying a word.

My African watering hole is often void of any animals, another comparison I have made. There are days that no new individuals view my profile. Days and days go by. The same individuals “stop by” to view my profile with not even a smiley face. Just an alert from the Internet site that these gents viewed my profile. Hmmmm. Okay. This becomes tiresome, but, also, these guys have become like brothers. They check on me in the morning. They check on me in the evening. Just checking to see if my profile is alive and well. Nothing more. Not a message sent. Not a word exchange. Like window shopping, really. Drive by Internet profile visits.

The types of animals I am seeing on Explore.Org as I write this today are elephants and Mud Ducks. The elephants are sunning themselves, after wallowing in mud. They all are practicing social distancing, staying exactly the same distance from each other. They are quiet and slow. They all seem a little irritated with each other and this Social Distancing thing. The Mud Ducks are another story. They are on high alert. Although also enjoying the venue, they are ready to spook and fly away at the slightest alarm. I am the Mud Duck in this scenario. I am watching for alligators, unseen. Hippo eyes bulging just above the water line ready to charge. I am watching the irritated elephants trumpeting, but keeping social distance. I am also alert and listening for predators lurking in the grass.

A giraffe just wondered in. His human counterpart are those of us that have stuck our necks way out in this endeavor, only to find out it is very complicated to get close enough to the pond to get a drink. Our legs and neck are way to long to drink and watch for all the lurking dangers out there. We just stand around thirsty, most days.

The comparisons are endless, but there is one thing I must share that I have learned through this experience. BEWARE OF SNAKES IN THE GRASS.

Now, we all know the internet is a dangerous place. Until you have really vetted a person out by meeting friends, family, and the dog, you know them not. If you are not invited into their real life, beware. If they do not share even one name of a close friend, pay attention to that. If they only contact you at certain times of the day, they may be on a milk run for their baby mama and five children at home. But, there is a bigger danger.

Beware the Male Lion of Prime Age. Mane glistening. Demanding control of the pond, so to speak. His photo is a thing of beauty. A perfect 6′, always. Educated. A world traveling, fit and fun Romeo who is looking for the love of his life to share the pristine beaches of Key West with, while on your first world tour of many. Your heart stops when THIS guy views your profile. You nearly faint when he sends you…………..A HEART!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You nearly SWOON when he sends you a long email about how you are the most beautiful creature he has ever seen. You are the one that he is longing to know all about. Every detail, and spare none, because he will sit and read every one. ON AND ON AND ON……BLAHBLAHBLAH.

If you listen to no other advice listen up here. This guy does not exist. He is to be blocked, before you become an internet victim of that LION. Period.

Here are a few ways to identify them, and these predators are prevalent. A picture that is too perfect. A profile that has odd mistakes in grammar. A profile written with horrible punctuation. A profile that talks a lot about finding their perfect life long love. Writing describing a PERFECT individual who understands perfection doesn’t exist. Red Flags should be popping up when you see these things.

They will insist that you tell them all about yourself. If you turn the question around, they disappear into the countryside. Give them NO information. In fact, give NO ONE any personal information until you have spent time “talking” to them online. These LIONS will also immediately try to cut you from the heard to enjoy sharing more, if only they could talk to you on YOUR email address. They will send you their phone number so you can talk more. Always decline politely, until you have enough information about them to know they are not a cloud based boyfriend. The smallest grammatical error can identify them. So read carefully.

The bottom line is this. For me. I am a normal 64 year old woman. I’m not going to attract the likes of a movie star. Not even present day Tom Selleck or Harrison Ford. Not even. 65 year old seniors, men or women, are Old Goats. Period. Some have fared better than others. But, look in the mirror. Turn profile visits into real meetings very carefully.

I have met five men for either coffee, breakfast, or ice cream. All men were very sweet. Truly. Just not a match for a future meeting at the watering hole. I spent a long time talking to each one online, then a longer time talking to each one on the phone. We met at very public places and I watched my rear view mirror when I left to make sure they didn’t follow me home. I have been stood up once. I met one special gent that quite possibly saved my life for real, over dinner, involving an ambulance ride on our first date. We may both be Mud Ducks, that remains to be seen. For now, we are Geographically Unacceptable (G U) friends.

As promised, the definition of a REAL DATE is the following. One person asks the other if they would like to accompany them on the date. Dating parameters are agreed upon, as is the time. At agreed time, the door bell rings, and one person arrives to pick up other person and escort them to agreed venue. Pleasantries are exchanged during date. One person returns the other person in same condition they were in when they were taken from their home. This concept has been lost on many people.

Internet dating is a great place to start a list of what it is you are even looking for in a FRIEND. Period. If you would not be friends in life, such as the lion and the gazelle, what hope is there for you in the future? Also, make sure if you live near the African Watering Hole, you don’t accept profile visits from someone living in Katmai Alaska with the bears. This is GU. GU relationships seldom work, are cumbersome, and a nearly impossible to really get to know someone. Only date within a distance that you are capable and willing to drive.

I hope this information has been helpful to those of you that are thinking about Internet “Dating”. Be careful and smart. Always tell at least two people the entire name of the person you are meeting, the type of car they will be driving, where you are going and when you will be back. Always meet in a public place and look your very best. If possible, give the waitress a “Head”s Up” that this is your first meeting. Just share that when they come to ask for your drink order. Park within view of windows of businesses. Watch your back when you leave. Never give your address out until you have information about the person you are just meeting. Make sure a close neighbor knows you are entertaining someone you don’t know well. My neighbor and I have a code word that only we know. If I call her and say the word, she will come ready to Ninja Kick unwanted person out.

I will be sharing any new updates about my experiences in the future. Just remember, Internet Dating and the African Watering Hole are so alike. For now, I am learning a lot about myself through this experience. I am hoping that somewhere out there, there’s another Mud Duck wanting to meet.

Flying miles above the high clouds sipping club soda between Fresno and Los Angeles, VST and I would begin to unwind for our journey from LA to Honolulu. Snuggling close, we whispered about all the touristy things we would do upon arrival, compared notes on expected weather, and took turns sharing the latest restaurant reviews. Hawaii was our safe place. Sometimes, I would tell coworkers we were just vacationing at the beach, a little embarrassed we went to the islands so often. It never got old, or boring, or disappointing. The biggest reason was because VST was with me, his Hula Girl, and I was with my VST.

As a child, the thought of flying was never frightening to me. I remember going to the airport when any family member was traveling somewhere. We could walk right out on the tarmac to hug Goodbye. With propellers whirling, the plane holding our beloved would taxi to the runway and take off within minutes. We would strain to watch them for as long as we could, cheering and waving way after they couldn’t see us anymore.

My first major flight was with my mom and dad to Hawaii to visit a sister living there. I was in high school and remember getting up hours before we needed to leave to prepare as if it was for Sunday morning church service. Bathed, hair beautiful, new outfit chosen just for the trip, we left for the airport. No one would have thought of comfort first. It was style all the way. Our meals were served on real plates during the flight, with glasses, cups, and silverware. The stewardesses spoiled us rotten and we were old friends by the time we landed. Now, THAT was flying.

For me, the payoff of adventure far outweighed any worries of possible disaster awaiting. I avoided focusing on “What ifs?” longing to see new and exciting places. The actual plane rides were part of the excitement and a treat I was always happy to experience. From watching styles of uniforms change over the years, to watching airline attendants become more abused and jaded about their work, flying commercial has always been a fascination of mine.

Even after 9-11, the thought of flying to a special destination with VST was thrilling. I had traveled more than he had, living in Switzerland and Moldova before we married. He had expressed some interest in visiting Europe one day, but as the years marched towards retirement, VST’s health was declining. Suffering from arthritis, he could no long sit comfortably for even the five hour flight from California to Honolulu. We would travel to Hawaii for our final Aloha in 2013.

VST could, however, still drive. And drive he did. Well over a million miles in our time together. For 30 years, we chose to live in remote areas without the luxury of city life. Many extra miles we shared running to town for a variety of things. Traveling to Costco, Lowe’s, Home Depot, Macy’s, and other big stores made our odometer spin. But, it gave us time to share thoughts and feelings, happenings during our work days, and dreams about what we would do next.

Driving made us value time more. Destinations were carefully chosen with consideration of scenery and points of interest in mind. It made us truly appreciate the vast prairies and endless plains of our beautiful country. We saw first hand the power of vicious storms popping up out of nowhere. We found rare treats like the Terry Bison Ranch outside of Laramie where we sat out a tornado warning, or the sweetness of locals, like the owner of the Crazy Women Campground in Gillette. Driving let us change our minds and reverse course if needed, just because there was a sign that said a meteor site was 25 miles to the south.

Now, when I drive, I feel closest to VST. I think of the Wyoming plains, Custer, South Dakota, or the 1,000 lakes of Minnesota. There is something wild and rich that is missed every time one flies 10,000 feet above it all. Details like the spooked look of a startled mustang, the switching tail of an agitated bison, or two lonely seagulls spiraling together against big blue sky over a bluer lake.

I have discovered that a car trip alone to Lake Tahoe is the best trip for me now. Walking down the morning sidewalk just yesterday, nothing was lost through propeller and engine noise. I smiled at strangers and we exchanged Hello’s. I felt the breeze against my cheek and watched it ruffle the golden leaves of the aspen trees. My feet carried me at the proper speed for reflecting on what is important in my life. People? Pets? Family? Love? The truth (even when it means another goodbye)?

Laughing at myself for chasing silly dreams propelled by illusionary sound bytes, I realized I am happily grounded. Grounded all by myself for today, knowing again, I am enough. That I am choosing the right path for me, at just the right speed. Distractions of cruel words from onlookers don’t need my attention, for I am laser-focused on what I need to do right here and now. I know myself the best, and I am a force to be reckoned with.

Today, I’m driving myself to retrieve Oliver from his Puppy Camp Extravaganza. We will drive through miles of high desert, wandering with the mustangs in search of our next patch of Nevada peacefulness, always on the move. My Jeep and I are one, driving down the highway of life towards today’s adventure. Grounded, without need for flight, I am the happiest I have been in a very long time.

Once upon a time, not so long ago, I had a really wonderful husband that I happened to adore. He felt the same. We were a team of two that could conquer anything we decided to accomplish. We never started out in a quest to amass an empire. Our goals were short term in nature that nourished healthy habits leading to long term success. We had plenty of missteps along the way, learning from them, and trying to avoid them in the future. Our main success was making each moment the best it could be.

VST was a man on a mission. After working 8-5 at his professional job, he would race to be home for dinner at 6 pm sharp. Every night. Those moments were filled with dinner table chatter about all the day held for kids and us. If you have a family, you know, those days are in the moment of crazy-times. So many things planned and done because they must be. VST embraced his moments shared with the kids, because he saw them as fleeting, which they were and did. No matter how many hours of tractor work were waiting, he always had time to share with us. No matter how many hours he had worked all day, he would wait up until the last child was home and in bed. Everyone accounted for in those quiet moments, he could finally rest.

We had the rare treat of having his parents live on the ranch across the drive from us. One really scary moment arrived when we needed to be present fully. VST’s dad was given 6 months to live shortly after we bought the ranch. He was in the hospital, as we held our breaths while his heart was stopped for some very long moments and restarted to regain rhythym.

At that moment in time, VST and I wanted to buy a respectable vehicle in which to cart the kids around. It was embarrassing to drive our young girl to Jr. High in a red and white VW bus from the 1900’s. She insisted her dad would drop her off down the street. We had found a brand new Suburban that was gorgeous right before J got sick. We were working on financing it when we got the news.

Across the drive from our farm house, there was a large, empty 1/2 acre space. VST and I discussed the possibility of putting a home there for J and J. It was perfect. While others were at J’s bedside at the hospital, we went to look at mobile homes. VST had measured every room in his mom’s house to make sure she would have the same or more space, and we found the perfect home. It happened to be exactly the price of the Suburban. This was not even a question in that moment in time. The suburban could wait.

We asked if they would move on the ranch with us. They gleefully accepted. J & J were the best in-laws I could have wished for, being equal parts of VST from the generation before. Wise and hysterically funny. Spiritually grounded in God. We would stop our busy lives for a few minutes every evening for Porch Therapy at their house. The four of us spent the next 12 years coaching, supporting, cheering, and badgering each other on that porch. We were the perfect neighbors for each other, and wouldn’t have chosen it to be any other way. For those moments in time, we were really living the good life. Right then. Right there.

So many moments in our lives were frozen in gold. Moments when boys turned to the USAF finest. Moments when marriages were formed. Moments when new grandchildren filled our arms. Moments when we lost our shirts farming, and those when we did okay. Moments when we held each other and cried at the horror death brought robbing us of J and J. Moments when we found each other as we crisscrossed the United States being wild and crazy.

The past is a beautiful birthplace of all the comforting moments, that together, are a tapestry for each life here on earth. The future is a fertile bed of rich soil, ripe with possibilities for growth and success. But, there is nothing tangible in either place. The claws of the past and future can dig into our souls and paralyze us, holding us from moving forward in the present. Living in either one can bring fear, sadness, regret, remorse, lonliness, guilt, and so many other harsh feelings. Moving through them to make a quick retrieval or appraisal is not to be confused with putting an airmattress in the middle of either and camping out there for days or weeks.

Living in the moment is making choices that shape the memories you will hold dear, while walking towards the future you want to build by creating healthy habits that become life’s successes. Honor your loved one by really embracing life this very moment. This moment is life’s gift to us. Use it wisely.

Two nights at the lake await me this morning. As I pack up the last things, I am so proud that I have not forgotten to do things that bring me happiness. Traveling has been a huge part our lives since we both retired in 2017. So, heading to the Sierra’s for rest and relaxation is perfect for me.

Adventures remembered bring a smile to my heart. I fell in love with the Eastern Sierra’s over twenty years ago. VST was the man who introduced me to places like Mammoth Mountain, June Lake, Twin Lakes, Bridgeport, Bishop, Mono Lake and Lee Vining. Many times, we ran to these places when life got to be too much. Always, we found comfort when we visited. I feel closer to him when I return to them.

Oliver will spend two nights at puppy camp. I will sleep in, blog later in the morning, eat too much, and enjoy the view. I plan to shop, walk, drive around the lake, and be a normal tourist. I am learning to be the travel buddy I would most like to be with. Awkward and forced for now, I am hoping that it will be as natural as breathing as the months pass.

The last time I tried this in August, the California fires were raging. I went on my first planned outing to celebrate the word for Month 5, Adventure. With Covid still having its grips on tourism at the lake and the smoke choking everyone while eliminating any view of the lake or mountains, my Adventure was anything but. Today, I plan to set that right, and have a wonderful time while spreading Aloha, the Word for Month 7.

If it has been awhile since you have been out of the house on an adventure, don’t wait any longer. Plan something that is just right for you. Something new and exciting. The world is rich with possibilities in our own back yards. Even a walk at a different time of day can provide new people to meet and things to see. Pamper yourself with kind thoughts and words from your heart to your brain. Wave at the neighbors. Practice smiling again. Live in the moment. Expect something wonderful is just about to happen. You won’t be disappointed.

Throughout my blogs, I have been referring to people and places by letters. It just dawned on me that some of you may not be familiar with the area in which I live, and hoping you will be with me for awhile, I will explain a bit about Virginia City. As far as people go, I will stick with the letters of their first names for now.

Virginia City is quite the place to visit, even more so to live. I had never even heard of the place, not being a history buff. From this point on, I will refer to her as VC. I do refer to her as a woman, because she can be beguiling, manipulative, seductive, cruel, heartless, apologetic, and forgiving in her ways. And VC has ways, let me tell you.

In January 2014, VST and I were at the doorstep of retirement and looking for a new place to call home. At that time, there was a glut of housing on the market in the form of reposessions. We were hot on the trail to find our next best investment in the form of a flip. As retirees, every penny is important. We were both sick to death of California, which was sad because we were both natives. The state had changed so much and we were ready to join the exodus and head East.

So, for two months, we spent each weekend over the border, looking in Northern Nevada for a nice place to land. We logged miles and miles looking north and south of the Reno area, always investigating repossessed properties listed on a site called Homepath. Every house we chose was not right for one reason or another. Most were in pretty bad shape. Each weekend, we left disappointed, but not defeated, intending to return the next weekend for another try. Just to put our determination and desperation in perspective, each way was a 5.5 – 6 hour drive. That was if there were not wrecks or bad weather to detour our trip. We were on a mission.

I had seen the VC house online. Majestic is the word that comes to mind. While many in VC were built in 1875, ours was built in 2004. It sat on A Street above the town, with a view of over 100 miles from a huge deck that was suspended far about the ground below. Living at the VC house we were living in air, like birds in a nest. Wild horses would come and eat off our hill below. We were so close, we could see scars from battles or the new fuzz of a foal, their fluffy little tail whisking flies away. With the position of the house came a silence that was unusual. There could be thousands on the boardwalks of C Street, and we would hear only the breeze, the faint whistle of the steam train, or the chimes of St. Mary’s on the Mountain.

The problem with the VC house was the price. We wanted our next purchase to not only be our home, but a good investment opportunity. VC is located on the side of Mt. Davidson at 6,200 ft. This is the same elevation as Tahoe. Our water was piped from Lake Marlette above Lake Tahoe, through the valley and up to us. Soft and wonderful mountain water we enjoyed for 6 years. Another problem was that VC is a tourist destination. I have read that 2 million people visit VC annually. There is one street, a few blocks long where all the action occurs. C Street is also part of a state highway to add to the confusion. There are not day to day services in VC, like a grocery store or Walmart. These are found 15 miles away in either South Reno or Carson City. Miles add up when you live remotely.

The VC house was huge. Period. It had 6 bedrooms, 5 bathrooms, on two stories. I could see the V from my kitchen window. The house had windows everywhere. 33 to be exact, all placed to catch the most breathtaking views. It was built to withstand the highest winds, and we got them. Often in excess of 35 mph. The house was a victim of severe abuse. No one could know the disrespect it took from the former owners until living there. In 6 years, we loved it back to pristine condition, and it was the fabulous house it was destined to be.

But, back to the story. We had wanted the house from the moment we saw it, but it was still $60,000 over budget. But, through the weeks, the price dropped, there was a bidding war, and we won. Plan and simple. For 62 weekends, we moved our possessions with the help of one small, open trailer. Each weekend was a fantastic getaway after working with sick children and social services. We would decompress on the drive, snacking and wishing we were already there. Each Friday night, the darkness would fall while VST drove and I daydreamed of all the things we would do to the house that weekend. The roads up to VC were windy and treacherous in daytime. VST handled them safely, even having to watch for wild mustangs that might be crossing on a blind curve in the black night of VC wilds.

In August of 2015, we made our final trip home to VC, and she had won. We had been talking to a local one day and he asked from where we had moved. We told him we had chosen VC as our home. He laughed as he looked through us with piercing blue eyes.

“No, folks.”

Not understanding, we had puzzled looks on our faces.

Staring off into the distance, he stopped smiling.

“Virginia City chooses you.” Returning his gaze to us, his look was serious and a bit disturbing.

You may be thinking it is impossible for a town to choose its residents. Then, you, my dear reader, have never been to VC to spend time. This is not a normal town. This is VC. She will get under your skin and not let you go. So many times when we told friends where we were going, the far away look would come over them. No one ever said they had a terrible time there. There were wistful memories of bachelor parties, weddings, family trips, or trips alone. But always, fun was involved. Lots of fun. The hook was set, and forever, VC would be tugging at their hearts. This was especially true of men folk. VC is a manly man’s town.

VC was a great place to live, but never did I expect she would devour my husband and keep him to herself. Impossible? Yes, it was cancer that happened to kill him. But, it is not lost on me that he never left the mountain. His mountain, where he became the Bionic Cowboy, his crisp cowboy hat and huge, metal braces on an incredibly handsome man were a fixture on C Street for 6 years. She won.

It is also not lost on me that I was released to leave. Rather like losing my husband to another woman. Except, it was a place. The house sold so easily and I was shoo-ed away, like an unwanted fly at a picnic. VC had no use for me, nor I any for her any longer.

VST is a part of VC history now. I hope he is loving his long walks down the boardwalk, stopping to talk to visitors that need to know where to have breakfast. I hope he is having lots of time to tip his hat to those that wave. Visit the post office to check on the mail for me, VST. I can’t come to sit with you right now. The memories we shared there are too raw and jagged just yet. But, soon, I will come to sit by 4th Ward School with you to rest just a moment. I know where the secret bench is. I will find you. Until then, walk on.

As the dust is settling with my move, all my pictures are miraculously clean and hung. The closet has been sorted multiple times. My drawers are all in order. The lawn is manicured within a milometer of perfect. Not a weed dares to grow in my yard. Halloween decorations are glowing at night. Even my floors are mopped. Do you get the picture? I am bored out of my mind, and hoping I will not become BORING!!!!

Needing new and worthy ways to spend my retired widow days, I have been looking for an organization that would be interesting, but also give back to my community, and on a larger scale, humanity. It was with that endeavor, a friend mentioned that I should check into Nevada Veterans Coalition, based here in my town. This group is responsible for the huge task of delivering Wreaths Across America to the fallen heroes in our very own National Cemetery here in Northern Nevada.

I had visited the cemetery on several occasions to look around, but also to visit a dear friend that left us almost two months ago. The first thing I noticed was that it had the potential to be the grandest of them all. But, I also noticed that it needs some major volunteer work on the grounds. Dead rose heads dropped on majestic plants that should have been fertilized and groomed in winter. The grounds needed a few volunteers around to answer questions. All in all, things looked good, but could be better. That fact didn’t go unnoticed on my prior visits.

One sad day earlier in the week, I made the call to Nevada Veterans Coalition and left a message. That evening, RR, a very nice man with a floral last name, called me. He spoke about the mission of the group, which was divided into two parts. Indeed, the Wreaths Across America was one side. But, the other side was the Honor Guard. This is a group of men and women who provide internment services at the Northern Nevada Veterans Memorial Cemetery (NNVMC). After explaining the details, he asked if I would like to attend the service for one of their founding members the next day at 11:00 am. I accepted the invitation.

Yesterday was an exceptionally beautiful autumn day. The cottonwood trees at the cemetery were changing colors. The lawn was deep green and lush. All the roses seemed to have bloomed in unison for the fallen hero, Charles. The grounds are expansive, providing a quiet and respectful atmosphere which will be the final resting place for 10,000 American heroes. The temperature was a perfect 70 degrees with a warming sunshine blanketing everyone.

The members of the honor guard were assembling in preparation. They had all made a special effort for this service. Charles was their dear friend for decades. Their matching black uniforms were adorned with medals from their years of military service. Their shoes were shined to blinding brilliance. Their white gloves were clean. They talked among themselves in the nervous way people do before something as solemn as a funeral is about to occur. I found RR. He was happy I had come and asked if we could talk after. I agreed and then, found a seat and began to observe the details of the moment.

It was obvious Charles was an adored and respected old goat. His friends lovingly gave that impression. With a group of 50 waiting for the service to begin, it was obvious that he was a special guy. Born in Minneapolis in 1937. Served in the United States Air Force. Fought in the Korean War and other places. Came home. Raised beautiful kids, who were raising beautiful kids. This man had earned respect throughout his life and in his later years, demanded it. It was lovingly given by family and friends.

Two officers, white gloved with heads covered, walked to the pavilion solemnly and with purpose. One carried the American flag, folded as you so often see, triangle shaped. The other carried a small black box. The cremains of Charles. At the front of the pavillion, there was a podium on which sat a black container marked with the symbol of the US Air Force. Gently, the black box was put inside, and covered with the lid. The flag was lovingly placed in front of the box.

His widow was wheeled to her place of honor under the three sided pavilion in which she would publicly say her final Goodbye. I thought of her as I watched silently from the back. A widow like me, but different. Charles had been sick for years. Gone for years, as some would say during the service. Her goodbyes had been tedious and slow, I am assuming through the gauntlet of cruelty dementia produces for all that love the victim. She sat spent as the honor guard and friends came to her to share their sorrow. Seats filled and soon it was time to begin.

I was not prepared. Drifting towards us was the sad wail of a trumpet playing The U. S. Air Force Song. My own boys, now grown men with boys of their own, had left home at 18 to join the USAF, serving after 9-11 changed our country forever. I had cried buckets when they played the song at their graduations from boot camp in San Antonio. Now, I smiled, thinking of my own Air Force heroes. As the song played, the colors were presented and placed, as everyone stood. Every Veteran saluted. I placed my hand over my heart. So many people forget to do that these days.

We all sat and the ceremony began. The woman in charge did a beautiful job saying Goodbye to Charles. Another man talked about him. Prayers were given. Beautiful prayers. A gorgeous poem read by a man covered in medals. He made it to the end, and then broke down sobbing. A tribute to the man Charles was and the memories of friendship and loyalty he left.

From the back of the pavilion, an Honor Guard member sang, Amazing Grace, a capella. The same song my beautiful grandson sang for VST in July at his memorial.

The report from a volley of gunshots ricocheted off the back of the pavilion, sounding harsh and brittle. A 21 gun salute, all in silence except for the tinkling sound of shells hitting cement after each of three rounds.

Two HG Members came forward to retrieve the flag. They lovingly unfolded it completely while keeping it taut, and then showed it to the widow. Two more HG Members then joined on either side of the flag to refold it perfectly for her while it was explained to the group what each fold meant. There are 13 folds in the flag. Even the tuck at the end means something very special. Three spent shell casings were secreted inside for the widow. The flag was presented to her with the utmost care. Each HG friend knelt and told her how sorry they were for her loss.

It was explained that Charles Loved, Loved Loved doughnuts. When they served them at meetings, he took two. Always. It was explained that as we walked up the hill to his final resting place, the HG members were each carrying a box of doughnuts in his memory. When the final prayers were said and the crypt was sealed in front of God and all of us, we would all have a doughnut in honor of Charles. And, that is exactly how the service ended.

I didn’t speak to Charles widow, as I didn’t know her nor she me. How could I explain that I came to witness the best presentation of a military service because it had been for one of their own? We exchanged glances, and somehow, I think she already knew we had something in common. Sadness is easily seen through the eyes. I tried to keep my dark glasses on, not wanting to distract from this beautiful moment in any way.

Throughout this service, I felt a peace flow over me. This would be the group that I would like to spend time with. These men and women would become my friends. I would be happy to help make final services a moment of respect for REAL American heroes and their families.

After the service, RR had asked me to stay and talk for a minute. I met some of the members and it was explained to me that I could be trained to help with any part of the service I would choose, even the shooting. That I didn’t need to have served in the military to be a member of the Honor Guard. That my help would be welcomed in any way, whether it was with the Wreaths Across America project or the Honor Guard. I was welcomed to join them.

The meeting will be November 12. I’m sure I will share more about my time helping this group. By experiencing something so moving and meaningful, another part of me is awakening. I want to find my place to give back, even if just a little bit.

Please check into Wreaths Across America, a non-profit organization. They need our support to make sure every fallen American hero is honored with a wreath in 2020.

VST and I loved our morning routine. If we were ballroom dancers, the trophy would have been ours. Onetwothree, onetwothree, coffee in cups, pellet stove lighted, onetwothree, onetwothree, two in their chairs, Oliver delighted, onetwothree onetwothree, news a-blaring, nobody glaring, onetwothree onetwothree, day in the planning, eternitity spanning. Take a bow.

Every morning, there was a plan created as we sipped our coffee and took a little time to play video games, while simultaneously cursing the latest news, whatever it might be. Those precious minutes together were one of the times I miss the most. Because, although one can certainly dance alone, it isn’t the same as dancing with someone you have loved for decades.

With just a glance, so many things were gauged at the moment we woke up. Mood, physical well being, and quality of sleep. As farmers, we both embraced the crazy internal time clocks we needed for so many years. Morning people are wired a little differently. My creative time is dark:30, every day. Can’t be changed. My eyes fly open, and although crabby until I get my coffee, I am ready to tell the story of the day. The words can’t fly out of my fingers fast enough. With VST, it was beautiful projects stored in that big old head of his. Together, we were the embodied version of the Merengue, a Puerto Rican and Domican dance. A lot of turning, hammering, hands on hips with one leg extended, and clapping. Our days always included both of us dancing our hearts out.

My first days of dancing solo were a hot mess. There was no more routine. I had lost it. When VST got sick, there were 90 deaths from something called Corono Virus. Just 90 that had occurred in Washington State. At that point, our world fell into the nightmare of Cancer, which engulfed us, consuming every moment of our lives, be it awake or asleep. Cable stayed on soft music that was meant to soothe Oliver when we would leave him. The kids referred to it as Funeral Parlor music. The truth is, it soothed VST and me, too.

The first morning after VST’s abrupt exit, I tried our dance alone. Onetwothree……..Coffee is hot, brain is not, Onetwo…….heart is broken, not one word spoken…….one……….Television on, 20,000 gone. Shocked. “20,000 and ONE”, I sent my lonely scream towards the TV. My VST. Although not a Covid Statistic, it mattered not to me. He was gone.

Through the days, I found that I needed to create a new dance step for myself. I kept my planner current, putting the daily steps on paper and checking them off when I accomplished them. I taught myself to dance alone. It was messy and wrong at first. Anyone who knows me knows I can, and do, trip myself, having the largest feet ever. They must have been hard for VST to avoid all those years, as he skillfully led our dance routines. Step on my toes he did, but, only when they needed it. In the dance of life, we twirled and tilted, dipped, and looked soulfully into each others eyes. Necks snapped, and heads turned away as eyes flared when appropriately angry. We were flamboyant, and on time with the rhythm. Dancing alone was different.

Looking on to Month 7, there are now days I forget to write accomplished activities in my planner. I try not to, as I know in Month 14, I will still be amazed at all the things I am accomplishing. Each day, Oliver gets his breakfast while I pour my coffee. I blog. Morning news has been replaced with 70’s music. My days now include a brisk walk outside, but not always at the same time. Interesting how the neighborhood dances differently at different points of the day. My routine includes internet time, but not video games for now. Interpersonal games are far more frustrating, and intriguing. I try not to spend too much time fretting about the latest hit on my internet dating site. Cyber dating is still a new and unfamiliar dance.

I am finding the things I really enjoyed before and adding a few of those things in every week. I have GIRLFRIENDS that might talk for an hour on the phone with me, laughing and gasping at the outrageous nature of life. I take unplanned breaks to soak in the awe inspiring beauty of my surroundings, being so grateful that VST and I chose right when we bought this little piece of paradise. I am dancing a dance of happiness now, with fewer bouts of dramatic loneliness and grief. I am dancing an original piece, and it’s up to me to find the tune and move with it.

There are new activities that are unfolding. I have joined a group of women that meet often, supporting our community with activities new and fun to me. Yesterday, I decided to join a group that provides wreaths for the graves of fallen heroes at our National Cemetery here in town. This holiday activity will help me get through my first Christmas waltz without VST.

I am planning ahead in three month blocks, knowing that our 33rd wedding anniversary looms out there in the wilderness of emotional landmines. I have a choice. I can dread it every day until it comes, or dance in the moment and know that when that day arrives, I will save a very sweet and special dance for VST, my Dr. H, because my special dance partner he will forever be.

Thank you for your support. Your continued interest is helping me grow as a writer. I squeal with delight when I see the increase in readership steadily climbing!!! Please share my link with your friends and family and keep reading. I would love to hear from you. Good thoughts go out to you as we travel along in this wilderness called Grief.

Once, 44 years ago, I was 20. Beautiful, naive, nice, naughty, and quite plainly, a very stupid girl. I ran with a boy of which I had nothing in common. A dangerous young man more worldly than I. Not someone that I loved in the right way. Being foolish, I chose foolishly those that I would spend time with. He may have been the worst choice of my life.

We had decided to run away to a high, deserted Sierra lake for a few days in autumn. In the olden days of the 1900’s, that was still possible to do. This lake was pristine and deserted. We drove to a camping spot, and, indeed were the only couple on the lake. We set up a tiny little tent for two. Very nice, except, the boy was still the same person, and no matter the setting, wrong for me.

Twilight was not far off, after a day of arguing about the particulars of our camping experience, and I needed a walk. Being mad enough, I stormed off towards the water’s edge and clapped back that I would return in a bit, before dark. Being a hot head, I walked downhill toward the water, which was peaking through the trees, as steam trailed out my ears. I made a small miscalculation. In my anger, I didn’t take note of my surroundings. I just walked toward the water.

It had been an extreme summer, and the rains had not yet started. Halloween was in a week, but I already felt like Dracula’s bride. Ready to go for the jugular. Leave no survivor at the campsite. I knew this relationship would end that way, and thinking of the next two days with this person had soured my thoughts. Walk I did, right to the water’s edge.

The sun was going down over the granite peaks towering around the tiny lake. It was a beautiful setting as the colors were changing from daytime brilliance to twighlight shades of purples and blues. I walked a distance throwing rocks into the lake. Not skipping them. Having no brothers, I never learned that skill. Just throwing them with great passion, envisioning his head as my target. One after another. Stop. Bend over. Pick up Rock. Throw it like crazy. Walk. Repeat. Each splash echoed, the sound hanging in the air for just the tiniest bit. Silence would return. The kind in which you can really hear yourself think.

I don’t know how long this went on, but, when I had cooled off, the sun had gone down. A tiny bit of light still helped me to avoid the piece of barbed wire fencing I had stepped over earlier. The boulders by the shore were still visible, but the light was fading fast. Canis lantrans were in the area, as I heard a plaintive wail in the distance, answered by another on the other side of the lake. It was then I realized the error of my ways.

The level of the lake was at autumn’s low. There was a band of land, 50 yards and rather steep up to a dense wall of trees, in which we were camping. Somewhere. This band of land was decomposed granite over granite slabs. All the way up to the forest. I had no idea how far I had walked, or where I had emerged from the trees. I had no flashlight. No whistle. I tripped on another piece of barbed wire, and now, I was sufficiently freaking out. It was night fall.

I searched for any sign of our camp. A small glow of light. A little smoke. A noise or voice calling for me. Nothing. Another plaintive wail, closer, but still not close. A reply. And silence.

I started calling to the camping mate. Just calling at first. Within a few minutes yelling my head off. The echos across the lake were distracting. The wails were a bit closer. My pounding heart pumped adrenaline with each beat as I called over and over for help. I fell on a boulder I didn’t see. Prostrate, the sand stuck to my tears. At this point I was helpless and alone in a place so dark I could only see the black outline of the trees against the starry sky . I laid there and cried. Exhausted.

Finally, way down the water’s edge, I saw him walking towards me. Even though he was the reason I had left camp, I called to him, so glad that he was the one to find me. He had marked the trail back to camp and helped me clean and bandage a nasty scratch on my leg, advising me that it was prudent to mark a return trail when one was camping in dense forest. I never hated/loved anyone so much as I hated/loved him at at that very moment in time.

I relate that story to you, because that is like the grief I find myself working now. In the daytime of grieving, there are beautiful lakes full of possibilities. I can kayak, swim, or just lay in the sun. They can feed me delicious trout. Their beauty soothes my soul. The softest winds rustle tall, protective trees. The colors dance and change throughout the day with the foundation of granite keeping my world in balance.

Without warning, night can come, and things are not as I remember them. There are boulders to trip on, or the sharp edges of memories that cut me until I bleed tears. Storms come, bringing waves to my calm lakes, demanding that I regroup and protect myself from lightning that can surely strike me dead. My heart races at the thoughts of storms that may come tomorrow, next week, or even in the winter. I lay prostrate, with sandy tears of grief. There is no one to call to. No light in the distance, because, I find myself camping alone in this wilderness.

Just as quickly, my own voice reassures me that for this moment in time, everything is as it should be. I am getting stronger every day, learning about the resilience I hold inside. My friends and family come out of the woods with phone calls and cards, checking on me to make sure the sun still shines on my world. Oliver stays close with puppy hugs and kisses. My campsite is well lit, and the path marked with the way back to safety.

As I am making my way through this wilderness, I am finding larger stretches of meadows and light. Sweet grasses on which to lay provide rest in the sunshine. But, I am very away that a patch of woods can stop me in my tracks at any moment. I have a great internal compass and God will show me the way. When the going gets tough, God will carry me to camp. I know this because he has, many times already.

If you find yourself in the dark, call for friends and family. They are right there, sitting around the campsite waiting for you with hugs and bandaids of love. Try not to leave camp angry and remember to mark your trail.

Once upon a time, I shopped like a lady at a beautiful department store and bought things I couldn’t afford. Indulging myself as a young mom, I would find myself in the lingerie department, which was ever so enticing. Slips, lacey undies, the softest wisps of fabric skillfully assembled to create a vision. And, bras from heaven at devilish prices.

At that time, I was a mere irrigator on the ranch, while maintaining my role as domestic goddess and mom.

Irrigation occured the first of every month, our antique system being in use since the beginning of time (1940’s). We were part of an irrigation network. Water flowed through a huge canal across the street from our house. Not like Venice, with gondoliers and lovers floating by in canoes. This canal was a functional canal. 15-20 feet across and at least 15 feet deep. The water ran dangerously fast and demanded respect. From there , pipelines branched off under roads and fed each vineyard.

On the first of each month from March to July, the dance would begin with me closing off the neighbors pipeline and opening ours. This was done in measurements of quarter-turns of a very big wheel. All this was decided decades before by menfolk before me. I had no time to experiment with whether or not the instructions were the most efficient. I was given directions and the number of quarter-turns needed to start the process. That was the easy and fast part.

Once the water was filling the pipeline, I needed to slowly ride the John Deere Gator (think green quad) down the west end of the ranch, while noting how the water was filling the 1/8 mile rows. This was jotted down in hieroglyphics known only to me. (Code — 0- no water seen…..X..Done…–Look again at noon ) This was done when the morning sun was just rising or the evening sun setting, creating blinding glare. I often thought of Dad and how many years he did this without benefit of sunglasses, wondering how.

After checking the progress of the water, I would then need to drive the buggy to the East end of the ranch and adjust the valves. The system was antique. Water came up through cement pipes and bubble through adjustable gates. It was during this time that I would find broken pipes, hit by tractor work done at midnight after a full day at a professional job. Or drop the little antique metal plate that was part of the adjustment situation into the standpipe, in which there lived plenty of black widow spiders. It would be then, I am quite sure I grew a pair, reaching into the darkness to retrieve the metal gate and replace it.

Always, this procedure could not be cheated for time. There was no bargaining with the irrigation. It was my job and for four days, I was racing with the clock. Wiping mud off my ear as the school bell rang and my 3rd graders came pouring into the room. Or, returning to the house in the later afternoon knowing for sure that the Fresno sun had cooked half of my brain cells. At least I had the other half needed to prepare dinner, help with homework, and grade papers while VST was out working. Some days, this was a nice place to think. But, on days when it was 4:30 am, knowing I would be late to my classroom, it was frustrating.

This was farm life, and I miss it like hell some days. Not the work. Just the pace of so many things accomplished in such a healthy, beautiful environment. Through it all, VST and I were everything to each other, because no one else could really understand what was on the line. Not even the kids. We were working in two full time professional careers to support the little farm that devoured our paychecks like a certain widow gobbles Whoppers out of the Halloween candy bag.

One day, I got a card in the mail from the store that holds the Parade in New York every year. You know the one. I had been selected to join their exclusive “Bra and Panty Club”. Elation filled my heart. If I bought five the sixth was free. Even better. The thought was in my brain, waiting for the 5th of the month. No, not the day of B & P sale. Irrigation occured from the 1-4th. So, the 5th was a special day in our life. The ranch was under irrigation water. To wet to disc, furrow, or in any way touch. The 5th and 6th were our days of rest. In the entire month. Two days, which were most likely on a week day, in which we were working our real jobs. Get the picture?

VST and I had planned to meet at the mall with my boys for dinner. They were at the age of easy embarrassment, the three of them. VST and I hated shopping for different reasons. I found it tedious and still do. VST, even then, couldn’t stand very long without having back issues. The boys were just adorable lanky, goofy pre-teens that were happy to go anywhere. We were all Fresno tanned. The boys had golden buzz cuts and manners grown on the farm. Good ones you don’t often see today.

After dinner I announced that I wanted to go to the afore mentioned store and they agreed. Marching straight to the escalator, I sensed no hesitation in my group. They followed willingly. At the top of the escalator, I made a right, and sensed that I was suddenly alone, with my tribe frozen a few feet behind me. I was at the Lingerie department and the three male types with me were mortified.

I moved on little cat feet to the most beautiful bras I had ever seen. The finest lace in deliciously soft and feminine colors. Every part of these were a work of art. I had only read about the comfort I would experience when wearing one. The lace was from Italy. The hooks were painted and delicate. All of it screamed GIRL!!!!! After discovering a perfect fit on my young and svelte 30-something body, I bought two. One pink and one pinker.

Smiling ear to ear, I summoned the man of the group to come forward. As a farmer, I didn’t prefer to carry a purse. I had no time or need for the things most women carry in them. VST had a marvelous devise called a wallet, in which he held everything I needed for payment. It worked beautifully for us. Except, in this case, the cashier was a ravishing beauty, and this was the Bra and Panty Department. The boys hid behind his legs, red as little beets.

“Sir, are you a member our exclusive Bra and Panty Club?”

Forever will this moment be one that makes me laugh at the memory.

“Uhhhh.” Before he could speak, the little card that had been waiting in my jeans pocket was thrust past VST towards the minx-y cashier. “YES!” I blurted out! And right then, I lost the three of them. They were beyond saving, being mortified and slain by the mother. The beautiful woman said the words BRA AND PANTY. There was a CLUB for this?????? Silence as the exquisite purchase lay waiting for payment.

We paid as much for those two bras as we did for a gallon of farm grade Roundup. This was not lost on VST as the sideways glances of “We Will Be Talking Budget” were shooting my way. I smiled. I was a card carrying member of the EXCLUSIVE BRA AND PANTY CLUB, and I knew he wouldn’t deny me. I was right.

A few weeks ago, I had my first real shopping trip with a girlfriend. I can honestly say it has been decades since I lunched with one gal pal, gossiped, laughed, and walked the mall. Foreign territory and so much fun. She had to keep guiding me on the Covid-arrowed path, as we walked toward the afore mentioned store, modern and different, and yet exactly the same as all those years ago. We went upstairs, just like before, to the lingerie department specifically because I was planning to buy THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BRA in the store. Italian lace, the finest hooks, delicate, and exquisite.

I went to the section selling the same brand I had purchased when in THE CLUB. After looking at every single style, I took two to the dressing room. I noticed the fabric was of cheap quality. The lace polyester and computer generated. The hooks were grey metal. Plastic was involved in the construction. I sighed thinking of how things had changed, even in the bra world.

Upon trying them on, I realized a lot had changed in my world, too. And not in a good way. The mirror in the dressing room didn’t lie. Farming had been great exercise, but, any 30-something farmer girl can put on any bra and look stunning. I was stunned, but for entirely different reasons.

My bras today come from Walmart. They are 100% cotton. They cover what they need to cover and keep their shape when washed with the towels and my jeans. One bra costs what the tax would have been on the expensive one. They are new and beautiful, because I can afford to discard them the moment they aren’t. They are functional and absorbent. Durable and trustworthy. I don’t need to belong to a club to run into Walmart and buy them. Their label sends me a shout out to the farmer girl in me still, as the word FRUIT is on them somewhere.

In the heavens, VST is shaking his head, wishing I had some common sense that day so long ago, when I was a card carrying member of the EXCLUSIVE BRA AND PANTY CLUB.