Grieving Gardener

The weather has been unreasonable warm for this time of year. There has been no winter to speak of, and the fruit trees are showing signs of budding. All of this is not good for anything in the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Not good at all.

Around this time of year, our thoughts turn to pruning, garden cleanup, hardscaping, and what to plant in the garden. Last year, if you remember, all sprouts were taken out in one day by a very industrious squirrel. Hoping not to repeat that, the question remains. How many seedlings will by ornamental and how many functional.

Just the other night, HHH and I enjoyed homemade spaghetti sauce from our 2025 tomato crop. What a treat to know exactly how the tomatoes were raised and what went into the sauce. Tomatoes will definitely be in our garden. As for more exotic crops, like cantaloupe, watermelon, cauliflower, or broccoli, we’ll leave that for the experts, buying the finished products at the grocery store.

To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow. It is an act of hope performed with dirt-stained hands and a heart willing to trust what cannot yet be seen. While doing this, a gardener learns about the hidden world living right under their noses, discovering what plants and animals quietly coexist in the garden.

When we press seeds into the soil, nothing about the moment guarantees success. The ground may still be cold. With the weather uncertain and the outcome unknown, we plant anyway. We’ll water, wait, tend and believe.

Gardening asks us to look forward. It teaches patience in a world that prefers immediacy. Seeds do not rush. Roots grow quietly, unseen, doing important work long before anything breaks the surface. Growth happens whether we’re watching or not.

There is faith in waiting for warmth to return. It takes faith and belief that rain will come. Faith that the smallest beginnings can lead to something beautiful and nourishing.

A garden also reminds us that tomorrow is worth preparing for, even when today feels heavy or the world seems uncertain. Especially then. Each planted seed is a quiet declaration that life continues, that beauty will return, and that effort made today matters.

Not every seed will sprout. Not every season will be abundant. But gardeners know this and plant anyway. Hope, like gardening, is not the absence of disappointment but the willingness to begin again.

To plant a garden is to choose optimism over despair. It is to invest time, care, and love into something that will feed not just the body, but the spirit. It is believing that the future holds possibility, color, and growth.

And when the first green shoots finally appear, we are reminded why we planted in the first place. Tomorrow arrives, just as promised.

More tomorrow.

I didn’t set out to start a relationship with artificial intelligence. I was simply trying to fix my blog. After six years of writing and nearly a thousand posts, a small mountain of memories were stacked neatly in cyberspace. The huge problem was that everything was backwards. Newest to oldest, reading them was like starting a book at the end and hoping readers would politely work their way uphill.

So I did what any reasonable person would do. I picked up the phone. Yesterday was the day this would be fixed, one way or another. I picked up the phone to search for a way to place all the posts in their respective years. There had to be a way to rearrange them manually moving each one.

I’d tried this in the past. So many phone calls later, I’d learned many things. Obnoxious music can loop without mercy for hours. I could explain the same problem using different words. A human voice can sound very happy while not sharing one answer. What I didn’t learn was how to organize my blog in chronological order.

Enter AI.

No hold music. No transfers. No apologies followed by silence. Just… answers. Actual ones that addressed my blog host by name. By the time I was done asking questions, I had printed out a small book of information. Everything from rearrangements to financial possibilities. All while talking to Artificial Intelligence.

In one day, I learned more about my blog site than I had in all those phone calls combined. I learned how to group posts by year, so readers could begin at the beginning, back in 2020, and walk the road with me instead of parachuting into the middle of the story. I learned that my blog wasn’t locked in stone after all. Nearly every aspect can be manipulated to suit who I am now, not who I was six years ago when I created a place to put words.

Even better, when I got confused (which happened often), AI didn’t sigh. It didn’t rush me. It didn’t say, “That’s not something we handle here.” It slowed down and broke things into steps. It explained the why behind the how. It suggested helpful and practical tools that might actually make my blogging life easier instead of more complicated.

It’s been there this entire time, waiting quietly at my keyboard. Patient. Tireless. Always ready for one more question, even if I asked it three different ways.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I still like humans. I just don’t need to call ten of them to learn one thing anymore.

Something is refreshing about searching for and finding new solutions to old problems. Sometimes the door you need isn’t a phone call at all. Sometimes it’s a keyboard, a curious mind, and a willingness to learn something new, even if that something is found using AI.

More tomorrow.

Being a blessing doesn’t require grand gestures or perfectly timed words. Most days, it looks wonderfully ordinary. It’s a smile offered freely to a stranger who didn’t expect it. A genuine “How are you?”, and then waiting for the answer. A door held open. A note sent just because someone crossed your mind. These small kindnesses ripple farther than we ever realize.

Sometimes being a blessing smells like fresh cookies cooling on the counter. It’s sharing them with a neighbor, a friend, or someone who could use a reminder that they are seen. Food has a quiet way of saying you matter when words feel clumsy or insufficient.

Just yesterday, Mrs. Lovebird blessed us with a wonderful visit. I was supposed to help her with her new i-Pad, however, it was she who enlightened me on some new tricks. A fresh breakfast casserole was complemented by some lovely sourdough bread she brought to share. A whirlwind of blessings started the day off with a smile.

Being a blessing means showing up. Sitting beside someone in grief while listening without offering a fix. Encourage a friend when the road feels long and heavy. Accept encouragement when your own road is full of potholes. Choose patience over frustration, grace over judgment, and compassion over convenience.

On the hardest days, when energy is low and the world feels sharp around the edges, even the smallest act still counts. A text. A prayer whispered for someone else. A moment of kindness when it would be easier to turn inward. We don’t have to wait until we feel ready, worthy, or perfectly put together to be a blessing. Often, it’s through our own cracks that light spills out for others.

So today, share the smile. Bake the cookies. Speak the kind word. Extend the hand. Be a blessing right where you are, using exactly what you have. The world is always in need of more of that.

More tomorrow.

For those of us born in the 1900’s, the world’s a different place today. Things once repaired are now tossed when they break. Service, parts, and repairs are harder and harder to find. Don’t think about it, just buy a new one.

Last week, HHH and I were in need of a watch repair shop, one of those quietly vanishing places that feel like they went the way of the dinosaurs. With his beautiful gold watch in need of real attention, HHH wasn’t ready to give up. This watch represented decades of happy memories, starting with the day he acquired it at a fund raiser for ducks, of all things. Surely someone still knew how to coax life back into fine, ticking things.

“Hey, Joy, can you find a watchmaker to fix my watch?”

This would be an interesting search. After all, we can’t even find a plumber to fix the faucet in my bathroom. A watchmaker???? Even though I would Google it, I had little hope of success.

So I turned, as one does these days, to the internet. The first shop was located a mere three hours away in Sacramento. A fine city, no doubt, but on the other side of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Then another suggestion appeared, closer this time. A shop in the Biggest Little City to the West, a mere thirty miles away. Close enough to try, we packed up the watch and went.

What we found was not just a watch repairman, but a certified watchmaker, repairman, and jeweler. This old-world craftsman had spent more than a decade working for Rolex, still accepting their tough cases. Who knew such quiet expertise was practically in our backyard?

The tiny shop felt like a step back in time. The man behind the counter was kind, unhurried, and fully present, even as customers came and went. There was no rush here, only patience and skill.

While waiting, we listened. One woman retrieved her mother’s antique watch after having it repaired for her beloved mom, who was nearing the end of her life. Moving, in that quiet way that reminded me that watches carry memories, as time itself is held in the palm of your hand.

HHH’s watch is lovely and absolutely worth saving. The verdict came with a fair price and promise of a complete repair and refresh. We left smiling, already imagining how it will look and feel when finished.

The moral of the story? Never give up. Keep trying. Keep asking. You never know when persistence will lead you not only to the right solution, but to a new friend and jeweler, all rolled into one. Sometimes, the best discoveries are closer than you think.

Some days don’t ask much of us, as they glide by on sunshine and momentum, energized by good news and a positive attitude. And then, there are those days that feel heavy before your feet even hit the floor. On the darkest days, the goal isn’t to be brave, inspired, or productive, but simply to go on and do the next right thing.

January has a way of testing that resolve. It arrives with dismal, frigid weather and lingers under gray skies that seem permanent. The trees stand bare and unbothered, the air sharp and unwelcoming. Here at Winterpast, the gardens are asleep, tucked under the weight of winter, giving no sign that life will ever return. Everything feels paused, muted, and waiting.

Winter teaches this lesson well. Beneath frozen ground and lifeless branches, something is still happening. Roots are holding while seeds wait. The pause isn’t the but the preparation for a glorious spring. Just as the gardens at Winterpast will soon wake and stretch toward the sun again, so will we.

This is the month when we have to remind ourselves that doing everything isn’t required, but doing the next thing is. As they sleep, HHH and I are plotting the Great Tree Trim of 2026. All fruit trees are involved, even our majestic apricot. She wouldn’t be the same if her limbs snap under the weight of a heavy crop. Fingers crossed that she forgives the tree surgeon as he works his magic.

In our garden, the next things involve watering thirsty trees. Planting more bulbs before it’s too late. Selecting seeds to sprout. Pruning and trimming the old, to wait for the new. Not very rewarding “next things”, but all critical.

Momentum is built quietly from these small acts of faithfulness. You don’t have to feel strong to be strong. You don’t have to see the future to move toward it. You only have to have faith that the movement itself matters.

It’s the last day of this dreary month, so let’s celebrate and then, do the next thing. Get up. Make the coffee. Feed the dogs. Open the curtain. Answer an email. Open the door. Breathe in the morning air, and then, keep on keeping on.

Do that next thing, whatever that may be, because, when we meet again, February will be here!!!

Have a great weekend. I’ll be back Monday.

It’s true. HHH and I have been bitten by the travel bug. Traveling through five countries, we’re planning to return to the home of sloths, butterflies, and trams gliding over the rainforest. Costa Rica 2026.

In ironing out details, finances are a big consideration. Although traveling is great, it’s a luxury. In our world, luxuries come after all the expenses in life are covered. To travel, we needed to come up with a solid savings plan.

Our successful financial plan didn’t begin with spreadsheets, charts, or complicated language. It started with small steps and the decision to save. Ending January with a New Year’s resolution to save, this plan will have big benefits by October.

Interested? If you’re starting from scratch, start simply. Save all your change. Keep the small bills and give that money a purpose. Make one modest goal and decide that every bit of spare change belongs to it. Whether you slide it into an envelope tucked in a drawer or use one of those “100 Envelope Savings Books” available on Amazon, the method matters less than the commitment. Pick a plan and stick to it. That’s the secret. Consistency turns small effort into real progress, and you’ll be surprised how quickly those little amounts add up. One day, you’ll open that envelope or fill that last numbered pocket and celebrate success.

After becoming a widow in 2020, I faced some of the hardest decisions of my life about investing my retirement fund. One of the biggest decisions was choosing the right financial advisor. That first Junet meeting with “My Guy” was one of the most stressful days. Sitting across from a stranger with my future spread out in numbers felt overwhelming. It required a leap of faith at a time when faith itself felt fragile. I chose him to watch over my savings, while helping me plan for the years ahead that I hoped would still be full.

Almost six years later, I can say with gratitude that I chose well.

A good financial plan is not built in isolation. It’s shaped by guidance from trusted and professional voices and those who have walked the road before you. Read. Learn. Pay attention to the mistakes of others. Try to avoid them yourself. Wisdom compounds just like savings do.

Don’t wait. Tomorrow has a way of slipping quietly into next week, month, or year. There’s no time like the present. Make a plan. Commit to it. Adjust when needed, while never giving up.

Although HHH and I haven’t started packing just yet, our homework begins today. We’ve got months before we plan to spend time watching the sun rise and set over our beachfront bungalow. Choose your dream and start saving. If not now, when?

Have a terrific Thursday.

January has been with us for approximately fourteen months. That is the only explanation. Somehow, despite calendars and assurances from trustworthy sources, it is still not over. The final week of January feels less like a passage of time and more like a personal test of character.

This is the week when New Year’s resolutions quietly collapse under the weight of reality. Walking around the block hasn’t become part of our daily routine. The snacks in the pantry remain as unhealthy as they’ve always been. “Next week” has evolved into a lifestyle rather than a specific plan, and oddly enough, forgiving myself for that feels like growth. Or at least survival.

Meanwhile, the weather remains deeply confused. It has been so darn cold, even if it hasn’t been below zero with feet of snow as in some parts of the country. Freezing in the shade, sunburned in the sun are daily reminders that January has no allegiance to logic. Coats are put on, taken off, and dramatically tossed over chairs in mild frustration. Every morning begins with the same question. Winter boots or sneakers? So far, the boots win out every single day.

There is also a particular exhaustion that arrives only in January. Not holiday tired, not spring tired , just January tired. The kind of tired that makes naps feel medically necessary. The kind that causes you to walk into a room, stop, look around, and accept that whatever brought you there is simply no longer important enough to remember.

By now, even the house seems to have opinions. Dust appears overnight, uninvited and unapologetic. Floors look offended no matter how recently they’ve been cleaned. Plants are alive… technically. Oliver and Tanner, sensing weakness, demand extra snacks with the confidence of creatures who know they are winning.

And yet, somewhere in this long, lingering week comes a quiet realization that the year is still very young. There is plenty of time to get things right with the spring cleaning inside and the gardening outside. Certainly, there’s plenty of time to do absolutely nothing today. January, in its final days, hands us a gentle permission slip to move slowly.

The last week of January isn’t about accomplishments, but rather about endurance, warm drinks, and low expectations. About making peace with the pace and trusting that February is standing just outside the door, tapping its foot, ready to let us move on.

More tomorrow.

Experience something sacred by opening your Bible while allowing your eyes to settle on the red words. Before analysis or commentary, take a breath. These are the words Jesus spoke while living among tired, broken people who weren’t so different from us.

The red words rise above the noise of daily life with surprising simplicity.

Love.

Forgive.

Follow.

Trust.

Across parables, conversations, and quiet moments, they remain steady and consistent.

Love God.

Love others.

Do not be afraid.

The Kingdom is near.

The more time spent with the red words, the more recognizable Jesus becomes as the kind, and intentional man he was, as well as the loving Lord and Savior he will forever be. Familiarity breeds closeness, and what once felt ancient is present and real.

Eventually, the red words will refuse to stay on the page, shaping daily choices, softening conversations, and stretching patience. Studying them is less about knowledge and more about a deep healing of the heart.

Don’t admire these words from a distance or neatly underline them and close your Bible. and left behind. Read them. Live them. Cherish Them. Rejoice in them, while using them as a steady guide for the soul in a noisy world.

Lord for Your word, we give thanks. Today, tomorrow, and always, please guide us through this crazy world. Please comfort and heal us as, as you guide us on our way back home to you.

Now, go read your Bible.

More tomorrow.

Once in a while, we need to leave the comforts of home, including our favorite coffee mugs. Becoming restless, even Oliver and Tanner dream about time away at puppy camp. As honeymooners, we’ve discovered that, sometimes, life needs a reset. That can be found after a short drive west, away from wide open skies, towards the neon lights of the Biggest Little City to the West.

City life never disappoints. Driving right past the main part of our destination city is a place that offers an inviting stay while still humming with energy. You can choose to scurry about or do absolutely nothing at all, both good options.

Our favorite resort can only be described as a little city within the biggest little city in the west. Park the car and put away the keys because everything needed is right there. Restaurants don’t require reservations weeks in advance. Long, quiet hallways lead to rooms so comfortable they practically insist on an afternoon nap. Here, someone else makes the bed, provides the extra-fluffy towels, and brings room service.

Stay-cation days start slowly, with coffee cups that remain filled to the brim. Made-to-order breakfast magically appears as we sit and enjoy our meals a little longer than normal.

The best thing about this resort is that something is always going on. Travelers come and go for those who enjoy top-tier people-watching. Who knows? A random service horse and their owner may walk by.

The resort is divided into two sections. One is exactly like any other mega-casino you might visit. Aisle after aisle of slot machines and card tables, all designed to make the gambler feel as if winning is a given. It’s very wise to remember that the only giving to be done is from the gambler to the house.

The other side of the resort is tranquil and inviting. Surrounded by rows of empty lounge chairs, winter is a time when the fog-generating hot tubs are often empty. Above the pool area, the spa awaits to cocoon one in steamy bliss. Time stretches into hours of relaxation, always restorative, even if you’re only escaping retirement.

HHH and I always find peace for a few days away from our two crazy canines. Sleep is deeper, and mornings blissfully uninterrupted. There’s a lightness that comes from knowing the fur-babies are fine at puppy camp while we’re temporarily off duty.

Leaving home on a Stay-cation at our “Home-Away-From-Home” reconnects us with who we are when not gardening. The best little resort in the Biggest Little City of the West gives us space to breathe. And sometimes, that’s the very best kind of comfort there is.

More tomorrow.

Like everything else, the world of vacuums has certainly evolved since the 1900’s. Gone are the days of random salesmen arriving at inconvenient times to show you their cumbersome contraptions. Heavy and complicated, they made vacuuming even more work than necessary. Now? Selecting the right vacuum requires research and comparison charts for a machine that SHOULD work well for four years.

The need for a new one became obvious earlier in the week. With two shedless dogs (HAHAHA) vacuuming is a must. I vacuumed once. Then again. And, finally, a third time. However, the carpet still looked tired. Certainly not the fresh, crisp look I remembered from years past. My four-year-old vacuum was doing the bare minimum.

Our dogs are lovely creatures of the “non-shedding variety.” Of course, after living with them for years, we know that’s a marketing lie. Non-shedding apparently means the hair redistributes itself throughout the house in artistic ways under corners, rugs, and furniture. If they could vacuum after themselves, they would happily comply. But, without opposing thumbs, they rely on their humans for that.

And so, the shopping began. Oh my goodness, the choices. Corded. Battery-operated. Upright. Stick. Bagged. Bagless. Vacuums that bend. Vacuums that light up. Vacuums that appear to have headlights better than my car. There are even machines now that vacuum and mop the floor at the same time. As if we all collectively agreed that pushing a mop was simply too much to ask of modern humanity.

Every model promises powerful suction, revolutionary technology, and a cleaner life. Some sound less like appliances and more like NASA equipment. Cyclones. Multi-surface intelligence. Pet-erasing capabilities. Really??? I just want the dog hair gone.

Reviews, of course, were wildly unhelpful. One person claims a vacuum changed their life. Another says it stopped working after a week and has been banished to the garage. One reviewer has five dogs and says it’s “fine.” Another owns a single cat and seemed personally offended by the entire brand.

In the end, I decided on a powerful Bissell that boldly promised to erase pet hair. Erase is a strong, confident word. After plugging in the retractable cord, I gave it a test run in the guest room, which had just been vacuumed with our old, four-year-old Shark. Surely there wouldn’t be much left. After all, there aren’t many guests here at Winterpast.

Oh, how wrong I was.

What that new vacuum pulled out of the carpet was both impressive and deeply unsettling. Apparently, the old vacuum only lightly groomed the surface. The vacuum found pet hair from dogs who may not even live here anymore. After two rooms, I emptied the container and kept going.

So, at Winterpast, we’re entering a new era. With early spring cleaning underway, we’re enjoying cleaner carpets and the quiet satisfaction of knowing that sometimes, it’s not you, it’s the vacuum.

Enjoy your weekend. I’ll be back Monday.