Grieving Gardener

You just never know what the heck can happen when watering the church lawn. HHH and I have become the unofficial gardeners for the property. When we took over the job, HHH decided the dead spots in the lawn needed some TLC. And so, intensive watering began.

At first , we’d just go in the morning and night.

OY VEY.

I’m turning into my dad, who loved to water his church’s lawn at 3:30 AM. Over weeks of consistently visiting the church property in the middle of the night, he met a homeless man named Michael. At one point, Michael insisted that his friend, Elmer, must certainly be an angel because no human would take the time to water the lawn in the middle of the night. In many ways, my dad was Michael’s angel all those years ago.

Fast forward to our little church. While getting the new lawn to sprout, we brought the empty vegetable garden to life. Today, we’re growing two types of tomatoes, cucumbers, beans, strawberries, marigolds, and peppers. The hope is that the extra food will help those in need over the summer. Everything’s growing like crazy.

The Meditation Garden is also benefiting as James comes out to rake and trim every night. Things are looking quite nice here in our little bit of heaven.

Today, HHH and I were having a great talk about the price of groceries. The sticker shock of todays purchases was something that needed discussing. Rib Eye Steak? $29/pound. Bacon, on sale, $7.00/12 oz. And, the list went on, until we a young woman snuck up behind us.

“Is this your duck?”

What the heck? Homeless people that think we are angels, we might expect. But, a duck? A honest to goodness female mallard duck strolling through the very dry meditation garden?

“”Quack, quack, quack” as it interjected itself into our afternoon.

As the young lady continued on, she told us about reports of two ducks, but now there was just the one. Could she come get it after work? Would we mind? Was it ours?

Well, of course she could have the duck. After all, it wasn’t ours. She went back to the beauty salon, and then, the magic happened. This duck became OUR duck for a short time. It followed HHH around to get drinks of water from the hose. It quacked sassy little things to me. Once showered and refreshed, she spread her wings and wiggled her ducky little tail. If ducks can show gratitude, she did as she enjoyed the cool water.

Strutting her stuff from one side of the garden to the other, she enjoyed a good spray from HHH’s hose. She was one happy duck in a very short time.

I can honestly say, it’s been a very long time since I’ve had such fond feelings for any bird, yet alone a duck. As she sucked water off the ground, she was as happy as we were to meet on a hot and sunny afternoon under the bright blue skies of Northwestern Nevada.

When the hose was put away and it was time to go, we promised each other we wouldn’t look back. Never Look Back. With the two very busy dogs of Winterpast, the last thing we could adopt was this duck.

You just never know what can happen when you give a little of your time at the local church. It might be your day to be blessed with the happy antics of one female mallard. I hope some day you’re that lucky!!

More tomorrow.

Every year, I quietly celebrate “National Speak-in-Complete-Sentences-Day”. It’s the one day a year where fragments go to die, emojis cry lonely tears, and this retired 3rd Grade teacher raises a triumphant red pen to the sky.

This highly underappreciated annual celebration is held on May 31, which fell on Saturday this year. The only people celebrating it were over-caffeinated grammar enthusiasts, parents trying to correct their children, or me.

National Speak-in-Complete-Sentences-Day was probably invented by someone who got tired of hearing things like “Wanna?”, “Same”, and “Huh”? It’s a day to honor the entirety of the English language including, but not limited to subjects, predicates, and proper punctuation.

That’s right. Not only must full sentences be spoken, but the Grammar Gods expect punctuation so precise you practically have to narrate it. “I’m going to the store, comma, because we are out of milk, period.”

The first victims?

Text messages.

If you’ve never tried texting exclusively in complete sentences with correct capitalization and punctuation, Congratulations to you. You’ve probably never been mistaken for a Boomer by youngers.

Example:

Normal text:

“u there?”

Complete sentence version:

“Hey, are you there? I just wanted to see if you’re still coming to brunch at 11:30 a.m.” (For the record I never learned the abbreviated form of texting).

Don’t even get me started on Twitter, which became popular about 15 years ago. To put entire paragraphs of thought into 60 words or less has been “Mission-Impossible” for me, even though I was chosen Secondary Teacher of the Year. Thank goodness I taught Secondary Science and Math because “Creative Writing” would’ve finished me.

On Saturday, parents across the country spent the day explaining to their children that “Because I said so” is a complete sentence. Children retaliated by asking follow-up questions. Sentences multiplied. Conversations spiraled and the entire goal of the National Day was met.

National Speak-in-Complete-Sentences-Day may have come and gone, but its legacy lives on in the hearts of those who believe a sentence isn’t truly finished until it’s ended with a period or, in times of excitement, an exclamation point.

Next year, when May 31st rolls around, try embracing the full sentence. Eschew the fragment. Reject the grunt. And for heaven’s sake, if someone says “LOL,” politely ask them to elaborate.

Late spring feels like the desert is exhaling after the long hold of winter and the unpredictable churn of early spring. Trees are fully dressed in green, the sun lingers a little longer in the sky, while the air smells like possibility. Last night, we had one of those evenings that will settle softly into memory. Not flashy or dramatic, just full of warmth and laughter, while surrounded by good food and even better friends.

The backyard looked like a little slice of summer waiting in the wings. String lights zigzagged overhead, casting a golden hue as twilight slowly deepened. Six patio chairs with brand new cushions made things feel special.

We’d worked all day preparing for the special night. The guests remained a mystery because many were invited, but few had RSVP’d. Even the new landscaping professional and his son might stop by. We’d planned for everyone we’d asked and hoped they’d all fit around the tables in the house. Buzzing around the entire day, by the time 5:00 rolled around, we were a little spent.

But, this normally punctual group didn’t arrive on time. Soon, it was 5:15, and still no guests. Finally, Miss Dove arrived at the front door on foot.

“Oh, we did something so silly…..” She went on to tell me they had entered someone else’s house. The rest of the party was still at Ninja Neighbor’s. For those who don’t know, she lives right next door. Our guests got lost thinking her house was our house. They went in carrying gifts and food as she came around the corner.

Miss Dove thought the house looked a little different and thought NN was another guest they hadn’t met. Mr. Dove happened to know her and so, they struck up a conversation in NN’s living room. Just an unexpected part of a really fun evening.

The grill was the heart of the evening. You could hear the familiar sizzle as hamburgers hit the grates, the scent of smoky beef rising in the air. There’s something deeply nostalgic in the simplicity of buns laid out on a platter, surrounded by ketchup, mustard, pickles, and onions. Nothing fancy because it didn’t need to be.

Along the table sat the sides that every barbecue ought to have. A mountain of potato chips in a big bowl, cold and crispy. Baked beans in a crock, steaming and sweet, kissed with brown sugar and just a hint of something spicy. And then, sitting like the crown jewel of the evening. Miss Dove baked a fresh apple pie with golden crust and flaky edges, the apples inside soft and caramelized. Served with scoops of vanilla ice cream that began melting the moment they touched the warm filling, this dessert tasted like childhood.

But more than the perfect bite of burger or that fork full of pie was the feeling around the table. Friends gathered just to be together. People leaned back in their chairs, and laughter filled the evening. Stories told, some for the tenth time, were still just as funny. A certain someone (who will remain nameless) managed to lose all their underwear in a traveling snafu. That story was the jewel of the night. As dusk settled in and the solar lights started blinking at the edges of the yard, contentment, like a blanket, gently wrapped around all of us.

There was no big occasion. No celebration beyond the season itself and maybe that’s what made it so meaningful. It reminded me that joy doesn’t always come from planning or grand gestures. Sometimes, it shows up in a Chinet piled with food, ice clinking in a glass, and a slow sunset shared with people you care about.

As we washed dishes and packed up leftovers, someone said, “We should do this again soon.” We all nodded, knowing life gets busy and weeks slip by faster than we expect. Even if we don’t gather again right away, this perfect, unhurried slice of late spring will linger. A simple reminder that happiness is often homemade, grilled to perfection, and best served in a little town off the interstate nestled on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

There is a quiet kind of healing that slips into the soul when you step outside into the hush of a backyard sanctuary. At Winterpast, our home nestled gently into the rhythms of nature, the backyard is more than a space. It’s a refuge. A place where time doesn’t rush and peace lingers like the scent of flowers after rain.

Recently, we’ve had visitors who stopped by for a minute, and then just sat and relaxed. Everyone agrees that they don’t want to leave. With Mother Robin feeding her young with worms from the garden to hummingbirds that have finally arrived, our garden is a wildlife sanctuary. Unfortunately, still includes one squirrel, but this blog is about relaxation, so I’ll save that for another time.

The mornings begin with birdsong, clear and unpretentious. Doves flit among the branches, finches chatter near the feeders, and every now and then a hawk will ruin the party, causing everyone to run for cover. Their melodies are not just sounds but reminders that the world still hums with beauty even in the smallest corners.

Even the crows are in on the action. As my favorite bird and totem animal, the crows are quite humorous. HHH now agrees that where I go, so go the crows. One has taken to sitting on our fountain to get a drink. This guy is magnificent as he perches on the top tier.

The fountain gurgles steadily, a liquid heartbeat for the garden. Its water rises and falls in a soothing cadence, each drop catching sunlight like a fleeting gem. Sitting nearby, I often lose track of time, lulled by its constancy. It speaks in a language older than words, of movement and stillness, of giving and returning.

Last week, I finally found a use for my grandmother’s cast-iron caldron. That sounds really bad, but Grammie had her very own. On the ranch, she made delicious watermelon jelly over an open flame. While we farmed there for 17 years, the caldron became mine. For years, it’s been packed here and there. I finally ordered a solar fountain for it, and next week hope to buy some water lilies.

Wind chimes sway in the breeze, their tones delicate and sometimes imperceptible until they drift to your ear. There’s a magic in the unpredictability as they whisper wisdom from the wind itself. They never sing the same tune twice, yet their music always carries the same message: “Be here. Right now”.

The breeze at Winterpast is a kind and constant companion. It moves through the trees, rustling leaves like turning pages, as nature reads its own poetry. It brushes across the skin not to chill, but to wake. A beautiful invitation to breathe deeper, pause longer, and notice more.

And then, there’s the flowers. They don’t shout their beauty, they simply exist in vivid, fragrant confidence. Daisies are finally opening like smiles, lavender leans into the sun, and roses, (even with their thorns), bloom without apology. Watching them reminds me that growth is quiet, but never still. It continues even when no one is looking.

Everyone who visits Winterpast feels it. There’s a softness here that settles over the spirit. The gardens speak to something universal that every soul is longing for in this crazy, noisy, busy world: stillness.

Ands so, no one wants to leave. People linger longer than they planned to, holding cups of coffee that have gone cold, not because they’ve forgotten them, but because they’ve remembered themselves. Time slows. The noise recedes. And in the quiet, they find what they didn’t know they were looking for.

Winterpast is aptly named speaking of seasons that have gone, sorrows that have softened, and memories that have settled like fallen leaves. In its backyard, one finds not just peace, but the kind of stillness that restores. The kind of silence that speaks volumes.

May we all find our Winterpast where the soul can sit quietly, listening to fountains and finches, feeling the breeze, and learning once again how to be at peace.

There’s something sacred about a garden planted not only with seeds, but with memories. Tucked between the church and the Tee Pee Bar and Grill, and nearly hidden beneath layers of ivy and time, was such a place. A meditation garden, once a quiet haven of prayer and remembrance, had long fallen into neglect. Thanks to the faith and fellowship of our congregation, that little patch of holy ground has begun to bloom again.

The garden quite literally sprouted from love. Many years ago, Pastor Marilyn, who served our congregation with a gentle spirit and a green thumb, envisioned a place where people could reflect, remember, and feel close to God. A gardener herself, she believed the church grounds could use a special sanctuary, something more than just grass and trees. So she gathered a few volunteers, picked out plants with purpose, and carved out a space where hearts could heal in the quiet beauty of nature. That vision grew into the meditation garden.

Over time, however, seasons changed, people moved on, and Pastor Marilyn took her place in heaven. The garden, once so tenderly cared for, became overgrown and forgotten. It all might have ended there if not for one thought spoken on a Sunday. “We should do something to clean up the garden.”

Memories came flooding back. Names whispered in prayer under its trees and the quiet comfort it offered to grieving hearts. Before long, another church group asked if they could help clean it up. Not only did they ask, but they showed up armed with gloves, shovels, and a determination to bring it back to life.

Years of leaves and overgrowth had blanketed the space. But as the work progressed, the garden slowly began to reveal itself. From beneath suckers on a tree trunk, a small plaque was uncovered. Weathered but intact was laminated sheet music for Jesus Loves Me, mounted on a tiny wooden board and drilled lovingly into the side of a tree. That simple melody, so deeply ingrained in our childhoods, felt like a benediction from the past.

More treasures followed. Hand-painted plaques with short verses. Faded yard art spinning in the breeze. Perhaps most poetically, someone uncovered a shrub unlike the others. HHH pulled out his “Plant Parent” app to find out that this bush was actually named “The Burning Bush” (Euonymus alatus). The name was more than botanical and felt like a message. Just as God spoke to Moses through the burning bush, maybe He was speaking to us now: “Take off your shoes, for the ground you are standing on is holy.”

The burning bush has become our symbol of renewal, of God’s abiding presence, and of how life renews itself even in forgotten places. We’ve been pruning and praying. James has been out working the garden every day, plucking weeds before they have a chance to grow. With water, work, and time, this garden will again bring peace to our community.

While the garden is once again taking shape, it’s the togetherness that’s truly blossoming. Older members share stories, younger ones lend their strength, and in the rhythm of digging and planting, we’ve found community. The church isn’t just a building or a schedule of services but people showing up, getting their hands dirty, and loving one another.

In the evenings now, when the sun filters through the trees while illuminating the little Jesus Loves Me plaque. You can almost hear the song, faint and sweet, like a lullaby on the wind. It stands, decades later, as a message that Jesus loves us. Still. Always. Forever. Even in overgrown corners and long-forgotten gardens.

Yes.

Especially there.

I must be honest and tell you that real grass is a bit of a diva. It needs sunlight but not too much sunlight. Water it, but not too often. Keep it trimmed, weed-free, fertilized, aerated, and whispered sweet nothings to under a full moon. What’s the reward? Patchy brown spots from our female canine and random dandelion invasions.

Enter the glorious world of artificial turf, also known as fake lawn. This is the best decision we’ve made since upgrading to heated car seats. Fake grass doesn’t care about droughts, foot traffic, or our tragic track record with the 2025 houseplants. It’s vibrantly green year-round and never throws a tantrum in the middle of summer. No more yellow patches. No more “we’ll just re-seed it next year” lies.

The back yard at Winterpast is home to the nicest “real” lawn in the world. Other than suffering with girl-dog brown spots, it’s doing well. It gets mowed two times a week to stay in tip-top shape. At the first hint of a weed, HHH and I are on the attack. It’s the prettiest shade of green although the actual variety remains a mystery.

Now, the front yard once had an equally lovely lawn, until it was ripped out by the roots and replacec with white rocks. With the up-do on the front yard in full swing, it’s time to bring on the green, even if it is artificial.

Last Saturday, HHH and I decided to drop by Kelly at the carpet center in town. Kelly is such a go-getter. Along with selling synthetic lawn, he also sells blinds, carpet, linoleum, flooring, and U-Haul rentals. In his spare time, he’s thinking of opening a nursery which is something our little town desperately needs.

We only needed to ask about his opinion of installing synthetic lawn. It turns out he’s had his for five years and other than treating it twice a year to a little “spa” treatment, his looks as good as the day it was installed.

We can’t wait until our neighbors walk by and whisper, “Wow, how do they keep it so nice?” We’ll just smile and wave, never disclosing our little secret. Low-maintenance landscaping at its finest will leave more time for lounging and less time for lawn therapy. In our drought-ridden desert, fake grass will be our best friend. No irrigation. No sprinkler system drama. No prayers for rain. Just pretty green at all times.

Of course, grass purists may sniff and say, “But, it’s not natural.” To them, we’ll reply “Try it before you knock it.” A true Master Gardener would shudder at the thought, but, here at Winterpast we need a facelift. It can’t come soon enough.

The next steps will involve finding someone to chop down one tree, grind a stump, move some rocks and get to work!!! I promise to share pictures when complete.

Cheers to the lawn that never quits! Our new synthetic grass will stay cool (figuratively) under pressure. Sometimes, the most beautiful thing about nature is being able to fake it in just the right shade of green.

As the unofficial start to summer, Memorial Day often brings with it barbecues, family gatherings, and long-awaited vacations. Yet beneath the sunshine and festivities lies a solemn and profound truth: Memorial Day is a sacred time of remembrance. It’s a day when we, as Americans, pause to honor the brave men and women who gave their lives in service to our country.

Memorial Day is not simply a long weekend but a national day of mourning and gratitude. From the Revolutionary War to the most recent conflicts overseas, countless Americans have laid down their lives so others might live free. Their sacrifice forms the bedrock of our liberties, democracy, and the peace we often take for granted.

These heroes came from every corner of the nation, from every background and creed. What united them was a deep belief in something greater than themselves: the promise of America. They fought not for fame or recognition, but for the people they left behind including their families, their communities, and future generations who would never know their names but would live under the flag they defended.

On Memorial Day, we are called to do more than simply remember, but also reflect. Take a moment to visit a local veterans’ cemetery, attend a memorial service, or simply observe the National Moment of Remembrance at 3:00 PM local time. Let the silence echo the lives lost and the weight of their absence.

Talk to veterans. Listen to their stories. Teach your children not just the history of war, but the humanity of those who serve. By passing on these lessons, we ensure that the stories of our fallen heroes are never forgotten, and their sacrifices never taken for granted.

I’m so proud of my two sons who gave over almost 5 decades of their lives to the United States Air Force. Deployment in time of war is not only hell for the soldiers but also for their families at home. Those lucky enough to return are forever changed, mentally, physically, spiritually, and emotionally. Veterans and their families also need our prayers long after their service is complete. War is hell.

I’m also proud of My Mysterious Marine, HHH. Serving in the 70’s wasn’t always the easiest for a young man and his brand-new family. Thank you for all the sacrifices you made then, and your continued life of excellence as the Marine you’ll always be.

We owe them more than thanks. We owe them our commitment to live lives worthy of their sacrifice. That means building a more perfect union grounded in respect, service, justice, and unity. It means caring for those who return from war, supporting the families of the fallen, and standing up for the values they fought and died defending.

This Memorial Day, let us bow our heads not only in sorrow, but in gratitude. Let us remember not only the lives lost, but the ideals they fought to protect. Let us live not just for ourselves, but for the legacy they left behind.

Because freedom isn’t free and the cost has been paid in the lives of our finest.

May we never forget.

Tomorrow, in the quiet stillness of early morning, before the sun climbs too high over the sagebrush hills, a gentle procession will begin . Volunteers of all ages, families with small children, veterans in crisp caps, and Boy Scout troops holding bundles of American flags will gather at the gates of the Northern Nevada Veterans Memorial Cemetery. Each flag they will plant represents promises to remember, honor, and never forget.

Memorial Day here is not just a holiday but a sacred ritual observed by thousands who come from miles around. We are lucky enough to be home to the national Cemetery which is the final resting place for almost 10,000 veterans.

As we walk through neat rows of headstones, the silence is almost reverent, broken only by the rustle of wind across the desert and the soft flutter of flags already placed. Some stone markers are newly etched, while others bear the marks of weather and time. But each one holds a name, a story, a life that chose service above self.

When you kneel at a gravesite, press a flag gently into the soil, and read the name engraved there—James E. Michaels, SGT, U.S. Army, Vietnam—you cannot help but wonder who he was when he was 19, or 35, or in the final moments of his last deployment. Did he love fishing at Pyramid Lake? Did he write letters home every week? Did someone wait at the kitchen window for him, long after the war had ended?

For many of us who come to place flags, this is not an act of routine patriotism. It is an act of connection. There’s a shared understanding and silent fellowship when you look into the eyes of another volunteer who kneels while remembering. Some hide their tears. Others speak aloud: “Thank you.” That’s all. Two words carried into the wind like a prayer.

This cemetery is special. Tucked away from the bustle of Reno and the casino lights of Sparks, it sits in solemn peace under Nevada’s big sky. In that vastness, something powerful happens when the enormity of sacrifice becomes intimate.

Children ask questions: “Did she fight in a war?” “Why do we put flags?” Their parents answer with stories of courage and conviction. In this way, Memorial Day becomes more than symbolic. It becomes a generational and living history passed from hand to hand, one flag at a time.

Before an hour passes, the landscape transforms. Ten thousand small American flags stand at attention in the wind, like a sea of red, white, and blue stitched into the earth. The cemetery, once still and green, is now vibrant with life and gratitude.

Finishing in silence, our hearts heavier but also lifted. To honor the dead is to recommit to the values of duty, freedom, sacrifice, and love of country. While they no longer walk among us, their presence is deeply felt.

This is what it means to remember.

So next Memorial Day, if you find yourself wondering how to truly honor the fallen, come to a place like this. Bring your hands, your heart, and a flag. You’ll leave changed.

One of the great mysteries of married life isn’t how to fold a fitted sheet or who left the wet towel on the bed but discovering what lays frozen in the back of your freezer.

After 1.5 years into marriage, we uncovered the top layer of our wedding cake. Tucked behind a bag of German sausage and a long-forgotten turkey roast, there it was. Frostbitten, slightly lopsided, and still dressed in its original plastic time-capsuled from our big day.

What a beautiful cake it was! Created by HHH’s daughter, soft white layers were frosted in buttercream and crowned with a cascade of rich fall flowers. Burnt orange roses, burgundy mums, and golden ranunculus were delicately arranged to make our cake look like it had come straight out of an autumn meadow. Equal parts of rustic and romantic, there was a hint of October in every bite. Even after a year and a half in a deep freeze, it still looked like it had come out of a fairy tale.

Traditionally, newlyweds eat the top layer of their cake on their first anniversary. We meant to. Really, we did. But instead of cake, we celebrated our one-year milestone by meandering through the geysers, grizzlies, elk, and waterfalls of Yellowstone National Park. Romantic? Absolutely. A practical place to enjoy a frozen dessert? Not so much.

So the cake stayed in the freezer. Forgotten, it remained a sugary relic from the past.

1.5 years later, this humble cake has a new purpose. This October, two dear friends (affectionately nicknamed “The Doves”) are tying the knot. In a sweet twist of fate, Mr. Dove was the 6th-grade teacher of HHH’s daughter. With some fatherly encouragement, she’ll make their cake, too! It only makes sense to share this chilly little heirloom, allowing them taste-test a slice of love’s past?

The Doves are walking a path familiar to us, embarking on married life a bit later than the average couple while navigating all the same questions, hesitations, and what-ifs we faced. Watching them choose love brings back memories of our own story. We couldn’t be happier for them.

Is eating a cake frozen for 18 months safe? Honestly, we’re not entirely sure. We’re hoping that love, sugar, and an enthusiastic dose of frosting can overcome the minor inconvenience of the cake being past its expiration date. Worst-case scenario, they spit it out and find another baker. Best case? We’ll pass a magical moment of wedding tradition like a culinary baton.

So here’s to old cake, new beginnings, and the strange, beautiful things you find when you empty your freezer. Love is wonderful, even if it takes time to say “yes” to a beautiful future.

Life can change in an instant. One moment, you’re bandaging a scraped knee; the next, you’re navigating an unexpected hospital admission. Although every medical emergency can’t be predicted, we can prepare for them—physically, mentally, and logistically.

A dear friend from Kansas is having a rough go in intensive care and needs prayers today. Along with her, the photographer from our wedding was airlifted to the hospital last night in respiratory distress or something worse. Both dear friends were healthy just days ago. Some horrible viruses are wreaking havoc on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Stealth and potentially lethal, one never knows when they’ll strike close to home.

it’s important that somewhere in your wallet, you carry the phone number of the person in charge of making your medical decisions if you are unable. Good job if you’ve already made medical directives and organized last wishes. In this crazy world, one thing is certain. The unexpected happens.

Whether it’s a minor cut, a sudden illness, or a long hospital stay, here’s how to be ready when your health or that of someone you love is on the line.

A solid first aid kit is your frontline defense against everyday medical issues customized to fit your household’s needs. This kit is really important when living alone. There is nothing worse than needing to run to the store when sick or injured. Be sure to check all expiration dates on your supplies, replenishing and replacing as needed.

Essentials:

• Adhesive bandages (various sizes)
• Sterile gauze and medical tape
• Antiseptic wipes or solution
• Tweezers and small scissors
• Digital thermometer
• Pain relievers (check expiration dates)
• Allergy meds (in our case, an EpiPen for bee stings reactions)
• Anti-nausea and antidiarrheal meds
• Mucinex (both pills and liquid)
• Electrolyte packets or oral rehydration salts

When things go wrong, information saves time and lives. Keep both digital and printed records of:

• Medical history
• Allergies and medications
• Emergency contacts
• Health insurance cards
• A copy of your ID
• Advance directives or healthcare proxies, if applicable
• Next of Kin phone name, relationship, and phone number.

Use a folder, waterproof bag, or medical binder to keep things accessible. There are even apps that let you store and share this information securely. If possible, keep a copy in your purse.

If you need to isolate during a contagious illness it helps to have a dedicated “quarantine zone”.

Consider having on hand:

• Gloves and masks
• Disinfectants and cleaning supplies
• Waste bags and a safe sharps container
• Pulse oximeter and blood pressure cuff
• Extra bedding and towels
• A notepad to track symptoms or medications

Medical emergencies often come with zero warning. A hospital go-bag can ease the confusion. Pack a bag with a change of clothing, underwear, toiletries, and pajamas. If you’re like me, you’ll throw in an extra blanket.

Medical disasters don’t just hurt physically but shake a sense of control. Part of preparation is emotional resilience.

• Know your support network (friends, neighbors, therapists)
• Talk about your wishes with family
• Practice calming techniques (breathing, grounding)
• Accept that asking for help shows strength, not weakness

Being mentally prepared doesn’t mean expecting the worst, but allows one to stay grounded when the worst happens. Preparing for medical disasters is about self-respect and responsibility. Whether it’s a scraped elbow or a week in the ICU, focus on healing, not the small stuff.

You may never need that backup oxygen meter or printed medical record. But if you do, you’ll be glad you were ready.

Start today. Start small. Just start.

More tomorrow