Grieving Gardener

Spring and summer barbequing happen often here at Winterpast. HHH creates the most wonderful steaks and ribs, making it seem like they cooked themselves. That was until his Traeger started screaming like a banshee every time it was turned on. The squealing was so loud, he decided he’d put BBQing on hold for a while. Well, spring has sprung, and that time has arrived. Last week, it needed fixing.

All we needed was a troubleshooting guide and YouTube.It’s amazing how many quick repairs can be found online. With a video and troubleshooting options, we were ready to fix the Banshee Barbecue using the power of the Internet, some grease, and a screwdriver.

First, we needed to identify which of the two fans were squealing. Unhooking the first one, the squeal continued. But, when the second was unhooked ear-piercing noise stopped. Without cuts, or electrocutions, we’d located the problem.

Everything was just as the YouTube repairman had instructed after we had entered “How do I fix squealing Traeger”. Thank goodness it was the $20 fix instead of the $420 fix. We were careful to choose the on-line repairman that was easiest to follow.

On YouTube, we’ve found answers to beekeeping questions, advice on how to care for engorged teats after weaning a litter of puppies, and how to open the hood of a Ram Truck. The last one was necessary when I first became widowed and didn’t yet realize the true value of YouTube.

After watching the entire video, we searched for the necessary tools.

HHH needed the following:

• A screwdriver
• WD-40 or silicone lubricant
• A clean rag
• A vacuum

Once everything was unplugged, he followed the instructions on the video like a pro. In no time at all, everything was back in place. Reassembled and running, the fan sounded like a gentle breeze rather than a tortured squirrel. A thorough cleaning and a little grease fixed the problem..

There is nothing more tantalizing than a man who can fix anything! HHH, you are my hero!! Can’t wait to enjoy a season of your delicious BBQ’d meals.

Now, let’s find a video to fix the next thing on our list!!

This spring, I did what every optimistic gardener does: I planted hope in the form of tender, innocent seedlings. With careful precision, I arranged rows of Black-Eyed Susan’s, Purple Cone Flowers, Lupine, and Shasta Daisies, each one a promise of cut flowers and happy blogs. This took the better part of a day two weeks ago. The gardens looked stellar.

And then… the squirrel moved in. Disaster came with tiny little teeth that mowed down my hopes and dreams. All that remained of the Zebrina were tiny little stems. As for the Yarrow, they were plucked from the ground with no sign that they The Aster’s survived, but only remain because they were planted in higher boxes.

You’d think he’d show up in polite, bushy-tailed fashion and nibble respectfully, taking one bite and moving along. No. He wasn’t an average squirrel, but a hardened, seasoned, flower-pillaging marauder who recognized our garden as an all-you-can-eat buffet. If it had thumbs, it would have given it a 5-star review with several enthusiastic tail flicks for good measure.

Teasing us from a variety of mysterious holes, he never buried any acorns. He simply flamed the grudge I have against him. Ready to give up and have a flower-less yard, HHH shamed me a bit. Was I going to let a little rodent win this war??? Was I that weak??? Where was my fighting spirit? All excellent questions that renewed my quest for success.

So far, we’ve invested alot in this years floral crop. There are the heirloom seeds, because no one wants genetically modified anything. Organic fertilizer to boost bloom production. Mulch of the highest quality. Peat pots, specially sprouting soil, and hours and hours of love to get these babies to grow under new lights necessary to grow fabulous plants.

After THE incident, one more expense nearly gutted me. A trip west to replace all the flowers on their way to blooming. There’s a direct relationship between filling the back of an SUV and an empty wallet.

One thing that can’t be replaced is the stretched and aching muscles used during one afternoon of seedling planting. Gardening, in theory, is good exercise. In reality, it’s a series of yoga poses invented by a sadist. I performed the “downward dig,” the “wheelbarrow shuffle,” and my personal favorite, “accidental knee-in-mulch scream.” By Sunday evening, I was the one with the heating pad. That day had been so happy and relaxing, with a dedicated bed for each type of flower. When finished, it was a thing of beauty, even if I’d need a few days to recover.

And for what? For a squirrel to treat my plot like a Vegas buffet and leave behind nothing but tiny footprints and tiny little stems.

Gardening books don’t cover this. They talk about “pest control” like it’s a minor inconvenience. This is not a pest. This is war. When there is a war, the warrior must have a gun. We have two. That squirrel is going down. Don’t worry. I’ll dedicate a blog to him when he’s gone.

Please, just try to humor me by agreeing with a few key points.

1. Squirrels are not cute. They are agents of chaos in adorable fur coats. Don’t be fooled.
2. Gardening is not alway relaxing. It’s a tragic comedy in three acts: Hope, Devastation, Replanting.
3. Flowers are necessary for a happy life. Therefore, we will absolutely do this again next year.

Why?

Because maybe, just maybe, this time we’ll outsmart the squirrel and there won’t be another. Hope is the first seed you plant, and stubbornness is the compost that helps it grow.

More tomorrow.

Oliver and Wookie are just plain cute, which is a really good thing because they are a handful. A color-coordinated set, they stay on “high alert” most of the time. Of course, they rarely jump over the couch anymore, so maybe they’ve slowed down a tiny bit. They’re majestic little gremlins with fur. What most people don’t know is that our adorable duo doesn’t just steal hearts—they also rob bank accounts with the enthusiasm of two fuzzy Bonnie and Clydes.

In the beginning, high-maintenance Oliver lived with me, and high-maintenance Wookie lived with HHH. These dogs helped us through some very lonely times as we grieved. They were the best cuddlers and listeners we could’ve asked for. Oliver was loyal to the max unless he was on a toad hunt or eating the sprinklers and plastic solar lighting.

Wookie did her best to make HHH smile while she did the same. Yes. Wookie smiles at the right times and with purpose. In doing so, she makes the world a better place. She also races around the yard in a state of pure elation while Oliver barks at her heels. The two were meant for each other, just like their doggie parents.

Neither HHH nor I meant to own a high-maintenance dog. We both started with our own little furball. Marriage blended our families, and apparently, we enjoy chaos as we managed to double it.

Now we live with a small circus act that requires gourmet kibble, monthly spa appointments, and emotional support at frequent visits to puppy camp that make us both look like their pets.

Don’t forget dog food. These two have preferences. One refuses to eat unless she feels like it. The other eats so quickly, we use a puzzle bowl to keep him from throwing up after dinner. Combine the cost of kibble, fresh cheese, greenies, and other snacks, and it adds up.

They both have coats that grow faster than the weeds at Winterpast. So it’s off to the groomer every eight weeks, where appointments cost about $80/dog. They come back smelling like lavender angels… for approximately 3 hours before one of them rolls in the yard like a freshly shaved heathen.

They see the vet more than I see my doctor. One has dental issues. The other was neutered last year. “Would you like pain meds for Wookie? That will be $20 a pill, please.” Between check-ups and vaccines we basically fund a wing of the vet clinic.

Toys that are destroyed in under 4 minutes? Check. Don’t forget puppy camp. Going on vacation? Ollie and Wookie prefer their five-star staycations with their best friend Michelle.

Despite the hair on our clothes, the cheese disappearing from the fridge, and the never-ending doggy drama, these two high-maintenance weirdos are our little loves. They make us laugh daily, force us outside when we’d rather wallow, and greet us like rockstars even when just returning from the mailbox.

They’ve emptied the bank account, yes—but they’ve filled our lives in a way no amount of money could. (Although if either of them ever wants to get a job, I’m open to it.)

So to anyone considering one—or two—high-maintenance dogs: be prepared. You’re not just getting pets. You’re getting two furry dependents with emotional baggage and the life style of spoiled celebrities. In exchange, you’ll get unconditional love, warm noses on cold nights, and a life that’s messier, louder, and infinitely more joyful.

Just start a savings account first……

My first week at Winterpast was like stepping onto a stage where everyone already knew the script. I arrived late on stage, flipping pages to find my place. Names were familiar to everyone but me, landmarks had stories I didn’t know, and the rhythm to life that took time to learn. All of that took a back seat during my first year of grief.

During the COVID quarantine, I needed to fit in somewhere. This was hard to do when all doors were shut tight while faces were hidden behind masks.

Fitting in didn’t mean changing who I was—it meant allowing myself to take root in new soil. The problem was that I’d become someone totally different, transplanted in an unfamiliar environment. Like in any garden, that took time, patience, spring rains, and a lot of sunshine.

In our small town, presence matters more than polish, and that was a blessing. People wanted to see if I’d show up, whether for Bible study or Sunday morning service. It was never about standing out but more about standing beside. Everything was strange. Slowly, every smile and handshake became a thread in beautiful new tapestry called “HOME”. Things would have turned out differently without God.

Small towns are rich in stories, and old-time residents keep them alive. Sitting at the café or lingering at the hardware store, I listened. I asked questions not just to be polite, but to understand. There’s a kind of unspoken respect in letting others tell you who they are before you introduce yourself. Slowly, I found the answers needed to survive and thrive.

In a place where everyone knows everyone, there was no room for pretending. The upside? I wasn’t expected to be anything more than who I was. Authenticity carries weight. Over time, people stopped seeing that “new person” and started seeing the new neighbor, the woman who helped at the Holiday food drive, or the gal who always waves from her Jeep.

One of the fastest ways to fit in was to contribute. Our small church relies on volunteers and neighborly help more than formal systems. Whether stacking chairs, bringing soup to a sick neighbor, or helping someone find their lost dog, those quiet acts echo loudly in tight-knit communities.

There’s a myth that small towns are either instantly warm or permanently closed off. The truth lives somewhere in between. Trust is a slow-growing vine, and fitting in can take months, even years. But when it happens, it’s real. Not transactional or temporary, but lasting—like the way someone leaves a porch light on for you when they know you’re coming home late.

Fitting in isn’t about erasing your edges to match a mold. It’s about learning the contours of the community and finding where your shape naturally fits. Small town people don’t ask for perfection—they ask for presence, patience, and a willingness to be known.

Now, when someone calls me by name at Walmart or stops by to say “Hi” on a Sunday afternoon—I know: I’m not just living here anymore. I’m a Nevadan.

Health is one of those blessings that whispers rather than shouts. It moves in the background of our lives, subtle and constant, so subtle that we rarely notice—until it’s gone.

When healthy, we move through the world with a kind of freedom that feels natural: rising in the morning without pain, breathing without effort, eating without caution, and walking without pain or planning. But none of these things are guaranteed. They are, in truth, small miracles. When we stop to recognize them, we begin to understand that health is not just a physical state—it’s a grace.

Having been blessed with remarkable health for 69 1/2 years, I don’t stop to give it much thought as often as I should. That changed in January when Influenza A almost took me out. Life can change in a moment and it’s wise to remember that as often as possible. A gratitude journal should always start by recognizing the health you enjoy!!!

Health allows us to show up for the people we love. It lets us work, laugh, rest, and contribute will giving us the energy to pursue purpose, the clarity to savor joy, and the strength to endure challenge. In our fast-paced lives, it can be traded away piece by piece as we skip rest, ignore symptoms, or numb stress until our bodies finally ask us to listen.

Gratitude for health doesn’t mean pretending everything is perfect. It means honoring what is working, even in the midst of struggle. It means saying thank you for the breath in our lungs, the beat of our hearts, the resilience of our spirits. For the healing of a wound, the clearing of a mind, the steady rhythm of a body doing its best.

For those walking through illness or recovery, the blessing of health becomes something else entirely: a beacon of hope, a goal, a memory, a daily prayer. It teaches us humility and presence. It reminds us that even in weakness, there is strength. Even in limitation, there is life.

Health isn’t a trophy we earn but a gift we are called to steward. It should be nourished with rest, movement, food, and water, while not forgetting to show kindness toward ourselves and others. Not because we fear its loss, but because we cherish its presence.

Today, take a moment to be still and grateful. Recognize the quiet miracle of a body that carries us, a mind that reasons, and a heart that beats. Health may not always be loud or glamorous, but it is one of life’s greatest blessings—and one that deserves our deepest thanks.

There’s something about the high desert that feels ancient and unspoken, as if time slows just enough for your soul to catch up with your body. Overhead, the sky stretches in a way it doesn’t anywhere else—wide, unbroken, impossibly blue. It’s the kind of blue that stops you in your tracks, makes you squint upward, and breathe a little deeper.

Every time HHH and I leave to run errands, I find myself commenting on the beauty of the surroundings. Growing up on a vineyard in the Central Valley of California, I never knew how luscious skies could be. That was until I moved to Nevada eleven years ago. The only thing that would make the desert any better is the return of the mustangs. As I wrote a couple of weeks ago, they are gone for good.

The high desert plains are not known for being easy. They are stark, windswept, sometimes lonely. The land rolls in soft undulations, dotted with sagebrush, scattered junipers, and the occasional jackrabbit vanishing into the shimmer of heat. But above it all, the sky is a balm—deep and clean, unmarred by skyscrapers, cell towers, or the haze of a too-busy life.

Being able to look for miles in any direction only to see open land is something city dwellers will never appreciate. Seeing snow-capped mountains one hundred miles away lifts the soul. The black of the desert night is something you need to experience to understand TRUE darkness.

In the early hours, before the sun fully wakes the land, the sky is a pale wash of silver-purple-ish-blue, hinting at the intensity to come. As the day builds, so does the color—azure at noon, shifting to cobalt by late afternoon. On clear days (which is most of them), the sky feels infinite. It pulls at your thoughts while opening your chest to invite you to dream.

There’s a kind of honesty in that sky. Maybe it’s the altitude—thinner air, less distortion. Maybe it’s the way the land below is stripped of frills and pretense. You can see for miles here, and you feel seen in return. The bluest skies aren’t just pretty—they’re revealing. Under them, you remember things: who you were before the world got noisy, what it felt like to be small and unafraid of it.

Clouds come and go like visitors—never overstaying, always moving. When they do, they add contrast, like brushstrokes on a canvas that doesn’t need painting but welcomes it anyway. During storms, the sky is a theater, where thunderheads roll in like ancient gods and lightning dances in the distance while the air stays dry.

The desert encourages us to look up. With so much open space, there’s no excuse not to. Out here, the sky isn’t just above you—it becomes part of you. A reminder that beauty doesn’t need embellishment and vastness can comfort as much as it humbles. Sometimes, blue isn’t the color of sadness, but of peace.

As a grieving widow in 2020, I found comfort in releasing balloons to mark the number of months I’d been alone. I can’t remember the color of the sky when I released the first lone balloon to travel toward heaven. Only 30 days widowed, I can tell you how the grass felt on my cheeks as I lay sobbing. The 12th release was on a bright sunny day, assuring me that travels through grief would become easier as the days went by.

The bluest sky is right outside my window today. With lots of gardening to do, I can’t wait to be out in the sunshine. Things are just healthier under our lovely skies.

If you ever find yourself on the high desert plains, take a moment. Look up. Let that blue fill your lungs, your heart, your memory. Because once you’ve seen it, you’ll never forget the bluest skies of the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

More tomorrow.

Somewhere around 4:00 am, I fumbled blindly for shoes and socks in the dark while remembering that Jesus didn’t exactly sleep in on Easter either. He’s the only reason I didn’t roll over and go back to sleep. Yesterday, HHH and I attended a service at sunrise.

Not just any service, mind you, but one took place on the top of a mountain. A real, actual mountain with a road designed by cows, for cows, and left to erode in peace for 30 years. The only way up is in a vehicle with clearance and traction driven by a determined driver. Passengers need to close their eyes and hope for the best.

Arriving at the church by 5 was the first requirement if we intended on joining the caravan. The one drawback was intense dust if traveling at the back of the pack, but no one seemed to mind too much. After waiting 15 minutes for the group to assemble, we headed west.

Taking the road to my favorite lake is always exciting. Off the beaten path, it’s desert wilderness with not a tree in sight and mountains that jut upward towards the stars. Imagine driving on a road without any streetlights well before sunrise. It gives the phrase “dark as night” new meaning.

The darkness hid the major eyesore of acres and acres of solar panels. I’ve no patience for people who think of the desert as useless land, perfect for solar panels or nuclear waste. We need to protect our nation’s open spaces. Quite curious, these panels sit on an Indian reservation.

One needs to know exactly how to find the crosses on the hill. Not marked in any way, the turn is almost invisible in the dark. Having lived in the area for decades, HHH knew right where to turn without street lights or signs. Just a dusty road headed west towards Hooterville. A real place, Hooterville is a grouping of weathered trailers and a few structures where Hootervillians live.

Driving up that rutted road in the dark was like navigating a minefield in slow motion. Every bump questioned the integrity of the axles. Arriving at the broken-down cattle corrals, we were there. Along with members of three local churches, we waited for Easter Sunday sunrise. In minutes, the sky would bloom into soft, impossibly beautiful desert colors.

Three old wooden crosses stood weathered and unwavering on the ridge, silhouetted against the awakening sky, a heavenly vision. Around them, a small flock of the faithful stood bundled in jackets, sipping thermoses of coffee that smelled like hope and survival.

The hymns and readings, heartfelt and hopeful. In moments of silence, the only sound was the breeze passing over the desert while worshippers whispered to each other.

The beauty of this service wasn’t just the sunrise, though that’s the part that brought us all together. It was the trip up a mountain before the world awoke to share grumbling and sleepy smiles. The unspoken camaraderie of people who choose to chase light.

Easter is about the impossible becoming real. Light out of darkness. Life out of death. Hope when it makes absolutely no logical sense. What better way to embody that than a 5 a.m. drive up a mountain road that looks like a moon scape.

Will we do it again next year?

Absolutely.

There’s something sacred about sharing the dawn with people you love. Something holy about standing under those old wooden crosses, watching the light crawl over the ridgeline like a whispered promise.

Was it convenient?

No.

Was it comfortable?

No.

Was it REAL???

Absolutely.

Jesus rose from the dead on Easter morning.

It was a very small sacrifice to rise from a warm bed to worship him.

Even at 5 a.m.

More tomorrow.

Good Friday and Easter offer Christians everywhere a time for reflection, reverence, and celebration. These two days hold deep spiritual significance, marking the ultimate sacrifice of Christ and His triumphant victory over death. Here at Winterpast, we’ll be celebrating the season with family on the side of a mountain at sunrise and at church.

Good Friday is a day for us to remember the immense love and sacrifice of Jesus Christ. It marks the day He was crucified, taking upon Himself the human sin of this world. The weight of the cross reminds us that love, in its purest form, is sacrificial and boundless.

Easter is a day of celebration as we remember that Mary arrived at an empty tomb. Jesus overcame death to find His reward of everlasting life. Just like this beautiful spring season, life after death completes an amazing cycle for believers everywhere.

Our church is holding a special service tonight. HHH and I are the caretakers for the churchyard. Later this morning, we’ll be mowing, edging, and beautifying the grounds for this most important weekend. It’s our way of performing an act of kindness and service. Our pastor does so much for everyone else that he needn’t be mowing the yard.

On Easter Sunday, our town observes a 30-year-old tradition. Around 5:15 am, a procession of cars will climb up a dirty and rutted road to watch the Easter sunrise. Next to three wooden crosses, we’ll sing and listen to an inspirational message while watching the sunrise in the east. It’s easy to find the turnoff. Just follow the taillights traveling up the mountain as they glow in the dark. You’ll know you’re there when you get to the empty cattle pens at the top.

At 11, HHH and I plan to put on our Sunday best and join friends and family in the celebration of new life. For Christians, the day is all about the ultimate triumph of light over darkness, life over death, and hope over despair.

While Good Friday and Easter offer the chance to enjoy your own holiday traditions, consider carrying the spirit of Easter into your daily life. Today, carry humility and love with you throughout your day. On Sunday, remember the joy and hope that Jesus brought into the world.

For Christians, these observances include a personal journey from sorrow to joy and from death to life. Embrace the full range of emotions—grief, awe, gratitude, and joy—and allow them to deepen your connection to God and one another. While Good Friday and Easter offer the chance to enjoy your own holiday traditions, carry the spirit of Easter into your daily life. Today, show humility and love to others throughout your day. On Sunday, celebrate the joy and hope that Jesus brought into the world.

Happy Easter! I’ll be back on Monday!!

Winterpast is finally ready for a little bit of a facelift! We are in the process of agreeing on trim paint for our home. Finding a shared vision for Winterpast has been an exciting adventure. Thank goodness we have similar plans for the future.

Winterpast is the name of our home. At the front door, there is a plaque with her name, which I found in a Jan Karon book shortly after I’d moved in. The story involved star-crossed lovers and the attic of a mansion that was built for a woman the builder would never marry. The name “Winterpast” was carved on one rafter, a secret testament to the love that could never be.

The word was made from from Song of Solomon Chapter 2.

My beloved speaks and says to me:
“Arise, my love, my beautiful one,
    and come away,
 for behold, the winter is past;
    the rain is over and gone.
 The flowers appear on the earth,
    the time of singing^[a] has come,
and the voice of the turtledove
    is heard in our land.
 The fig tree ripens its figs,
    and the vines are in blossom;
    they give forth fragrance.
Arise, my love, my beautiful one,
    and come away.

I chose the name in 2020 with faith and the belief that someday the winter of grief I was experiencing would pass. Later in life, I would find blooming flowers and cooing doves. In deed, that has come to pass. The doves flock to our yard in search of the food HHH provides.

Right now, Winterpast is all one color. Built in 2004, I’m not sure that she was painted that way, but today, she is all one color. Funny things happen to paint in the desert. With a brown roof and a pinkish base coat, what she needs is painted trim. Luckily, that happens to be in HHH’s skill set.

A few weeks ago, we picked up paint samples and started discussing our options. There are so many colors from which to choose. But, as it usually happens with us, the decision came easily. With a soft brown for the trim and rusty henna for the railing and front door, we’re ready to roll. The date for completion is Memorial Day, but HHH assures me it’ll be done far before then.

After the new trim paint, the next step will be repairing the sprinklers in the front yard. Followed by new ground cover, the plan will come together.

We are still budgeting for artificial lawn. Long ago, there was a real lawn in the front yard. Now covered with white rock, there needs to be the appearance of grass without an additional cost to our already crazy water bill.

Finally, HHH will get the chance to finish his dream of flowers in the front yard. Without any more threat from wild horses that have obviously been rounded up and removed, there are no other animals to ruin our dreams of a beautiful front yard. It will all be a huge improvement.

Today at Lowe’s, standing in front of Elastomeric paint by Valspar, it became real. There are so many things to do first. The house and windows need to be washed down, frog tape applied, and it will be time to get to work.

The new hive of bees are working their hardest. Coming and going, they seem stronger every day. They are being fed a 1:1 simple syrup as well as patties made of pollen. We’ve done all we can and it will be up to them to survive or fail.

As for the squirrel, there is also an update. The little beast ate 12 Zebrina flowers, 10 Cosmos, and 12 Yarrow plants. It’s nibbling on the Black Eyed Susans. My BABIES.

My Mysterious Marine I know has plans for this little monster. For now, the seedlings have met a horrible death. It’s so very sad, but things will be better when MMM is victorious. Stay tuned.

Whatever you do, have a wonderful Thursday. You might want to think about a Thursday long ago, when a very young man was nearing the end of his time on earth. What a heavy burden he carried for the salvation of us all.

More tomorrow.

Last week, HHH and I decided to do a Bee-Moon before our new hive arrived. Living so close to a resort town, we don’t often take advantage of that enough. Resorts always have nice restaurants and interesting things to keep one busy. With a short 30-minute drive to ours, we can enjoy a little staycation any time we like.

There are two big resorts on the south end of the town.

There are two big resorts on the south end of the town. One has the resort pools, outrageously good food, and a magnificent spa. The other one hasn’t gotten our business until now. Both have world-class spas, which makes choosing a little hard.

We’d planned a spa day on the second day of our trip. So, at 7:30 in the morning, off we went, dressed in pool clothes, ready to enjoy some pampering. Taken in separate directions, we were outfitted with the customary comfy robes and settled into our respective waiting areas until our masseuses called for us.

My masseuse was a lovely young woman with a very calming way about her. Perfect for the job. As we walked back to the treatment room, she asked if I would like a glass of fresh strawberry and pineapple water. Funny how adding fresh fruit to cold water can produce the most beautiful, subtle flavors.

Before getting started, I’d mentioned that I picked the treatment using Manuka Honey because my husband and I kept bees.

“You’re kidding! I have two hives myself!” she said in a slightly more animated voice.

As it turned out, she knows our mentor, Queen Bee. Her parents, also beekeepers, lost two hives last year. It turned out they would be going to California to pick up replacement hives of the same Saskatraz bees that we were getting. Small world in a small town.

It was lovely to know this gentle woman loved bees as much as we do. There is just something about bees that forces one to slow down and be observant of the smallest things. Just like that, a new friendship out of love of bees.

It was during this treatment that I experienced the most wonderful thing. Dry float therapy.

After my scrub and moisturizer, I got onto something like a water bed on which I floated for some time. Flat and hard at first, with the push of a button, the gel pad filled with warm water and cocooned me. Gently floating in dim light with beautiful zen music playing, I truly never wanted to leave the room again.

Such a fun little vacation we had. Good thing because Winterpast and her gardens have taken off. Just a week ago, everything was just starting to bud. Today, the yard is leafed out with more blooms on the way.

Whatever you do today, take some time to reflect on hobbies you love. Are you taking time to enjoy them? If not, get busy. Time’s-a-wastin’.

More tomorrow.