Grieving Gardener

Today, Month 8 starts anew for me. I was to take another mini vacation in Tahoe, but the storm over the weekend made me rethink all things I would like to and should do, being very alone. I decided to sit this one out and decorate for Christmas. I hadn’t decided on my monthly word until last night, when it came to me. Trust.

VST was not a trusting man. He was kind, insightful, and brilliant of mind. He was empathetic to a certain degree. Artistic, knowledgeable, and skillful in a multitude of areas. But, he was not a trusting man. That was destroyed on a Labor Day weekend long before I met him. I can honestly say, me being trustworthy to my soul and the true love of his life, even I never gained his full trust, as his injuries went way past those humanly repairable.

VST was street smart. He would always shake his head when I trustingly went ahead believing all kinds of things.

“Darlin’, think it through. It might SEEM like that is the way it is, but, what about…….”

He would be off and running to discredit liars and cheats we met through our decades together. Sadly, he was always right. Not 99% of the time. 100% of the time. And slowly, I stopped trusting many things myself. I just knew, I could and would always trust him with my life.

If VST told you he was going to do something, it would be done. If he said he would be at a certain place, he would be waiting. Goals and accomplishments set were completed with results exceeded.

In the 1900’s, when we were new, he explained something to me. Life was full of all kinds of people. Some were obviously in need of avoiding. Do that, he would tell me. The obvious ones, steer clear at all costs. We both agreed that was a good thing to do.

Then, there were a group of people that seemed nice enough. They weren’t robbers or cheats, but they were just those people that we wouldn’t ever really get to know very well. Nice people with nice lives that didn’t affect ours, they would never really be close friends. And, whatever situations they found themselves in, although we would listen, maybe even tearfully, they would remain just acquaintances.

Our inner circle was golden. True friends that we would go to war for or with. Some family fell inside that circle while some didn’t even make the first cut. And so, the Circle game began. By the end, he could just draw a circle on a napkin and we would immediately break into laughter, without anyone else even beginning to know what the joke was. Either in the circle or out of it.

Today, my innermost circle is void and empty without VST. We twirled and intertwined our Yin and Yang, contrary or opposite, and yet complementary, interconnected and interdependent, according to Hanyu Pinyin, a concept of dualism. That bubble of creativity that was us was unstoppable, or so I always believed. I never thought it could vanish into cancer. The place I am having trouble finding TRUST again is in that Yin/Yang center, finding opposing parts of myself to fill the void. No one else can do that for me. Without my own center balanced, I have little to offer to another. A mission set up for failure.

I am so blessed with those in my inner circle. The very BEST FRIENDS IN THE WORLD. OLD FRIENDS, AND NEW OLD FRIENDS. They call, visit, console, recommend, laugh, gasp, hold me, and are along for the ride. They are the ones I can trust to tell me when I am on the road to Crazy Town, and when I am on the right track. They tell me what I don’t want to hear when standing around the African Watering Hole. They remind me that I need to read my own blogs every day, and nourish my center. I love them for that.

VST taught me a lot about trust. He taught me that trusting another is the comfort that we all want and need. He taught me that a life without full trust is troubled, no matter how good things may seem on the outside. He reached his hand out to me during the last days of his life, showing me how far he had come on his journey. I treasured his trust more than I have any other person in my life, because, it was so hard for him to give.

I am trusting myself enough to know driving on ice in Tahoe for my first lesson in snow is not a great idea. I am trusting myself enough to know that the Veteran’s Coalition is going to be a great group in which to share my talents. I am trusting myself enough to know that things will get better with time, self love, and care. And, I am trusting myself to know that I am an intuitive judge of character, and that it’s okay to think about what my future could look like down the road.

Today, be grateful for those that have your back during this the darkest of times. They can see what we cannot at times, due to widow’s fog. Trust that they love you and will help you get through the wilderness on the way back home.

Through a stiff and painful night I tossed and turned, knowing that only half the job was finished after 8 hours. The new owner’s walkthrough was looming in 24 hours. I needed to unstiffened and get back to VC for one more more horrendous morning of cleaning. It couldn’t be as bad as the day before, right?

The drive to VC brought its usual flood of tears as I drove the 45+ miles. Through the flats, past the mountains, by the mustangs, turning on Six Mile Canyon Road. Up the twisty roads past the treated effluent that every newbie thinks is a wonderful mountain stream. Under the barren cottonwood trees, still my favorite. Up and up and up to 6200 ft and VC. In an hour, I was in the front driveway, Looking up at her. She, two stories high, scowling down at me.

Supplies and vacuum waiting from the day before, I got to work. My studio was bare, except for my large doll house. Another of my favorite hobbies. I wasn’t sure how to move it. I couldn’t lift it, let alone get it down the garage stairs and out to the Jeep. It remained. I cleaned.

My office with the post card view of VC through a wall of glass. The guest room. The closet.

When we bought the house, all the neighbors wanted to know what we were to do with two rooms that had no windows. Not one, but two. These rooms were part of Mt. Davidson, sunk deep into her side. Nine foot walls, holding Dunmovin steady and tight. The west walls of the basement were all without windows. One became my studio, while the other became a guest room, the perfect place when you needed absolute darkness on a sunny day. The remainder was a downstairs family room/kitchenette.

The problem with the guest room was that it had no closet. VST corrected this in January. I had noticed that this project was the one he had more trouble with than all the others combined. It was complicated and he was already sick. Angled and needing to look original, he spent hours making it perfect. Between his construction and my finish work, we succeeded, and another huge closet appeared. 9 ft. tall. Shelving on one side. Two rolling doors. Closet pole. Just like magic it appeared it had been there since 2004, like the rest of the house.

Two more downstairs bathrooms were scoured and shiny. The family room/kitchenette area was nearly complete. I was on the downside of done when I started on the kitchenette. This was another area of the house in which VST had installed beautiful dark cabinetry, as stately as the rest of the house. Granite countertops. Small Frig. Sink. Microwave. It was the perfect kitchen for guests. While the west side was nestled into the mountain, the East side of this room was all glass, overlooking yet another view of VC. The front door opened onto the lower deck, with stairs that led to A Street, neighbors, fun, and adventure.

So tired, and happy that I was almost done, I opened the first cabinet of 8, just to give it a quick once over. My eyes couldn’t believe what they were seeing. For in these 8 cabinets, overhead and under the counter, it was as if time had stopped. They weren’t packed. Nothing. Nada. All full of vases, dishes, Christmas stuff. Coffee cups. Party supplies. Extra silverware. ETC. ETC. ETC. I had missed the entire kitchenette when grieving, signing papers on two real estate transactions in two different towns, crying, mourning, watching Oliver, moving boxes, and all the rest. Basically, I had missed an entire room.

I was without moving boxes, as they were all at the new house. Tape, paper, and more energy to deal with this was not available. When the movers had finished the night before, the last items were pointed out one by one. After each, they were ready to leave, and we would find one more thing. I was determined NOTHING would be left to find in the morning. And, in the rest of the house, there wasn’t. It was just these cabinets that hadn’t been emptied and packed. There was no avoiding it. It needed to get done.

My tired brain remembered that there was still the garage to tackle. Just maybe there were some boxes there. Packing paper, no. But, boxes maybe. Five boxes remained, magically the number I needed. I carefully filled them and put them in the pickup. Non-breakables surrounded breakables, like an awkward jigsaw puzzle. After grumbling and mumbling, the basement was clean, with even the woodburning stove that had warmed us on so many winter nights glistening.

The garage was a beast of cobwebs, spiders, and the remains of a move. Two more hours on that, and after 6 hours, the house was cleaned. The lone item left was my dollhouse. The neighbor would meet me the next morning to place it in the Jeep. I had measured carefully. It would fit perfectly in the back. It would mean one more trip in the early morning to retrieve that last item.

Fourteen hours to say “Goodbye” to six years of our life together. The last six years created when we were sure we had 26 left. Would we have done it again? I can hear a resounding “Yes” from the heavens. VST and I were never happier than in the midst of a project. The bigger the better.

Could I have hired a maid? Of course. Would I have missed this Goodbye? Not on your life.

Just a note…….Today, at 10:30 am, not 11:15 am as his death certificate states, is the 7th Month since VST left. Seven balloons today, released into a winter wonderland, as it snowed last night. The first snow of the season. Everything looks new and magical under starlit skies. It seems it was seven decades ago one minute, and seven minutes ago the next. Smile on the snow, Dr. H, I have the shovel. I’ve got this.

Fall cleaning is in full swing here, a tedious and time consuming job that takes attention to the smallest details. I don’t know how one person can dirty up 1907 sq. ft., but I have managed to do just that. When I landed here April 23rd, the house was extremely clean, and I was extremely spent. Things were moved in without the attention I should have given them. I’m making up for that now.

The movers worked all day and late into the night of April 26th, delivering the second load from DUNMOVIN just before midnight. T and K had worked all weekend to put the garage together, and with the heavy furniture in place, Winterpast was looking oddly like home. There was one last task to handle. One I was dreading.

DunMovin needed to be cleaned. This would be my time to say Goodbye to a wonderful place full of so many memories. I wasn’t sure how it would be to enter the empty cavern, or what ghosts awaited me, but, it had to be done. And for me, it would be part of my healing. Seventeen days a widow, I arrived with bucket, mop, vacuum and supplies ready to tackle the job.

DUNMOVIN was a mansion. When VST started looking for houses, it was our intention to downsize from 2500 sq. ft. Planning to travel and use our time for other things, our sights were not set on the 3300 sq. ft., 6 bedroom, 5 bathroom, two story beauty we found, or rather, VC presented to us. She was meant to be ours from Hello. Over 6 years, VST and I transformed her, but, then, you already know that part.

Late Monday morning, I arrived for one of my last visits, ready to rock and roll. I didn’t factor in time for crying the ugly cry. Each surface that I cleaned held our dust. Our fingerprints. The walls had cradled our laughter and arguments. The ghosts were howling loudly that day, as I tackled each room. Torturous doesn’t even touch the surface. Draining, emotionally and physically, like ripping flesh from my body, each swipe with a dust rag left me spent.

I started with the room I thought would be the least traumatic. The upstairs guest room. Not surprisingly, it was one of the rooms that needed less attention, but the windows look out upon the “V” on the side of Mt. Davidson. My tearful cleaning spree commenced.

Then the hard part began. The kitchen. Designed, demolished, and installed by the two of us. The floor was of real oak hardwood that was created as we lovingly picked the order in which each board was nailed. The room was huge, being 33 ft. across and quite deep. VST spent weeks installing the floor that made the place a showpiece, one board at a time, while analyzing his own life. The walk-in pantry held winter provisions when the snow was too deep to get off the mountain during snow-mageddon.

33 windows needed to be cleaned. 33 windowsils. Blinds needed dusting. Baseboards were lovingly washed. Doorhandles and doors gave up their grunge. VST’s blue office was dust free when I finished, the paint referred to as “Old Man Blue”, being a shade too bright for my liking. His bathroom glistened.

The guest bathroom/laundry room that VST had remodeled starting on January 1st was scoured. This was one of the last beautiful pieces of handiwork left as a testiment to his perfectionism. Four hours later, I came to the hardest rooms yet. Our bedroom, closet, and master bathroom. I believed by that time, all my tears had been spent. But, no. The room slayed me as I lay on the carpet and wept into the emptiness. This was the room in which we said our final Goodbye. And now, it was taking one more Goodbye from me.

The closet, with it’s chandelier, was first. I had seen a show on HGTV in which two women installed a chandelier in the closet of an old farmhouse. It was adorable, and I announced to VST that I needed a chandelier in my closet. It was quickly installed, and became a talking point when showing the house. How frivolous and fun. How VST. The lady wants a chandelier in the closet, she gets one.

The bathroom was something out of a magazine, featuring a chromotherapy tub. I didn’t know this was a thing. I guess so, but not for me. I only tried this feature once. It involved flashing lights in different colors. I think it could cause epilepsy, myself. The jetted tub was soaking deep, with a drying cycle. I never understood whether the cycle was to dry the bather or the tub itself.

I thought of VST installing the rich, dark wooden cabinets himself, measuring everything so carefully. And then, I thought of the terminally ill VST I helped shower just weeks before, and the crying commenced again.

CRYCLEANCRYWIPECRYSPRAYCRYCLEANCRYWIPECRYSPRAYCRYCLEANCRYWIPE

Finally the Master bedroom was left, at hour six. This would complete only the upstairs. I was too old for this.

No longer crying, I felt his presence in this beautiful room. Four windows, carefully placed, showed VC as a painting looking out from the side of our mountain. Suspended in air, it was as if we lived on a third plane. Sugarloaf Mountain looked back at me in stunned disbelief that I wouldn’t be greeting her every morning anymore. How many days I had opened the door leading to the deck to hear the church chimes from St. Mary’s on the Mountain, or listen to the forlorn whistle from the steam train. In the spring, the children from the Jr. High giggled, their laughter coming in on the breezes that blew freely in VC. Cheers from the baseball diamond just past the park. The drama of a life flight helicopter landing right within view. Tourists driving turtle-slow to take in the beauty of our houses on A Street. All the memories flooded through my head as I swept lonely cobwebs and vacuumed one last time.

But, the worst of all, was the memory of April 1, when, only one week before he died, VST asked the Hospice worker to place his hospital bed by the window, so that he could see VC any time he opened his eyes. I remember coming into the room, and VST wanted to sit up. There were metal curtain stays on either side of the window to hold back the drapes during the day. He grabbed one to pull himself up.

“Hey, don’t pull on that. It might break,” I scolded him.

“Don’t worry. It won’t. I installed it myself.” He grinned at me. Of course, he was right. Nothing VST every built or installed would ever break. Period.

The last bit of cleaning done, I went to close each blind. I closed doors, telling each room “Thank You” and “Farewell”. At hour 8, way past my dinner time, I headed home, an hour’s drive East. The last few tears were leaking when the phone rang. Dead tired, I answered.

“Joy, is the house done?” It was my beloved realtor. Bless his heart. I think I said something that wasn’t very lady-like or nice. I had to hang up with his next remark, because there were no words.

“Couldn’t you hire a maid?”

Every day, my routine is the same. After tending to my coffee needs and Oliver’s breakfast, I read my email for a few minutes. This morning, the darkness was extreme, when I found a short podcast from William Defoore at “Goodfinding.com, CREATING HAPPINESS ON PURPOSE”. Is that the best life goal ever??? I think yes. The following are thoughts I collected while listening to this uplifting podcast.

Gratitude, appreciation and optimism are connected but they are not the same at all. We are grateful for things that have already happened, we appreciate things that are happening now, and we strive to be optimistic for the future. We can easily get stuck in the past. I spend my fair share there with VST, and all the things gone so long ago. I can also get a little freaked about the future, as I have shared in my writings about the upcoming Darkest of Winters. The only thing I really have the slightest control over is my dealings in the present. And for that, I strive to find the best thoughts to keep my mind the healthiest it can be in this year of healing.

Yesterday, I ended the blog by suggesting that you start thinking of things you are grateful for. Mr. Defoore suggested journaling them. I love journals and being a writer, have so many. For years, they stacked up, as VST and I ran around doing all the things we did. Sadly, I would love to read journals from those happy days, but, they remained blank. Now, every day, all day long, I reach for my journal, writing when I need, too. Reading entries from early April, I realize how far my journey has taken me through widowhood toward womanhood.

When journaling, a sentence fragment counts. You don’t need to worry about penmanship, grammar, spelling, or punctuation. It needs to be readable to you, and you alone.

So, start that journal with three things you’re grateful for in the past. We all can think of three things. If you absolutely can’t come up with anything, use my “New Widow” words. Family. Friends. Pets. Now, throw in Food. Shelter. Clothing. If you are truly blessed, add HEALTH. And from there, you are off and running. Don’t stop at three. You may list things for pages. We are so lucky in life, each one of us. Find those things that are personal to you. Write them down.

Next, for today, find one thing you appreciate. If it involves another person, tell them. For goodness’ sake, if you have no one else, tell an associate at Walmart that you appreciate their work. We should all do that, because THEY work long days so WE can buy stuff we need or want. Find the littlest thing, and make it big enough to say “Thank you”. Smile when you do this. If you don’t think a smile is possible, fake one.

Finally, before you go to sleep tonight, make the very last thought you have an optimistic one for the morning, even if it is the following. “I am looking forward to opening my eyes tomorrow morning”. I bet you have something a little better than that.

These three activities must be practiced every day. Give this a full three weeks, according to Mr. Defoore. When a dark thought comes about past, present, or future, reboot your brain. Change the thought to a pearl instead of a rock. Make this your life choice.

Long ago, I went through a horrendous divorce. Black, black days, with two little boys that needed constant attention to thrive. I found this method, but, didn’t recognize it as anything but a way to survive.

First, I saved my grief for 30 minutes from 10 pm-10:30 pm. I held it together the rest of the time out of necessity. But, during those 30 minutes, I could play all the “broken heart”music I chose. I could cry, quietly, so as not to wake them. Just anything that I needed to do, I did. The beauty was, after a few weeks of this, I found that many times, I was too tired to stay up until 10, and it wasn’t as necessary. And slowly, I got better.

I also made the observation that no matter how bad things were, the wallpaper in my kitchen would still be there to greet me in the morning. It was one little way of assuring myself that the world was still rock solid. My experiences had got me a little off balance, but, the world would be the same when I got through the bad time.

And, I kept one dream at a time alive at all times.

There you have it. Journaling. Gratitude. Appreciation. Optimism. Big lofty words that start with determination and one foot in front of the other. They will guide you through this wilderness, or any other in which you find yourself. Winter is upon us. The wind is howling outside. I appreciate God’s beauty in this season knocking at my door. God’s natural music, the wind plays just for me. I need to go make a pot of soup and enjoy the beauty of the next season.

If you every find you want to contact me, please do at Gg202071548@gmail.com. Sadly, I found a new way never to forget an email address. The year of your spouses passing, their birthday, and the date of their death. Done. Seared into your brain and totally personal. Another helpful tip from the Grieving Gardener.

A year of firsts. Widowhood is that if nothing else. Some things are done for the first time. Some things are done for the first time alone. First time to contemplate a life before widowhood. First time to see things from an opposing point of view when it is too late for apologies. First time to understand the true beauty of being with your soulmate. First time to grasp the tragedy of losing that. A lot of firsts to digest.

I awoke this morning to an odd combination of weather alerts. A Fire Winter Storm Watch for Lake Tahoe. In my little town, 68 miles away, a Fire Weather Warning. Such great news to receive before coffee. I had planned to go to Tahoe once more before the winter snows begin, with reservations for Monday-Wednesday next, my last visit being relaxing and fun. Oliver has reservations for his Doggie Sleep Over Extravaganza. But, navigating snow is not something I feel like dealing with, so my plans may need to change.

I have already written about my first experience 4-wheeling in the snow last spring. I have yet to experience driving in the snow and ice alone. I am sure that will be a post all of its own. On yesterday’s daily walk, a neighbor was out shoveling horse poop. Folks that is the cold, hard truth of living with mustangs. They poop. A lot. If not cleaned up immediately, more mustangs come and poop on top of original poop. It is not romantic, wonderful, or convenient. You need a flat shovel at the ready. You get the idea.

The neighbor informed me that the snow isn’t a big deal here, which I had already researched. In his six years here, there has only been one time that the storm dropped 5″. He had purchased a snow plow for his lawn tractor and has used it one time, and that was because he had just bought it and wanted to. So, as far as being snowed in for days, which was the case in VC, I plan to have hot chocolate and enjoy every flake. That will be a good first, as poor VST would just about worry the snow right out of the sky.

On the 12th, I am going to my First meeting of the Veterans Coalition here in town. To say I am excited is an understatement. I plan to help in any way I can, being that NEW volunteer that so many groups long for. This group has raised money for 8,000+ wreaths for the cemetery here in town ($10 each, not bad for a little volunteer group). December 19th, one wreath will lovingly be placed on every grave. The group also helps with funerals of fallen heroes at the cemetery and I’m going to sign up to help with as many of those as I can. One first discovered, is that I have way too much time on my hands with nothing to fill it. This is just what I need.

A First illness is under control thanks to Tele-Doc-On-The-Screen and Valtrex. Just as she said, it appears meds were started so early, a nasty outbreak may not happen. I am fully aware an illness it is, using the next week to rest and nap. Thank goodness Valtrex works for me.

For the First time, I am fall cleaning and decorating for Christmas alone. Last year, VST was really into it. He even purchased his own special office decorations that I am excited to hang this year. He was jolly and enjoying every minute, until I came up with a cold which I promptly shared with him. It was a sweet, even if sniffly, last Christmas together in our winter wonderland. No gift exchange. No big meal. Just two old people making sure they had everything needed to mend. We had been invited to an A Street gathering, but he sweetly asked if we could celebrate romantically, just the two of us. I will never forget his sweet request, a bittersweet First. This will be the First time I need to give myself holiday memories all my own.

Make a list of your own Firsts. You will be amazed at how many you have already accomplished. Be sure you prepare for difficult holiday Firsts and plan how to make them your own, while honoring the thoughts of all the wonderful holidays past.

Yesterday began as a hopeful election day. It ended late into the night, the darkness of winter a stark reality. Hopeful. Optimistic. Upbeat. Positive. All these traits naturally hang around me like colorful flags waving in the breeze of my life. Not much breeze or flag flying this morning. Read on.

Doctors are not part of my routine. Anyone who knows me knows I have little interest in hanging out in a doctor’s office complaining, to whom ever will listen, about my lumbago, (of which I don’t suffer). If I break a bone, I will go to urgent care and get it set. Otherwise, I’m not interested wasting time listening to someone’s educated opinion about all the things that may or may not BE wrong or GO wrong with MY body. I am in tune with my daily aches and pains, and will accept the outcome of MY decision on this. It is non-negotiable. With that being said, one would be correct in deducing that I do not take medications or vaccinations. I fully embrace the fact that my life may be shortened or extended due to this, my own personal decision.

I have self quarantined like the rest of the world, and during my grief, this has given me privacy to do all the things grieving widows do. Yesterday, I found the following quote by Franz Wright from his book “Walking to Martha’s Vineyard”.

“Death doesn’t prevent me from loving you… Besides, In my opinion, you aren’t dead. (I know dead people, and you are not dead).” VST understands this logic completely.

Yesterday, a dear girlfriend and I decided to share lunch on election day. It had started out that we would share an evening election party, but, after thinking about a very long drive on the Loneliest Highway in America, we decided against it. Two babes jetting out into the night in a White Jeep Wrangler along such a deserted highway would be asking for trouble. Include the fact that black horses crossing a highway on a blacker night spells instant death, and a lunch date seemed far more appropriate. Over spaghetti and garlic bread we remembered our dear husbands, who were dear friends with each other. Miss Firecracker (FC) is a more recent widow than I, and we had lots to share about our guys.

When I got home, I felt an electrical sunburn-ish feeling on my right cheek in a localized area near my eye . Hmmmmm. It was uncomfortable and not something I could just ignore. It then hit me. My aversion to doctors had left me without an office to call. This situation very well escalate to the level of a broken bone quickly. At 2:00 pm, I had little time to sit around and wonder just “What? Oh what?” the problem could be.

I sprang into action, not waiting another minute. I did have an educated idea about what this could be. SHINGLES. This topic had been discussed with two different girlfriends in the past few days, and now, their voices rang clear. “If it happens to you, DON’T wait.” At this point my skin looked normal. Nothing to see there. But, the underlying pain was not anything to mess with.

My newly acquired health card, issued as I await my 65th birthday, was in my wallet. Luckily, my plan has a feature for Tele-Docs. I quickly downloaded the app and phoned in. In less than two hours, I had spoken to a lovely physician of my choosing, had an anti-viral prescription phoned to the local pharmacy, driven to retrieve medication, stopped and picked up a Subway sandwich, consumed dinner, and taken my first pill. 1,000 mg., 3x a day for 7 days. By taking this medication, according to the doctor, if I was LUCKY, I might not get any blisters at all.

Lucky?????????? In 2020??????? Lucky would mean VST would still be here. Lucky would mean we would be yelling at election results together, and mourning the loss of so many beautiful things about our country that are vanishing as I write this. Lucky would mean that my face doesn’t feel like it is on fire, with a dose of electricity running through it. Lucky doesn’t seem to be hanging around my door too often these days.

Wait. That thinking needed change immediately. I rebooted my brain.

I am thankful for the beautiful physician that confirmed what I already knew. I am thankful that I have the resources and awareness to get on medication before this gets worse. I am thankful that I am a healthy woman with common ailment, quite treatable. I am thankful I have great friends that gave me a head’s up. I am thankful for my new Cuisanart Ice Cream maker, because, everything is better with ice cream on the side. I am thankful Sweet Mr. Mud Duck’s phone call was patient and supportive, assuring me that I would feel better with medication. I am thankful for our sweet kids’ election texts, from kids that are really not kids but adults. I am thankful that God doesn’t give me more than I can handle.

Miracle of miracles, I am the luckiest woman in the world flying the flag of hopeful optimism again, even if the breeze barely blows right now.

Gratitude. Embrace it today. These are the scariest of times. Be Grateful for the beauty of your moments.

For those of you that have a dog, you already know. One big expense in your budget is your furry friend, especially if you are a widow. Oliver is my link between the W’s. Wife. Widow. Woman. If you are not a pet owner, please indulge me, and try to understand, although, to NPO’s , it must seem that we PO’s have lost our minds.

My discount puppy was quite possibly the most wonderful Christmas present VST ever gave in his life. Although Oliver wasn’t a present, because you cannot make a present of perfect and pure love and friendship, Oliver was delivered into my arms in a snowy parking lot at the Atlantic Casino in the middle of an intense snow storm on Christmas morning 2018. That, in and of itself, spoke to VST’s determination to fill my arms with this little ball of fluff. He drove us carefully off the mountain in a blizzard. We both noted that at 4 months, Oliver wasn’t very small. Abominable Snowman Feet. Not Dachshund-ish at all. Not in any way except the stubborn one. Oliver was a unique and special puppy.

It wasn’t many hours before VST was the one asking if Oliver had enough toys. During the following days, VST selected the station that held Oliver’s favorite music, left on when we went on errands. It was VST who set the surveillance camera at the right angle to watch him as we had lunch at our favorite restaurant, making sure it was the camera that had speaking options to calm Oliver if he was scared. VST made sure Oliver had the best bed. The comfiest blankets. Throughout their time together, the best walks.

So, in my “Wife Life”, Oliver became a link we didn’t even know we needed. We BOTH doted on this dog. He drove us both nuts. Potty training was a joint effort. We became a little triangle of a family, exchanging love at every angle. Oliver was trained to the rig, and a Rig Dog he became. He was faster than I at gas guzzling pitstops with his bathroom breaks. Clean Pee Pad and a closed door were his only requirements. Oliver loved the beach as much as our own living room.

If you are considering a pet, start saving now, because having one can be quite expensive. It depends on your willingness and need to find ways to spend money on them. Most things are NOT necessary. Your pet will never know they are deprived unless you tell them, unless you deprive them of their meals and love. The rest is gravy. Oliver gets lots of gravy.

Yesterday’s vet appointment is a perfect example. I could take Oliver to the local Humane society on Thursday. There, they give shots for a nominal fee. A vet is present and will answer questions. The documents are proof and you are good to go. I could do that. There is one very close to the vet we visited. Many people also leave their dogs home when they travel, paying the neighborhood kid $ a day to feed and play with the pooch. I have two neighborhood kids that would happily oblige.

When needed, Oliver goes to Doggie Day Camp in Carson City. His Doggie Hotel is more than an hour from here. I justify this because the kennel is as clean as my house. The guests are quiet and content. It is not a jail, but a respite from owners that can be quite annoying. I know Oliver will be safe and happy when I pick him up, hence I don’t worry when he is there and I am elsewhere. There is one more reason. Oliver’s vet is in the same building. So, if there WERE a problem, they would contact me immediately and provide necessary care. To me, this is a huge comfort, even though Oliver is 2 years old, healthy, and won’t be getting sick any time soon. Just in case, I choose this place, because, in 2020, I have had to use up my “Just In Case’s” on many unexpected horrors.

Due to Covid, the vet experience in Nevada is as follows. You drive up and phone the vet’s office. They answer and ask you the patient’s name and a car description. A tech comes to your car at the appointment time, asking many questions about Covid and your possible contamination. They take the dog. You wait in the car. When the appointment is done, you have the option of Face Timing with the Vet through an iPad a tech will bring to you. The exam is discussed.

Results of Oliver’s exam.

1. He is overweight. Now, he devours 1/3 cup of food 2x a day. Then, he eats his daily 5 calorie treats, fallen apples, my solar pathway lights, any bones laying around, his disposable water dishes, blankets, envelopes that might have fallen on the ground, and dust bunnies for dessert. He is better than a vacuum. What will happen when I cut down the portion to 1/4 cup, which is about 10 pieces of kibble? I bet I will look pretty darn enticing to the little dog. No can do. Oliver has lost 2 pounds to have a current weight of 23 pounds. He is not losing anymore.

2. Oliver growled at the vet as she was staring into his eyes with a bright, blinding, irritating, nasty exam light. I don’t blame him. I say this as a retired teacher with disrespect intended. REALLY????? This would be like me finding a parent in the parking lot to tell them their child growled at me with attitude four hours earlier in the classroom. Deal with it, Ms. Vet. That is why you get the big bucks. Did he bite you????????? She blabbed on at how Oliver’s eyes were exactly the same color of green as her dog’s eyes, except her dog weighs 100 pounds. Hey, Ms. Vet. Diet? I suggest you put that chubs on a diet. Growl on puppy.

So, after all the driving and waiting, I get the bill before I get Oliver back. $70 for a healthy dog exam, the actual vaccination fee of $17.85, included. Go figure.

Bottom line. Oliver has been a bridge from Wife to Widow to Woman. As a widow during the last seven months, he has been my constant companion and tear mitigator. He is my blog editor. He makes me laugh when it seems I have forgotten how, and he snuggles and listens to my deepest secrets, which he will never share with anyone unless, of course, I cut his food to 1/4 cup twice a day. We shook on that deal. Whatever he needs, I will provide until our days on Earth together finish.

If you have a pet, go out today and get them something unexpected. It will be great for you both. Dollar store has a great selection of all kinds of goodies, and of course, the sky is the limit from there. Spend time outside, but watch the solar path lights. They can slowly disappear. I have now found they are a three step adventure. The top providing yummy wires. The supporting tube full of squishy deliciousness. Then, for a little digging fun, the yummy stake.

Oliver. VST, you fill my heart, still, through the best gift ever given. Sending love your way, VST. Your Darlin, Mrs. H

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When.

I.

Saw.

It.

THE. RAT.

YES. A FULL SIZED NORWEGIAN ROOF RAT.

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

STARING AT ME. IN THE EYES.

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

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

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

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

VST didn’t waver in his resolve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SSSSSSSCCCCCCRRREEEEEEAAAAAAAMMMMMEEED.

VST SWOOPPEDGRABBEDRANANDFLUNGTHESQUEALINGRATOUTOFTHERIG.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My favorite Peanut Butter recipe is the following.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“DunMovin.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Today was the most beautiful day I have experienced in weeks. The smoke from the California fires was almost gone, and the unique beauty of the high desert mountains was all around me. I am a desert rat. Period. I love the wind. The sharp, stark peaks of the mountains here. Natural hues blending into a real life watercolor, the palette rich with the mountain browns and the bluest of skies. Landscape dabbed with bright yellow Rabbit Brush. White puffy clouds streaking the sky. The breeze ruffling the golden leaves on the cottonwoods. Life is beautiful.

I have been yearning to drive to Bridgeport, California for weeks now. VST loved Highway 395. It’s been a year since we traveled this road, and I longed to follow the path we took. I started out at 7:15 this morning, the air crisp with a real autumn chill. An hour’s drive to Carson City, I was traveling on the loneliest road in America, Highway 50.

The wild mustangs are everywhere now. The mountaintops no longer provide them with food or water. They are now down in the lowlands with us, visiting my neighborhood in search of lawns and a drink. Strange to walk outside to get the mail and find a 2,000 lb. pony in your front yard. Or six of them. These are not the starving horses you hear about on the news. They are healthy, procreating, families of horses with nothing else to do but eat and poop.

As I traveled on 50, the air was so crisp and clear, I saw the V on our Mt. Davidson in VC clearly and from miles away. Each small town has a letter above it, made of huge rocks and easily seen from long distances. On our return RV trips, VST and I would strain our eyes to see who could see the V first. I wished he was by my side today, I would have let him win.

During the move, I had placed 350 boxes in storage in a small town just off the mountain. I made many trips from my new town to get loads of boxes. Each time I located the V, high above, I would cry the ugly cry. I would talk to VST on the way there and back about all kinds of things, wishing he were there to reply. Today, with nothing but blue skies, I sang along with the radio, knowing that VST was laughing at my singing voice. He was MY wingman today, instead of me being his. Today, I loved driving.

Once I reached Carson City, I got on Highway 395 and traveled through Gardnerville and Minden. Memories were flooding back to me of all the towns we considered before buying our home in VC. These little towns, nestled on the eastern side of the Sierras are a little reflection of heaven. Today, the green pastures were filled with Black Angus cattle, registered pedigrees and with sassy calves. Bald or Golden Eagles soar over these pastures. There were RV’s everywhere today, making me wish we were leaving on another trip to anywhere. With VST, it never mattered the destination, just that he was in the driver’s seat telling me about songs on Willie’s Roadhouse or asking for his next snack.

As I started up the hill and went through Holbrock Junction I thought of our Shriner friends that lived close. Lake Topaz Lodge had been OUR favorite for Steak and Egg goodness with a view. I thought of cuddling through a cold night when we camped there in our new trailer almost 4 years ago. Just past the lodge, I was waved through the Produce Inspection Station and found myself across the border in California. The sky was still as brilliant. California natives, we had grown into the people we were when we exchanged vows and began our lives together. Now, it was the California I would never choose to return to after experiencing Nevada. I wish we had known desert secrets decades before, when we were so young and full of dreams.

In Coleville, we had shared a cozy night in our RV camping with the Karavaners at MeadowCliffs . Along the Walker River, VST and I had stopped to enjoy the beauty of the gorge on so many trips. Road work that delayed us last year was finished. With little traffic, my Jeep made the twists and turns of the canyon as the music played on. I wished VST would speak up. I am sure I heard him commenting on my driving, and not in a good way.

At the turn to Highway 108 to Sonora, I smiled and remembered the wife that forgot her purse back at The Westin at Mammoth Lakes and didn’t discover it was missing until Toulomne Meadows in Yosemite. It was Labor Day, and we had left the hotel extra early to avoid horrendous traffic. He had insisted that I had to have it somewhere in the car, but no, I remembered right where it was. He drove all the way back to Mammoth, and upon retracing our steps decided that the Sonora route would be the preferred route at noon. It was miles further in holiday traffic. So patient and kind he was to me. Even though, I am sure it was not our finest moment, being way after dark when we finally got home. How I wished to return to that awkward and tense moment, if it meant we could have those quiet hours in the car just once more.

I traveled on, until I arrived in Bridgeport. The beauty and majesty of the mountains there takes my breath away every time. I think of the time VST gave in and drove me all the way into Bodie, a deserted ghost town, left to an arrested state of decay. I had only dreamed of going there. As we traveled the last three miles of washboard roads, each bounce was torture on his back. The desolate road was not something he felt comfortable or confidant on, but, he drove on for me. That day plays in my mind like yesterday. I wish I would have driven for him, just a little bit, so that he could have rested his shoulders. But, VST wasn’t like that. He loved driving so much, or hated mine more.

In Bridgeport, the trees were brilliant. The cows were statuesque and fat as ticks. The fence by the picnic tables was a combination of metal posts and limbs from trees. Artistic and functional, something only a farm girl might take note of. The tourists going in and out of the mini mart were speaking a variety of languages reminding me that this beautiful place is loved by millions. It made me think of my own traveling experiences to Switzerland, and the lovely places visited. None rivaled what I saw today. My heart was full of wishes that VST was there to hold my hand and drink in the view.

I had made this trip to meet someone new. A cyber friend. Someone that I had talked to over the past few days. The meeting time had been carefully choreographed, with my texts sent at prearranged times. Waiting in the sunshine, I smiled at the possibility of the day, fresh and new. Waiting. I wished for the minutes to race along until he came. Waiting. I stretched my legs and adjusted my sweater. Waiting. Minutes rolling on, until I finally understood the outcome. I realize now, he was just another stranger on his own schedule. I wished VST was there, because, he would NEVER abandon me on an outing. Not in a million years.

At that moment, I wished I was not this stupid, lonely, old woman.

Suddenly, WonderWoman burst into my soul and slapped me around a bit. There was nothing stupid about wishing for a new friend. Nothing wrong with hoping for a fun day, after the horrible year it had been. I was anything but stupid. And, I was waiting not one second longer out of respect for myself.

Right then, I wished to be on my way home through the short cuts of Yerington, which were and will always be my favorite way home. I wished B, D, VST and I were picnic-ing again along the river at the rest stop. I wished VST and I were prepping for a trip at Weed Heights RV Park.

But, most of all, I wished that I was not a widow. That for a tiny window of time, I could be someone’s date on a really cool outing. Not defined by how many months gone, how many months here. Just a pretty woman meeting a nice man for a picnic. I wished.
But, we all know. If wishes were horses, then beggers would ride.

So, for now, I will date myself. No one loves me better, or respects me more. I know exactly what suits me. I have beautiful drives to make and wonderful things to see. I will never leave myself stranded, wanting more. I will never abuse the privilege of being in my own company.

Today, smiling all the way home, I wished VST could see me and know, I am enough all by myself. He didn’t leave a half-person to wail at the moon, throwing her own pity party. He left a beautiful, capable, smart woman who can stand on her own two feet and do just fine. With that said, the songs on the way home were fantastic. Radio blaring and the windows down, I sang my heart out while smiling. VST, you will forever be my wingman. I love the high desert, driving, and you.

If you have ever moved, you know that the first shopping trip is a doozy. Magnify that by 100x as a brand new widow. Although not my first outing alone, it was the first in my new town, stocking the refrigerator/freezer. I was still shrouded in widow’s fog, a very real malady. Others would refer to it as shock. We would both be correct.

VST and I had always done the shopping together. We would glide through our Wal Mart hitting every department. As the years passed and his arthritis worsened, it became harder and harder for him to walk. His most comfortable position was leaning on the basket as he pushed it along. When done, we would look for a human checker, but, if they were taken, we use self check out. We would take turns emptying the basket, scanning, and bagging. It took us both.

On this first visit alone, so many things raced through my mind. I missed my husband. I missed discussing our shopping needs as we walked the aisles. I missed running into old friends, as we often did, stopping to visit for a minute. Everything was new and overwhelming as I dug out the list and began.

After a full hour, my basket was brimming. At this Walmart, the only choice was self scan. For a single person, this was difficult, even without the added problem of widow’s fog. I needed to put a few things on the belt, scan, bag and repeat, while feeling totally self conscious and overwhelmed. The bagged items were overflowing in the bagged item area, while I was only half finished with the basket. There was no place to put the bags and continue because my basket was still full.

To add to the fun, the scanner kept timing out. The associate working the area needed to come help me repeatedly. Each time, we talked a little more. She, too, was a widow of two years. She understood the stressful nature of the situation and understood the timing out was making it worse. Her kindness was overwhelming, as in this town, I knew no one. Not even her.

M was a beautiful older woman who obviously took very good care herself. Her golden blonde hair was beautiful coifed in a short, curly style. She was trim and energetic, wearing a sweet smile as she helped everyone, including me. She loved her job. You could tell.

When I finished, after a good 30 minute ordeal, she smiled kindly and said so sweetly, “Maybe sometime we can get together for coffee.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I mumbled “Thanks.”

Wheeling the basket out of the way, I took a minute. I then did something so out of character, it still gives me chills. Promise me, no matter how low you are, you will never do this. I took out a pen and paper and wrote down my name, address, and phone number. As a lost soul, I went back to her and handed her the paper with tears rolling down my face. It was the Three week anniversary of VST’s death. I handed it to her and she understood everything as our eyes locked.

Driving home, I cursed, hit the steering wheel a few times, and screamed at myself for being so stupid and vulnerable. Who was this sweet woman? I knew her not in the least. I deserved to be robbed, mutilated, and left for dead. The damage was done. UNBELIEVABLY STUPID was I.

The next few days, I hoped she would call to arrange a coffee date, but she didn’t. I then changed my internal conversation to this, “Loser, loser, loser!!!!!! Not even a friend from Wal Mart would call me.” Dark days.

About ten days later, I was in the kitchen when my phone rang. The kindest voice was on the other end. It was my new friend M, asking if I had time to talk. I did. And boy did we, discussing so many things. We were both born in the same California town. We both had sisters. We were both widowed and held each husband’s Celebration of Life on our late husband’s birthdays. We laughed and cried on the phone that day. Just like that, I found a sweet friend.

On my first Dinner date at her home, she gave me a stern lecture on the stupidity of my ways. By this time, we laughed and laughed as we played Chinese Checkers and Uno. Since then, we have enjoyed shopping trips, meals, tears, and gardening plans. M helped with VST’s celebration of life. She brought me the sweetest gift. An antique handkerchief to hold my tears on that day. Only another widow would understand and know that gift would be so special.

I treasure the story of how I met my first friend in a new town where I knew no one. I took a chance on someone that felt so familiar and warm. Her heart reached for my heart and held it in her eyes when she found I was a new widow. She has known how to help me and when to give me space. She has listened when I might have been running towards the future a bit too fast. But, she didn’t judge.

Look for new friends in odd places. Be CAREFUL, but OPEN to kindness from others. When you find kindness, return it gently and see what can grow. It may surprise you that wonderful “strangers waiting to be new friends” are already helping you every day. Just say “Hello”.

VST was not a dog person which was one of our troubling differences. Raised on a farm, being a 4-H member, and majoring in Zoology in college, he should have known my love for dogs would never die. Through the years, he always kept me in furry friends, keeping them at a distance from his own heart. Being busy with so many different things, he never discovered what I had known since one bit my nose off at two years old. Dogs are the coolest friends you can ever have. Period.

Settled in VC, totally retired and RVing, I would pine by the dog parks across the country. I would accidentally take the trash out at just the right time to beg a caress from a newly groomed poodle, or win a big old slurpy kiss from a retriever. If missing, he would find me talking with the owners at the dog park wishing I had my own puppy to throw into the mix of wagging tails. I would make not so subtle observations that traveling with the right dog might be fun. He would remind me that our RV was brand new. Did I want the leather seats chewed? Did I want poop on the floor? Did I want to chance loosing the dog at a truck stop? Did we NEED the complications of a dog? Really????

For months, I pined. Really, really pined. I created a virtual dog to dream of. The perfect pet. No messes. No chewed leather. No muss no fuss. I was constantly on the internet looking for a puppy, but I found not THE ONE. Finally, November of 2018, VST woke a changed man. Just like that.

“Darlin, we have been traveling awhile now. Do you still want that dog? Maybe it IS time that we could look.”

I was in shock. Who was this man? Was there a trick here? What was the end game? A dog? I might get a dog??? I MIGHT GET A DOG!!!!!!!!!!!!!

With laser-like focus, through every town traveled, there was a visit to the animal shelter. Nothing. No one there that was even close. We looked at every Craig’s List. Cuties, but none for us. We looked online. Sold out. Sold out. Sold out. And so, the weeks went by. Nothing. Secret relief was his, and I was waiting for the reasons to emerge on how this was a cosmic answer to my longing. I would never have another dog. Period.

My December birthday came and went. I hoped there was a hidden puppy somewhere. It would have the cutest bow on its neck, bigger than it. Hallmark moment 101. To my surprise, I did get a dog gift from him. A Christmas doggie sweater. Long and small, it was adorable. But, very flat and empty. Not puppy filled, squirmy and delightfully kissy. Nope. No dog anywhere. I must admit, I was a little depressed, and almost accepting the fact that it was a cosmic answer.

Until December 23rd.

Just like every other day, I had been in heavy pursuit on the internet. I am a Dachshund girl. Period. I have had several, the very first being when I was six. Fritz. Fritz was a mini, red smooth haired Doxie. My parents got him for the farm, and Fritz lived his entire life outside. No problem with coyotes or wild dogs, Fritz was quite capable of taking care of himself. He lived a great life keeping our ranch free of any one or thing unwanted. He was a great watch dog and a wonderful friend to me as a child.

On December 23rd, I again googled Dachshund Puppy. The following picture emerged.

The add was a normal description of a very unusual dog. I am asked this often, so I will give you the complete description. He is a cream-based piebald, chocolate, wirehaired standard dachshund with green eyes that can look through your soul. VST would add, “Dropped into Area 51, because he is alien. And yes, he sheds. Alot.”

In my heart, the ad said the following.

“If you do not immediately call this breeder, you do not really want a dog at all. This is quite possibly the most adorable dog on the planet. Pick up the phone now, because this guy cannot exist and be available possessing this much swag and cuteness overload.”

He was a bargain puppy. No one had wanted him. He was 4 months old and ready for a new home, and that home was ours. Period. On Christmas Day, the breeder extraordinaire drove from Nevada City to Reno and we met in the snow covered parking lot of the Atlantis Casino. I had the option of not accepting him if he wasn’t the right puppy. Once in my arms, this puppy became Sir Oliver, Gentleman of Ashworth Hall, better known as Oliver or Ollie. (VST named him after a Grandfather, many generations removed). He snuggled toward my heart and stole it right there.

For a few days, I was in terror of what we had just taken on. I was up with him every two hours for months to insure proper potty training. He was neutered and I slept on the recliner with him for two nights. We listened to puppy complaints when he was unhappy and laughed so much as he delighted us with his adorable antics. And just like that, VST became a dog person.

Did he need a new toy? VST would be online finding out the right toys for a him. Was his food just right? Again, more research. As we traveled together in the rig, Oliver was always our first concern. Was he safe, happy, warm, well-fed, and enjoying himself? Oliver was happy as could be. He would see us preparing for a trip and remind us the entire time that he wanted to be included. He always was.

VST quickly learned that when they walked together, Oliver stole the show. People would stop their cars to ask us about him. Women requested pictures with him. I am referring to Oliver. Strangers would smile big, wide, happy smiles, all while Ollie just did this thing. Dignified and true to his blue blood name, he became a Gentleman.

For almost two years, Ollie and VST were walking buddies. I would smile as I stood on the deck and watched them trot off. Oliver kept his puppy waddle far past his first year. He would take on a new happiness when being with VST, one that he never had with me. Just a little free spirit walking with his man.

VST took his part in Ollie’s life serious, and one day, quietly decided to teach him a new trick. Not being a dog person, it would really irritate me when he would stare at dogs in the eye. I would remind him that in many cases, that is how people get bit in the face. He cared not. So, I would see VST and Ollie gazing at each other, but didn’t understand what was happening. VST silently taught Oliver to wink. There they were conversing through eye movements of the oddest kind. VST became a true dog whispering soul.

I have told others since that Oliver will wink at them if he feels like it. No one believes me until they wink at him and he winks back. You have to be a very special sort of person for him to interact with you in that way. He saves this for his very favorite people.

Since April 8, Oliver has taken on the role of my emotional support dog. He doesn’t wear or even need a vest. He has soft green eyes that look into my soul and know when I need a doggie hug. He knows when I get stressed and encourages me that it surely must be nap time. He senses when I need a laugh and does something adorable. He is good at knowing when I have had enough, and doesn’t try anything silly. He still steals my socks, and anything else he finds humorous. He watches our front door to keep out the unwanteds. And he is my writing buddy when I blog.

I picture myself at my first book signing someday soon. I will be dressed in appropriate writer clothing, picked out for the occasion. My makeup will be just right. Fresh haircut. A stack of pens, ready to go. Oliver will be himself. I can guarantee you, the line will form to the right to get pics with Ollie. I will sigh, and give him the limelight.

For a time, Ollie brought the beauty and love of a dog to one man that had never experienced it. He brought an old couple such happiness by just being himself. He may be my last dog, but he is definitely the one I will never get over.

Your dog is doing double time right now, grieving with you and for you. They deserve a little free time to be a dog. Take a walk. Play outside with a new toy. Just for a minute, delight in your dog and give a smile or laugh. They will be relieved that you are feeling better. And, feel better you will.

A huge thank you to Song Catcher Dachshunds in Nevada City, California. Breeding for over 30 years for soundness, personality, and beauty. Please mention that you met Oliver and he says Hi!!

Thursday last, I sat waiting as so many Seniors do. We wait for many sad, happy, frustrating, unexplainable, funny, terrifying, and peaceful things. I was waiting for my friend to arrive. A HEART FRIEND as a student once described special bonds that we form with very few in life. This kind of friend is of the deepest kind, covering you with love, protection and things you need when you need them. I am blessed with this kind of friend that was visiting on the 6 month anniversary of VST’s death.

I remember when we met. It could have ended badly. You see, we loved the same guy. VST loved her first and she had an 11 year jump on me in this situation. While my love was unfolding in new and exciting ways, hers was deep, steady, and rock solid. They shared a history of which I was not a part. It was up to me to honor that and find a way to create new memories we would cherish decades later. She had him at their first Hello on May 25, 1976. She was K to me, and oldest Daughter to VST.

The doorbell rang, and there she was, the best hugger and friend, knowing the day would be tough. Intuitive and gracious, she had cleared her schedule for the next few days to come hang out and remember our VST/DAD. We each owned separate memories of our man, that brought a more complex picture to light when shared. She was an hour earlier than I thought she would be, after a six hour drive. In a moment of highly energized happiness, the doorbell rang again. I really didn’t hear it, and in a gentle way, she said I should check.

As I opened the door, out popped T. This bulk of a man standing in my doorway completed the Momento Perfecto. T was K’s other half. A dear friend and rock to me since 1987. Smart, strong, problem solving T. When I met him, long ago, the connection we had was real and authentic. I never had to pretend around him, smiling and cheering his accomplishments, which were vast. His connection with VST was a bond that is as deep as time passed and eternity to come. He could have claimed VST as his own, meeting him first on May 25, 1976 as VST’s only biological son and K’s twin. He could have warned his SIS to steer clear of the new gal in Dad’s life, but, he didn’t. He had every right to, but he opened his heart to me and my boys, J and D. The Three Amigos were off and huddling at the first meeting. The seven of us rolling through happy in our red VW van. Here he was in my doorway, smiling and glad they got me good. K hadn’t mentioned they BOTH cleared their lives to come comfort ME.

Here I was, StepMom, but our steps had led me to Friends. How very beautiful and blessed it is to call them FRIENDS of the HEART kind.

When VST got sick, we had been feral parents, holding hands and running towards life. Illness slowed that to a standstill. We hadn’t known how serious things would become, but, T and K were on it. They came every weekend to visit. They made us calmer, happier, and less scared. They brought life of a vibrant kind to a very frightful enviorment and most importantly, they made VST/DAD’s heart smile. By coming, they brought FAMILY to our home, which healed and mended us all in ways we didn’t know needed fixing.

To me, they will always be my Kids. They are anything but kids or children.

Tim is a funny, logical, brilliant, and handsome knockoff of VST. He is a wonderful father to three beautiful kids that will someday ask him not to refer to them as kids anymore. He is driving every aspect of his own version of the red VW bus, making sure their familial path is on target. He loves is sweet M with all his strength for the beauty she is in and out. He grieves for the loss of his Dad deeply. He is a 6’6” softy to the core. When we are together, it is my hope just for a minute, he can put down his heavy load, and be our kiddo again. The freedom of childhood can be revisited while you still have a mom friend who calls you a kid.

Kim is an exquisitely beautiful and fierce woman not to taken lightly. She is funny, sensitive, kind, and thoughtful. To me, she is the Friend Daughter I didn’t raised from birth, but fell in love with, none the less. We chose the same career in teaching, but, SHE took it and ran faster and farther. Her students are blessed to be under her wing. Her own mothering abilities shine in the faces of her two man-children. Kim is wise and patient. She skillfully releases her boys to freedom and then reels them back in when needed. She cherishes her sweet husband, J, remembering when they met in grade school. K mourns the DAD that took her to the fair as a young girl one minute, and walked her down the aisle to her future the next. She remembers that, in his eyes, she was and will be his little girl for eternity.

In past posts I have referred to The Kids. That was wrong. They are not part of a pack or a rock group. They are T and K. The best parts of their dad reflecting his brilliance, grace, honestly, loyalty, and at times, funny looks or words. They hold his memory gently and share it with me. They are strong, beautiful adults that will need to forgive me if I call them kids. In my eyes, they are T and K. All things listed above and so much more, My kids, but more importantly, my HEART FRIENDS.

Today, hug your kids and hug them again. As parents, you already know. They may be bigger, but they will always be sweet, loveable kids to us.

Dreams have always been a personal comfort and place of wonder. My traveled dreamscapes are richly diverse, with beauty unexperienced on my wakeful side. Growing stories throughout my sleep-filled nights, I awaken before light, ready to harvest my thoughts, and serving them up in text. In my dreams, I am an athletic, svelte, tall, very blonde, ageless beauty. I can rollerblade, snow ski, skateboard, and backpack the Pacific Crest Trail from Canada to Mexico in a night. I see the tiniest details and make notes on how they will enrich my writing. All in the night, while peacefully I sleep.

The thing that has escaped me night after night has been one more visit with VST. Mornings have held disappointment as I slowly wake to remember there was no magical meeting the night before. No visit on A sun-kissed island, with azure seas surrounding us, or at our kitchen table at dawn. No last kiss of passion, regret, sadness, or goodbye. Not one more gaze into eyes that held my forever, while giving me a playful wink, or THAT look, which came in many varieties. Looks I learned to translate immediately, whether they drew me in, told me to straighten up and fly right, or ended a conversation. I would settle for just one more time having eye conversations, no matter the topic. I would awake refreshed and full or other dreams, but not the one I wanted so badly. Until a few weeks ago, that is.

I went to sleep after watching half a movie. Nothing new. Oliver was making sweet sleeping-puppy sounds in his crate while I floated off to dreamland, as usual. The next morning, my wish had been fulfilled. VST and I had shared the night before.

We were visiting outdoors in a beautiful place, natural and green. We smiled and talked for most of the dream, quietly savoring the moments we were able to share. He was his younger self, and without any signs of illness. Just my Dr. H. Most of our words remain muffled, shared celestially. Their essence cocooned my heart in peace. Cancer could not rob us of this quiet conversation of souls. Most was just beyond memory’s reach, but there was a portion clearly recalled.

“Darlin, the memorial was fine. Perfect. The words and songs you chose honored our life together, and me in ways that warmed my heart.”

At that moment, I felt a wave a relief that everything was done now.

“It’s great that you sent programs and notes to all the friends that couldn’t come. Nice touch that took extra effort. Thanks for doing that. It was all just beautiful.”

“However……”

However? What was coming next? But what, VST??????? Really????

“You screwed up on one part.”

I knew it. I knew it. Even from beyond the veil, one moment remained in which VST could have done things a bit different, and definitely better. I sighed, wishing so much that he was still here.

“Please explain yourself.”

“Everyone was remembered that needed to be, except for three. Pat, Steve, and Harry. Honey, you forgot to tell them. Please. Tomorrow. Hurry. Send them special notes that explain I have gone. Do it tomorrow. Please don’t forget.”

“I promise.”

That was the revelation I had awaited for months? The only thing I could remember? Not a final, ‘I will love you forever?’ or ‘I have a place saved for you?’ No. Just a reminder than three very important men in his life needed to know he died. A former doctoral classmate, boss, and close work friend? I knew the boss and workmate from our lives spanning 1988 through 2001. Although I had heard about the doctoral friend for 19 years, I had never met him. These three people would have never come to the forefront of my brain, only because I was not VST. His friends were precious to him as mine are to me, but personal to HIM.

In the morning, I retrieved “THE BOX” from the closet. If you’re widowed, I assume you have “A BOX”, as well. I have inherited “THE BOX” from Grandparents, and even though the items inside never held a great deal of meaning to me, disposing of something treasured for so many years couldn’t happen. Now I have my own. In VST’s box, there are extra programs, prayer cards, a guest book, and sympathy cards. Every one of them is precious to me, making the box sacred. Everything I needed to complete three last notices that their dear friend was gone.

I penned special notes to each of the three men. Sealed in silver envelopes with program and prayer card, I sent the three cards on their way with love. Mission accomplished VST. You just come back anytime to discuss the missing and loving me parts. This, I handled for you. I went on with my day.

Two weeks later, I heard the mail truck outside. For those of you that still have the luxury of a personal mail box at your drive, you know what a treat it can be. I love 11:30 when I hear the mail lady starting and stopping on her way to house after house, until I hear her engine pause at mine. I went to retrieve the mail and found inside a card addressed to me.

It was a handwritten card that had been sent snail mail. The return address identified it as being from Dr. Pat. The card had a picture of the American flag, something VST respected so much. I opened it to find an entire page filled with manly printing, created with pen and ink.

Dear Joy,

So sad….he was one of the most easy going, happy-go-lucky friends I have had the pleasure to know…..Know he is in heaven….you now have a guardian angel…way too young….lucky to have traveled together….Truly hearbreaking….Am a better person for having known him.

All the sweet things one would expect until I read further.

Will be 60 next July and can retire after 35 years on police force…. CANCER…..diagnosed with leukemia 5 years ago……..dealing with various treatments…..God willing…..

VST’s real life Superman had been hit with his own version of kryptonite. No kevlar vesting could protect him from Cancer’s bullet. After all his service protect millions of people during his 35 year career, he was fighting this alone, as every cancer patientdoes. VST knew. I understood now why THIS was the important thing I needed to remember,

I held the letter in disbelief. The handwriting on the paper spoke volumes from a man I had never met. To a friendship rare and dear formed over years in a doctoral program. A man that was sent a special shout out from the beautiful shadows of my dream. A man so special, VST made sure he was not forgotten.

You just never know what dreams may hold. Or the mail box on a sunny day in September. Reach out and remind Old Friends forgotten about your loved one. Send notes in the mail, taking time to hand write your memories of their importance in your life. Stamp them. Send them. They will brighten a day, possibly giving hope when it is waning. Embrace your dreams. You never know what they will hold.

Widowhood. Six months in. I am in awe of the oldish-new woman sitting here blogging. Strange. It appears that these are my Germanic fingers pecking at the keys. Quite sure Oliver recognizes me as the same person who has fed him his meals since he became mine. The neighbors all wave to the familiar woman down the street. Old Friends and family still ring me up to find out how I’m doing. But, no, I’m not the same woman of 6 months ago. That woman died with VST and was immediately replaced with another tougher version of myself.

Unless you are a widow, and even if you are, you can’t fully know the unique path my journey has taken. In the past Covid-wrecked months, I have been on a trek through a frightful wilderness worse than any high Sierra trail. It has been so lonely and cold at times, I surely wanted to lay my body down in the snow and allow grief to devour me like savage carnivores. Having my arms torn off by real Alaskan wolves would have been less painful. So desolate and invisibly vast, no matter how I have tried to hurry along, believing I’m out of the woods, I make a small turn to the right or left, and there I am again. The path is atrociously hideous at times, and yet, totally natural. There has been no quicker way to come, no short cut, nothing more than this path that I travel by myself, even when others are present.

My words have buoyed me beyond my wildest expectations. Food, Shelter, Clothing, Friendship, Everlasting Love, Faith, Adventure, and Happiness. Those words, my port in the storm, highlight the core of the power couple that was Dr. and Mrs. Hurt. It is odd that the time has arrived to pick a new word for Month Seven. Reflecting on the words that represented us over 32 years has filled me with the comfort that beautiful memories can bring. A meadowy retreat for respite from the ravages of grief.

I revisit the past 12 months in my mind. A year ago, we had just decided to visit Cayucos on the California coast again. VST was still taking Oliver on his daily walks. We had decided to stay in VC a while longer, and just named the house The Dunmovin House for that reason. There were subtle changes in VST that I internalized as frailties of my own or, even more scary and unthinkable, of our marriage. Even if we would have known the real causes for these changes earlier, the outcome would have been the same. The only difference would have been that we would have missed our last two RV trips which held sweet memories made.

I think of Christmas last. I was sick with a cold for a week, which I so graciously gifted to VST. As we took turns caring for one another, Christmas came and went in the midst of the snow flurries on our mountain. A white Christmas for our last earthly holiday together.

With spring’s arrival, projects completed, and the last nail driven, VST finished his job. He put down his tools, being proud of his life and accomplishments. He touched so many in profoundly wonderful ways. His strength carried others through their own struggles. He loved like no other. Fierce and true. He was a loyal and trustworthy man truly worthy of being a Knight Templar. He was also a man worthy of not only the title of FATHER, but more importantly, DAD. He was imperfectly perfect to those of us that loved him longest and best, and to those that were lucky enough to call him friend. He was my Dr. H.

Through Goodbyes to VST, this new woman has now stepped out of the far reaches of my soul. Helpful. Strong. Smart. Funny. Inquisitive. And SCARED AS HELL. She came from nowhere to flourish and thrive as she put down roots immediately after VST’s death in this new little town called HOME. She is the new me. I own those attributes now, as I always did. I must admit, in recent years, I chose to rest complaisantly as a wife allowing life to pass. Along the way, I lost focus, passion, and ambition. I became a passenger in my own life story, doing that all on my own. It wasn’t especially fair to VST, although he never complained. I don’t have that option anymore. I don’t want that ME anymore. She died with VST.

Today, I choose Happiness. Faith. Strength. Perseverance. God. I am finding my way forwards. I choose not to sit and rest too long. I move onward towards positive goals for the future, creating as I continue through the wilderness of my first year of widowhood. I’m quite positive there are treacherous rivers yet to cross, with crags and crannies that could feel like they might devour my soul. But, I also know I am strong enough to stay on the path. It’s going to be okay. God and I have this, together.

As a married woman, I could have never imagined taking my wedding ring off for a minute. I’ve never been one to wear jewelry of any kind, let alone pricey stones in garish designs. My wedding band was so perfect. Simple. Comfortable. Golden. Like VST and me. Scratched through our 32 years, but still a circle. A comfort to me when VST passed, it was a reminder than the three decades shared had not been a dream, but real.

One day, in late summer, I awoke to a new feeling. I could wear this ring no longer for OUR vows were not tethered to something as earthly as a bit of gold. My ring couldn’t begin to contain something so precious, vast, and unending similar to the heavens in which my new guardian angel rested. It was band of gold that was constricting my finger and just a piece of jewelry now. I was no longer a wife, but a widow. I could wear it not a second longer. When removed, I was left with a temporarily deformed ring finger, morbidly pale and chronically constricted. The nerves were sensitive to anything that brushed across that spot on my finger screaming their protests at being exposed to widowhood. A strange sensation I was not expecting.

Six months gone, six months here, I find myself with an interest in finding friends again. I laugh with them on the phone, making plans for adventures new and foreign to me. I’m taking an interest in dressing the new woman that I am becoming. I speak in a gentler, kinder way to myself, encouraging thoughts and actions that are creating the best version of myself. I cheer for me when I am hitting things out of the park. I smile from my heart and like it. My winter has past on most days. My 65th Autumn is here, and I find myself hoping it lasts for a couple of decades, at least.

One of the last things that VST said to me in weak and quiet words was, “I want to go back to the ocean.” I think about the day I will travel to San Simeon to release him to the wind. With the final page of our story written, we’ll go their together together sharing our last and final earthly Goodbye. Today, Month Six finished, the thought is immediately shelved and encased behind glassy, tearful eyes. There is plenty of time for healing on this the first widowed year of mine.

As you read this, please cheer for me in your own way. Then, cheer for yourself and all your journey has taught you. Celebrate the love you share with important people in your life. Call them. Hug them. Laugh. Cherish the life you shared with the one you lost and travel through the wilderness of widowhood with me. Love surrounds us and we are not alone in this. We WILL come out into the clearing, and be much stronger for the journey.

Hawaii-philes. A new phrase coined describing VST and me. Through 32 years, we became absolutely addicted to the islands and all that Aloha brings with it. It started with two young lovers taking a second honeymoon in their first year of marriage. The initial fascination and love for paradise grew to much more, over the years.

It all started in 1988, when we were adorable kids. Married six months, reality was setting in. The monumental tasks of parenting a blended family of five was a bit overwhelming. It is one thing to fall in love with a soulmate. Falling in love with a parent of young kids is a very complicated dance. We had to learn to navigate the schedules and personalities of five children, ages 12-7, while not offending grandparents and extended family who held their breath while having everyone’s best interest at heart. Said onlookers had finally given up counting to 9, convinced that we married so quickly because a sixth child was on the way. Believe me, we figured that out on the first date. Five was plenty.

VST came home from work after an extremely stressful day with a brochure he had been given from a co-workers wife. “Pleasant Hawaiian Vacations. Dream the Dream. Live the Aloha Spirit”. The blue waters shown on the brochure were inviting. There was a twinkle in his eye as he asked me if I would run away with him, if only for a week. This while children played in the background and dinner was on the stove. What’s a girl to do??? Of Course!

Our first trip cost us $450 a person, including airfare from Fresno. Money well spent, that I assure you, we did not have in our budget. Six nights, seven days on Oahu. Six glorious days of adult-ing. Sleeping in. Breakfast overlooking the beach. Catamaran rides. All the cheesy things first time visitors do to get the perfect pictures they will cherish forever. We were the young couple old couples would look at and smile. I get it now. They were smiling because they remembered what the NEW was like. Sparking, tanned, trim, and sexy. We spent the week getting to know each other better. We were celebrating the one year anniversary of our Class Reunion, when we had reunited as friends. On that night, two stoic singles insisted their solitary lives were exactly what they had designed. A year later, we knew the design of our lives together was what we had been searching for.

Through the years, we visited Hawaii 30 times. It would have been a good idea to buy a place. Each time we would leave the plane the experience was the same for me. I was home. The air caressing my skin and giving life to my dried out Central Valley lungs was exquisite. No matter the weather, the feeling of returning to city life was thrilling. Farming, the demands of two full time careers needed to support the farm, pre-PsyD college courses, parenting, and still being parented were immense stressors. When a fragrant, Hawaiian rainstorm caught us out walking, we could actually stop and kiss in the middle of it. Not watch in horror as our raisin crop lay threatened on vineyard rows that seemed to go on for miles.

At first, it was annual trips. Endless searching for the right deal on the right hotel, always looking for deep discounts to get closer to ocean front. Each trip earned flight miles, and pretty soon, we were flying nearly free to hotels beach front and 50% off. Our trips got better and better, while becoming bi-annual.

Through the years, our travel experiences were the same. We had endless conversations about anything and everything. Without the stresses and strains of daily life, we could allow our brains to free range. We brainstormed new business ideas. Finally, we had time to talk about the problems in Row 72 of the vineyard and what we could do to mitigate them. We had time to marvel at the growth our children were making. We had time to gossip. We belly laughed. We could sit under a cabana and say nothing, and yet saying nothing said volumes. We were ourselves at peace.

On flights, five hours in duration, I made some observations. VST and I were the couple that was talking, holding hands, cuddled up, giggling, and whispering. We compared our airplane food. We found music channels and poked each other under cloaks of headphones, pointing and giving thumbs up. The others in the plane disappeared, leaving just us in our own world. We drank in those moments like the intoxicating elixir they were. What saddened me a little was the number of couples that were total strangers. What had life done to their visible ties? One in a book, the other on binge. I made notes to myself that we would not become like that. It would take everything we had not to.

Our best trip involved taking our kids with us when they were young olders. With a rented condo and lots of patience from everyone involved, we had the trip of a lifetime. We watched the kids enjoy their first experience flying. We watched them soak in the healing powers of Aloha and relax. We made memories that are frozen in our hearts in the most precious way. We celebrated being a family unique to us. We fought and fretted. We lost one, which found himself and came back to us after a brief trip to report him missing at the police station. We tried to capture quiet adult moments sipping a tropical drink, only to have sand-throwing hellions creep into our peripheral vision. We taught. We took. We showed the island to them through our eyes and they embraced their own visions through their own. Magical and full of our own Menehunes, our trip was one of our most precious moments together.

I always felt that if something happened to VST, when the dust had settled, I would rent a place in Oahu . For years, VST and I would notice a poor soul near Waikiki beach. We called her Cannie Annie. She was always in the same spot. All day, every day, she sat cross-legged near a walkway, smashing cans. Her skin was the nearest to tanned leather that I have ever seen. She sat, smiling, as she smashed one aluminum can after can. Maybe I would become the new version of Cannie Annie. At the very least, I would breathe in healing air, and let the Menehunes take me by the hand into their world, because I was sure without VST, my world would cease.

Covid ripped that possibility away from me and shredded it to bits. So many days, I have wanted to run, not walk to the airport and buy a one way ticket to paradise. But, paradise is closed. Fitting that the one place in which I might find my most precious memories waiting in a sunset or trade wind caress is blocking tourists. Maybe the Menehunes just had no more to give. How many souls over the years have gone to the islands taking its magic as their own? The islands are as tired as the rest of us. Pele needs to regroup. The locals need to dance for themselves for awhile. My soft place to fall disappeared.

So, in Month Five, Oliver and I took a Covid trip. Best bargain I have ever found. Aloha in the Living Room. Do Ho came and gave us a private concert. I served fresh pineapple while watching Elvis come to life in Blue Hawaii. I took out memory books from past trips, and I returned there, half the young couple that September night on Waikiki kissing under a full moon when not another soul was on the beach. During that kiss, Hawaii was all encompassing and the only place in the world we wanted to be. My trip was splendid. I didn’t need to quarantine for two weeks. Oliver didn’t need to worry about traveling in a confining crate. No masks. Just vacation time in our living room, celebrating Aloha with memories enough for a lifetime. I am quite sure Oliver noticed the Menehune discussing the fact that my world without VST didn’t cease, and that their guidance to a distance forest wouldn’t be needed after all.

Grab your own MaiTai and find your own Aloha spirit. As defined by the State of Hawaii, “Aloha is the coordination of mind and heart within each person. It brings each person to the self. Each person must think and emote good feelings to each other.” The world needs each of us to LIVE Aloha in our lives today. Remember your moment under the moonlight, and embrace it as the miracle it was and remains this very day.

Saturday morning, April 25. The eve of my major move off the mountain, exactly 17 days after VST left. We were standing, three grieving amigos, at the appliance counter of a major chain hardware store (Not Home Depot. Just sayin). Along with all my other equally pressing decisions, my new home, Winterpast, needed appliances.(King Solomon 2:10-14) Frig, range, dishwasher, washer/dryer. VST and I made the decision that all appliances would be replaced before we moved in, and I intended to carry through.

I knew exactly what I would get. My VC range was heavenly, and I wanted that exact model. The Frig needed to have the freezer on the bottom, with french doors on top. The dishwasher needed to have a food grinder and heated dry cycle. The washer and dryer needed to be full size and pretty. Kitchen stainless, washer/dryer white. As we stood in the appliance section waiting for someone to help us, I made most of my selections shortly after walking in. As the kids wandered and wondered how I would choose, I already knew what I wanted. But, what I wanted most was to get back to VC and prepare for the movers to arrive the next morning.

I had already gone through Round One with this store. Four days before, I had done the right thing and called to cancel VST’s credit card. Here is a little history.

VST and I loved remodeling things together. It was our happy spot. He had an eye for what could be and knew just how to create beautiful spaces. I could describe something to him, and he would take the idea to the next level, creativity resulting with awe inspiring projects. It took us both. It was not without a fair share of bantering, arguing, stalemates, and compromise. But, in the end, every project was a work of beauty and we looked for the next.

For the first two years in VC, I worked while VST was at home alone, with one huge project in mind. My dream kitchen. I knew that if I didn’t work, the kitchen would be put on hold. For once, I wanted to earn a project myself. I wanted to pay for every shim and handle with my own paycheck. The kitchen had been abused by the previous owners, who had cooked for their restaurant frying with peanut oil. It was a given when we bought the VC house, that the kitchen would need to be replaced, and so the project began.

VST had gone to the Carson City major chain hardware store (not Home Depot, just sayin) and in minutes, had a sufficient line of credit. Alone. Without my signature. We thought nothing of it. We had wanted the store card for the additional discount we could apply when buying cabinets, granite, installation, and all the other items needed. The limit was perfect for our kitchen budget and we went to work. Over six years, we used the card for every project we tackled on the house, always being glad we had it. We never paid a cent of interest. One of VST’s golden rules.

Getting back to me. Widowed. Clueless. Very new to the tricks of cancelling my late husband’s financial life, this chain hardware store (Not Home Depot. Just sayin) would not be helpful.

Days before the appliance purchase, seated at a mound of paperwork, to-do’s and had done’s, I called. After punching an endless amount of numbers to route me to the correct department, the dance started. I explained that I had an account, my husband had died, and I needed a replacement. The associate pounced on that.

“His account is now closed. The closing bill will arrive in 5-7 working days.”

Wait, I thought in utter disbelief. Miscommunication here. No, No, No. I need a new card to purchase the appliances on Saturday for the new house. I want the minuscule discount. Wait. It was MY work that let us pay off the kitchen. Wait just a minute.

“This account was in the name of the decedent, alone. You are welcome to apply for a new card of your own online. Sorry for your loss. Goodbye.”

I stared blankly at the phone. They didn’t just do that. No! But, yes. They did.

Going online, I filled out the screen properly, assuming that the computer would crosscheck any prior activity and my new account would have an equal credit limit. After all, it was MY job that allowed us to funnel My income to their chain hardware store (Not Home Depot. Just sayin). I waited for the computer to decide the fate of my credit limit.

My limit flashed on the screen.

$500.

This wouldn’t cover the washer I selected, let alone all the appliances. So I called back the chain hardware store plead my case(Not Home Depot. Just sayin).

“Just inquire at the store when you go to make your purchase. Perhaps the store manager will agree to raise your limit. Sorry for your loss. Goodbye.”

Back to Saturday. The kids were in shock at the speed in which I could rack up a huge bill on appliances. We had not discussed the fact that I had already picked these out in my head, as the buying frenzy occurred. A five minute walk through appliance heaven, and my order was complete. Now came the bill and method of payment.

I presented my shiny new Lowe’s credit card. Of course, I tried. With a puzzled look, the associate whispered, “This will cover $500. Do you have any way of covering the rest?”

I was handed the phone after requesting the store manager. I pleaded my case, and was then connected to Credit Customer Service. To which the answer was…

“At this time, your credit limit is $500. Sorry for your loss. Goodbye.”

It was then I found a wee bit of happiness and hilarity at this very moment. I smiled a sweet smile as I reached into my purse. The kids, not knowing how I would handle this situation, were quietly horrified. What was I reaching for???

And there it was. Platinum Visa. Financial solvency does have its rewards. I had wanted my own replacement card to honor the memory of VST. But, this would work just fine. I thanked the girl and we left. I am quite sure she wondered how this old, widowed woman in torn jeans and a tee pulled that off at the appliance counter on a Saturday morning at the major chain hardware store (Not Home Depot. Just sayin).

The moral of the story is this. Whatever you do, think before you start canceling your husband’s financial standing. Get your ducks in a row. Because, the minute you start, it is a constant response of “Canceled. Sorry for your loss. Goodbye.” Remember that the associates that are helping you are just doing their job. They didn’t write the crazy rules. They may be dreaming of a day they no longer need to work at a chain hardware store (Not Home Depot. Just sayin). Remember that there are many paths to get to a final destination. Be determined and persevere.

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Prone to decision weariness when overwhelmed, I marvel at all I have decided in my first 6 months into widowhood. There was no choice in the matter. From what I fed myself out of my Winter/Covid stocked cabinets and freezer, to whether I would live on a golf course or in a neighborhood, the decisions flew at me. Life altering and heart wrenching decisions that would have far reaching consequences.

I grieved the absence of VST. Which funeral home? Cremation? An urn? A service? Obituary? Pictures chosen with care? Proper eulogy? How many death certificates? Where to start financially? Friends to alert? Countless other, smaller details swirled in the first week. I had friends remind me to practice self care. In my case, it was all I could do to keep my daily planner close, documenting the smallest things, like breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Even at that, without choosing, ten pounds were gone. Mechanical and deliberate, I became an automaton, while making choice after choice.

The move was a choice VST and I made for ourselves when life was not irretrievably shattered. But daunting choices emerged. Which movers? Budget? Logistics? To rent the new house early? When to clean the old one? Which Internet at the new house? Where to return ATT equipment from the old? Insurance changes? Who would drive the rig to the new RV barn? All these things would have been a full time ordeal as a couple. Now, it was just me in the wilderness of Grief during Covid silence. I was choosing as fast as I could.

Our beautiful, strong, funny, grieving, blended, adult children became my comrades supreme. Just when the ability to make another decision was fading, they would call to check on me. How did they know their voices were what I needed to hear the most? Just at the right time. Always affirming that we were in this together for the long haul. In a blended family, I always knew, although VST and I chose each other, the kids had no say in the matter. Yet, we all blended into this fantastic mix of a normal family and all the ups and downs that go with that. After 32 years, they were all ours. All mine. All there supporting me. Me supporting them. In the past, there were periods where they had Facebook duels and clashes, as siblings do. But, in this situation, with me flying solo, they banded together stronger than I ever knew they could. This gilded our wedding vows made so long ago, when VST were over a decade younger than our kids were now.

My closest friends became closer, listening and giving advice when I needed it. They came to me. 6 hours one way. Multiple times. To hold my hand and find laughter. To celebrate VST’s life on his 66 birthday, when so many couldn’t because Covid endangered fragile health. They came, masks dropped, arms open, to hug an emotionally spent widow who needed them more than ever before. They knew the right things to say, even when it was nothing at all.

An easy decision helped me through the lonely days when the kids were busy with their lives, and Covid isolated me. I decided to be grateful. Morning still cloaked in darkness, before feet hit the floor, I would pray. For VST and me. For the kids. For Oliver. For goodness to come in small ways. I would be grateful for something in my life each moment I could. And then, I CHOSE HAPPINESS. Each day. Happiness. In the beginning, I faked it of course. But, I would find at least one thing morning, noon, and night to be happy about. In time, I found myself turning on the radio and singing once in awhile. I ended my draining fascination with the news, and finally turned it off all together. I talked to VST every day, and shared happiness with him as I rearranged my old life into blooms of my new one.

This choice was a deliberate decision. As a grieving widow, I would be reduced to ugly crying by the strangest things. A found pair of frayed jockey briefs. An empty pen in the desk. Pictures of landscapes in which I could transport back to the time, day, and place, remembering conversations VST and I were having while taking the shot. Tools that VST carried to fix things for me, never complaining, but saying, “It’s nothing, Darlin, fixed and done. What next?” An empty RV that slayed me every time I stepped inside, bringing me to my knees by the memories of 50,000 miles of exploring, laughing, arguing, plotting, planning, and discovering. But, in the background of my grief,were also 50,000 miles of sheer happiness and adventure, while holding each other on the journey.

As the months have unfolded, it now seems strange for me not to live in the now of happiness. I smile. Alot. Even when no one is looking. I sing when there is no one to hear. I dance in his shirt in horribly choppy, 70’s moves, knowing he is here with me, dancing in an even more awkward way then me. I laugh with Oliver and can see his relief that his old/new mom is better now. I see him relaxing more, because I have his back again. I am finding delight in my autumn garden. Always looking for something to form a happiness connection, I find that memories flood back and are now welcomed. Not painful, like swallowing a bitter pill, but comforting, warm, and delicious.

My dearest, sweet friend brought me a housewarming gift so affirming and final. “Choose Happiness” stated in metal formed in cursive. It hangs over my kitchen table as a mission statement that feeling happy IS a choice I need to make every single moment. Choose happiness for the moment right now, and remember what it looks like. Feel it, like a carmel, hot fudge sundae feeding your soul. Smooth, rich, warm, and full. Focus on the feeling and call it back throughout the day. Slowly, the feeling will become like breathing, like your pulse, or anything else constant and life supporting.

Do some events and people drain the happiness from our lives? Every day. Deal with them in the most positive way you know how. Identify those that drain you of this positive feeling and limit your experiences with them for a time. In the beginning happiness felt foreign to me, like I was cheating on VST and his passing. How ridiculous! I got a letter from a dear friend of his in which I was reminded that VST was one of the most happy-go-lucky people he knew. After all, VST’s theme song was, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”. Although a die hard Country Western fan, this remained his theme song for our entire marriage. Don’t Worry, Be Happy.

Today, do some little thing that makes you smile, or better, snicker, or best, throw out a booming belly laugh. Dance a little, in a frenzied way in your husband’s favorite work shirt. Watch a comedian online, or a funny movie that you can’t resist smiling over. Retrain yourself to feel happiness if only for a few minutes at first. And make a choice. Because, in this wilderness of grief, there needs to be the North Star of hope, perseverance, and gratitude, with a rainbow of happiness above it all.

Willie’s Roadhouse was all new to me in the summer of 2017. While RVing with VST, I became a new fan of Country Western Music. He had grown up at Grandpa Arch Dell’s knee listening to Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys. With satellite radio in our rig, the driver had the choice of stations. Willie’s Roadhouse would play for long stretches through plains and prairies. I learned to love the songs. Alot. When the driving was treacherous, we would both belt out “Big Ball’s in Cowtown” in unison, laughing until we almost cried, because some places VST drove us took big balls, and not of the dancing kind.

Recently, I was unpacking boxes and listening to a country western station when I heard, for the first time, “You Can’t Make Old Friends”, a duet by Dolly and Kenny. A trip to Dollywood had been on our list of destinations before it might be to late to see her perform live. We were quite sure the problem would be on Dolly’s end, not ours. Boy, were we wrong. The song was about their special friendship over the years, being the OLD FRIENDS they sang about in the song.

Stopping and taking time to reflect about the message in the lyrics, I thought of the experiences I was having in an unfamiliar town while meeting new friends. Neighbors on my block were still strangers. Their houses stood like unopened presents on Christmas morning. Some were going to be just what you wanted more than anything else in the world, and others were going to hold no fascination. New connections? No connections? New service providers. The Mail Lady. Gardener. All mysterious.

Having lost VST, who would now set me straight when I needed it the most? Who would share truths a best friend would spit like darts, because they would know just what you needed to hear. Who would interrupt my crazy stories, if embellished just a little too much? Who would add the tiniest detail forgotten that would make the whole story so much better? Who would drive me nuts finishing my sentences, or in later years, color my thoughts? I have lost the best friend I relied on through my adult years. The one that saved my butt so many times. VST.

Beginning a new song, men friends would appear at the appropriate time for me. Ready to take me to coffee? Ice cream? Dinner? Each situation ripe with the appropriate expectations of conversation while prospecting for possible links, not yet knowing about the core belief and value parts of me that needed knowing for an OLD FRIENDSHIP to thrive.

I meet new friends every day. I say HI in a way that is hopeful and upbeat. I flash a smile and try to sneak a furtive peek into their eyes. Their gaze usually shifts quickly when mine is spotted. I am left to wait, hoping real friendship will develop slowly, while looking for validation that doesn’t come in ways comfortable and shared for decades.

The song goes on to discuss harmonizing with someone. My initial thoughts race back to high school choir, when VST and I would join others on key. Our voices, soprano and bass would blend together back then to form a recognizable and enjoyable song. Two YOUNG FRIENDS. Little did we know our voices would create so many harmonies throughout the years. Hello’s. Promises. Vows. Dreams. Songs. Agreements. Arguments. Apologies. Sweet night sounds. Support. Defense against enemies. Coos to grandchildren. Prayers to God. Defeat to cancer. In the end, our harmony was silenced. I miss that we could pick up a tune in the middle and go with it. Or that, we always knew what to say at the right time, in the right way, even when that was really hard to do.

The stage is mine for now, and I find I’m fumbling with the words and tune. Finding the right pitch of a person that COULD be an Old Friend, who might know just a little of the song and join in. So far, I find myself humming alone. Everything needs explanation. The tempo, timbre, texture and structure of my wants and needs in life. I, too, need to listen carefully for the notes and rhythm of theirs. Exhausting. Without VST, the silence helps me appreciate how blessed I was to have enjoyed my Old Friend for the lifetime we shared. It also makes me want that experience one more time in my life, because having Old Friends like that is something that makes life rich and worth living.

I pray each day that somewhere out there, there is an Old Friend having the same longings. That a duet waits. That hearts can indeed learn new musical genres and songs. VST always reminded me, “You can’t go nowhere on yesterday’s train”. Our song ended. Abruptly. Final notes harsh. Shrill. Quite final. New Old Friends will come around, maybe just to listen to the music for awhile.

God has me in the palm of his hand now, and someday, sooner than I would expect, I will be on my way to heaven’s gate. I know all my Old Friends will be waiting there for me. But, in my prayers, I ask that VST will be front and center, because, he is the Old Friend lost that I miss the most. We will be young again, not the way we had recently been, but the same Old Friends.

Today, call an Old Friend of yours. Really appreciate what an amazing thing friendship is. Tell them how much you love and cherish them in your life. Because, your voice is just what they long to hear more than anything else.

Bull Riding is my favorite sport. Nothing feminine about it. Snorting, slobbering, cute cowboys, amazing animals at the height of their game. Danger, suspense, twisting, turning, and amazing aerials by all involved. Dealing with two complicated real estate transactions closing hours between each other was just as suspenseful. I just wish the ride had only lasted 8 seconds.

VST and I had decided in early January, 2020, that the time had come to sell the VC house. 3300 sq. ft. of beautiful. It had been an unloved and abused repossession when we bought it at a bargain basement price. We had a vision for restoring it to grandeur, and spent 6 years doing just that. Everything in the house was dialed in to perfection for us. Actually for anyone. By the time we decided to sell, there were only two more projects remaining. We needed to have a proper laundry room and one bedroom closet. In January, these were the last two design and building projects VST would accomplish in his life. They were perfection when finished in two weeks, just like all the other projects he had completed before. If you were not told, you would have thought the closet and laundry room were original, he was that good.

The house was barely listed when it sold. We had just decided to sell as we were driving home from lunch. We had spent the morning looking at some houses with a realtor, and found two that we really liked. The discussion on the way home was devoted to the pros and cons of moving, and we decided it was time for us to get off the mountain. The new realtor would be our agent. Within five minutes, my phone rang. It was another realtor we knew. Would we ever consider selling? He had a couple that loved our home. They both worked in VC. Would we, could we, might we sell? They wanted to see the house the next day. We listed. They came. They fell in love and offered. We accepted. All within hours of us deciding to leave. Just like that.

At the same time, VST was driving, worrying about the taxes, building and fixing things, calling me Darlin, and kissing me goodnight. We hadn’t found a new house yet, and had even taken an RV trip at the end of January to a town seven hours away, spending an entire day looking at ten possible choices. VST was himself, although tired and very swollen by the end of the day. He drove the rig to and from our destination, enjoying Willie’s Road House and the trip. He promised we would see the doctor about the troublesome swelling when we got home.

Finally, we found THE house for us. One hour from VC, a single story ranch home on one-half acre of beauty. Totally landscaped with paths and walkways through mature fruit and shade trees. A lush green lawn right out my kitchen window. Bird houses and plenty of birds to raise families in them. An RV barn, interior walls totally finished. A four car garage. Three bedrooms/2 baths. 1907 sq. ft. of beautiful, promising low maintenance allowing us to continue RVing. We both immediately felt at home and made an offer, which was accepted.

We had two realtors, a buyer, a seller, us, and more paperwork than you could imagine. Our VC home had never been part of our family trust. The trust needed to be domesticated in Nevada, and that was on our to-do list. So add an attorney and more paperwork to the mix. And, so the ride began. Cancer entered the mix about two weeks after the bucking bull left the shoot. We held on for dear life with both hands as our lives seemed to spin out of control.

Double inspections, repairs, re-inspections, requests from Title Companies, realtors, buyers, sellers, and escrow companies. Appointments with the lawyer. Endless signings, needed countless times. Cleanings, walk-throughs, plans for moving to and from. Canceling old services, and starting new ones. Hiring movers and choosing THE big day.

All while VST got sick, and sicker, and sicker, and died. In nine weeks from a word I couldn’t even pronounce in the beginning. Choalangiocarcinoma. Cancer of the Bile Ducts.

I entered the transactions with my husband. Joint Tenancy. Husband and Wife. All that goes with that. I closed both deals as a single woman selling and buying alone. All that goes with that. My realtors were stunned. Both seasoned and knowledgeable, neither had ever had a client die during a transaction. Let alone a healthy client that was thrown off his game and trampled to death by cancer. We all walked together through two months, holding each other and our breaths. Twists and turns. Changes in speed and direction. Covid complicating the entire ride.

Patiently, they helped me with emailed documents, when my computer wouldn’t agree to e-signings. They handled things from the sidelines that I am sure I am happier not knowing about. They made things happen that seemed impossible. They helped peel me off the ceiling on many days when I was ready to forget the entire thing. They listened and advised. They gave me the right amount of space and support. They were treading scary waters, as Covid was new. Risking their own health, they showed buyers our home and me my new home. They coordinated the ride, and made sure things closed within 24 hours of the sale and purchase.

I was alone when VST died. I had just checked on him and he was still hanging on. He was comfortable and quiet, and I left the room for just 5 minutes. When I came back, he was gone. The phone rang. I answered in a babbling, choking, wailing kind of way that was incoherent. My sweet realtor was on the other end, the first voice to say, “Calm down, I am so sorry, how can I help?” There was no help. We lost our balance. The bull won.

Think about all those professionals that took time to say, “Calm down. I am so sorry. How can I help?” I made of list of the most insignificant times that there was an angel in human form that made all the difference to me. Someone at the post office. The doctor’s office. A neighbor. And even a guy making me a Subway sandwich. I took the time to write them a Thank You, for comfort they gave while just doing their jobs. Not even knowing how much it meant to me. Do the same. It is a small part of our healing. Acknowledging the fans that cheered, held their breaths, and helped us get up and start our journey through widowhood. Hold on, its okay to use both hands, this is a tough bull to ride.

Please note– A special shout out to Penny Phillips from Coldwell Banker in Fernley, Nevada, and David Shriver from Coldwell Banker in Carson City, Nevada. You were both a Godsend to VST and me during our darkest hours. You lovingly helped me say Goodbye and Hello while carrying me through a horrible time. I love you both.

Looking back on my planner for the week of April 20, I marvel at all the loose ends I had to tie up while selling/buying/packing/moving. With Covid raging in everyone’s mind, there were no casseroles and floral arrangements behind a ringing doorbell. There was me, a stunned woman in grief of the worst kind, putting on her boots every morning to get stuff done. Exactly what I did.

VST and I had a standing joke, more mine than his. I always felt I would reach for the door earlier than him and make my heavenly exit first. We shared many miles in the RV discussing this. We would argue about who would die first and why. It became competitive banter with humor, but, I did believe I would go first. I was the one that had more obvious emergency room visits due to a stupid Vaso Vagal reaction hitting me at the worst times. He had slow and quiet problems like crippling arthritis. So, in my mind, he would be the widower.

I counseled VST on this very topic. First bit of advice. Watch the arrival of the casserole dish. Some casseroles arrive in disposable containers, ripe for the tossing when the contents are gone. This type of person is really helpful, and knows that they will never see their dish again. A great friend to do this service. Practical and thoughtful. I counseled him to make a note, because washing and returning a casserole dish may be cumbersome during the first weeks as a new widower.

There are those that will deliver a casserole in their finest stoneware. Warning. Red Flag. Make note of this, too. How was the deliverer dressed? Speaking? Wiping lint off your three day old smelly tee? Cleavage exposed? Beware. This person is not expecting to ever forfeit this expensive dish. In fact, it is a place holder for a return visit. Warning. Beware. If the unexpected visit might be welcome, that’s one thing. But, the dish is a connection to the future. Just an observation from the past. If the phone number is written on the bottom with a smiley face and a heart….that should not go unnoticed.

We would laugh and one name would repeatedly come up. Don’t answer the door VST. Please. Just feign some horrible pandemic-y disease and hide under the covers. But, you open the door, it ‘s just like bed bugs. Hard to unring that bell, and you will never really get rid of the problem.

It had been twelve days since VST had died. His urn, which had to be just the right shade of blue with embellishments of pewter, sat in the bookcase. I had so many appointments that my head was swimming, and the phone rang. Friends of the best kind, soft, sweet, caring, and amazing cooks, were on the other end. What was my favorite meal? What could they bring to me? I had been running so many errands, rolling on and off the mountain, each trip to civilization costing me at least 30 minutes one way. Covid had closed all restaurants and emptied store shelves. Luckily, living in the wilderness and coming off winter, I was stocked, but the thought of a real home cooked meal brought tears to my eyes.

Spaghetti and meat balls. I guess if I was on death row, it would be a strange last meal. But, I had been craving S & MB for days, with french bread and garlic butter. Not even my favorite meal choice, but what I wanted more than anything on the morning of April 20th. In the midst of the chaos, Oliver had a vet’s appointment at noon, so off we went down the hill.

Two hours later, returning to the front door, I saw an strange and interesting item. There, sitting with a pot of pink tulips, was a brown metal, scuffed and very antique container. It was 1/2 the size of a banker’s box and 1960’s vintage. My friends had dropped off the meal! A real meal made with loving hands, that came from the dearest of angels. A care package had never been sweeter. Flowers, TOO!!!! Amazing, because with winter’s cloak still wrapped tightly around VC at 6200 ft., and my soul needed the powerful medicine of these blooms. Easter had come and gone, and these flowers stood as a reminder that I would bloom again, too, and spring was on the way.

After settling Oliver, I carefully took the ice chest to the kitchen to explore what was inside. Everything about the box was comforting. I’m pretty sure my Mom and Dad had one similar when I was growing up, taking it along on camping trips or outings to the beach. It was well used and packed with goodness only these two could have thought up. Inside was homemade sauce and meatballs with spaghetti noodles cooked just right. A small green salad with dressing on the side. Ciabatta roll, fresh and squishy. A hunk of garlic butter, wrapped in saran. Another saran of fresh Parmesan cheese. And a meal that would last a couple of settings. It was a feast that warmed me to my toes. I stood in my kitchen and cried the ugly cry thinking that this was, indeed, a meal that was made with the deepest kind of love. That from dear friends whose hearts were breaking for VST and I.

With each bite, I remembered all the times we had shared memorable Italian meals. So many different restaurants, with kids and without. At our own country kitchen at the ranch, with 5 kids running around asking for seconds. By candlelight, or off paper plates. I wished he was there to sing me “O Solo Mio” with his booming bass voice. An outside observer would see an old woman, eating Spaghetti and Meatballs through her tears. But, for me, it was a feast of memories with every bite, so comforting and warm.

Today, take inventory of those clean casserole dishes waiting to be returned. Think of the love and care that went into preparing food for you when all you could do was remember to breathe. Find the names on the bottom and call them. The best friends will come to retrieve them and sit with you for awhile. Savor the flavor of the bond you have with them and be grateful that you are loved that much. To my spaghetti toting friends, you know who you are. Your kindness that day was one that helped me stay afloat. Your friendship today is golden. I love you both.

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Hands connect us to one another in a unique and precious way. In VST’s last days, he chose to spend time on “the death couch” as he referred to it. He first recoiled at the thought of opening the hide-a-bed in the living room, but later, chose it often to rest next to me in the busy part of the house. He slept while I snapped this, or he would have protested that any part of our nightmare called cancer was documented in this way. Images have a way of returning us to captured moments. We were captured by the hell that is cancer.

My own hands are large, functional Germanic woman-hands. The kind that get things done. Size ten ring finger. Not a dainty, girly-girl digit in the bunch. They attempted to help me play piano when I was little, but constantly flew in directions not conducive to a beautiful melody. My mom was crushed. They also attempted to help me with guitar. They easily wrapped around the neck, depressing strings to make keys that hummed in a 1970’s kind of Glen Campbell way for a time.

Through the years, they held young lovers, wrote term papers, dialed phone numbers and twirled the cord late into the night. They pointed and shook at boys that needed to leave me alone, and beckoned those I wished didn’t. They raised Guide Dogs for the Blind, delivered brand new puppies into the world, trained dogs, and held their paws as they took their last breath. They irrigated grapes and helped shake them after they turned into raisins. They washed a squirmy grandson and splashed with him until we were showered with delightful fun in the bathroom. These days, they hold Oliver in the silent mornings when I wish VST was still here to share our morning coffee. They wipe my own tears and help me move on through this blog.

In the beginning of VST/Me, our hands were busy with life. Every aspect. Work, personal, spiritual, family, and educational growth. Through the years, VST used his massive mitts in the gentlest of ways. Holding a daughter’s precious hand at the country fair, leaving an imprint on her heart that warms her still today. His hands wielded wrenches, and twins, a boy and a girl, when he was 21. They held steering wheels, traveling millions of miles in his lifetime. They built houses, waterfalls, great walls, and our life together. They wrote his dissertation and earned him the loving title Doctor H. Later in life, they caused him intense and extreme pain with arthritis and paralysis.

When we were together, our hands were often intertwined. After decades of marriage, often on a trip to Lowe’s I would be in my own writer’s head. And there he would be, on a cold parking-lot morning at Lowe’s grabbing mine. People would smile at us in that way. How adorable, these two sage lovers. And that is what we were, even if we had just argued the whole way there about an insignificant topic of the day that found us at odds. I would feel his hand reach for mine, and I was home, wherever we found ourselves.

Hands held each other when he had no more strength to reach for me in the night. My hands helped him take morphine and other hideous drugs, less horrible than the cancer that robbed him from me. They wiped his brow when he was feverish. They helped him into the passenger side of the Jeep to travel to the doctor, when it was me that took the wheel while he slept. They put soft blankets around him when he suddenly found himself bone chillingly cold. And more than a few times, they shook at the heavens, questioning WHY.

Finally, in one last touch, it was my hand stroking his cheek that said Goodbye to him as he was making his final exit on that beautiful Virginia City morning. My hands cradled his urn and wondered how this all transpired in nine weeks.

Hands need to find each other and hold on. Touch is a precious sense that can speak louder than words at times. Caresses feed starved skin and comfort a bruised soul. Use your hands to produce acts of kindness. Wave. Open a door. Greet someone you haven’t seen for awhile in spite of Covid, or because of it. Clap for others. Journal your life. Connect with each other. Hold hands as you cross the street, and be so grateful that you have another’s hand, if only for a time.

Letting You Go

You saved me when I needed saving so badly.

You have been the one to hold me, to cheer me, to love me, to teach me.

You.

It was you from the first look.

It was you from the YES to your proposal.

And, it is you now.

I need to let you fly with the wind, with the angels, to the arms of God and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Please wait for me. Please be my guardian angel and help me across when my day comes.

Thank you, My Golden Friend, My Bold Lover.

My heart will beat to remind me I need to stay here a little while longer.

I will remember our sweet story, smile, and share it often.

Because you and I are, and always will be pure love. Period.

I say these things not knowing HOW I can let you go.

But

Knowing I must.

Take my love with you, and find me when I finish my time on earth.

I love you most…

Even though I know you love me more.

Your Darlin Forever, Mrs. H

JH April 6, 2020

Navigating as a new widow, I find I am constantly being confronted with “Should/Shouldn’t” (S/S) information. The worst offender is my own brain. Having been the other half for so many years, decisions of the S/S kind were made together with thought and conversation. There were no judgmental rules for us to follow, but rather pragmatic discussions and decisions. In the last year of VST’s life, with cancer silently robbing me of him, “Maybe’s” were no longer considered. Many things that were, were no longer. “Wouldn’ts” were the norm. Our life was a black and white landscape of the KNOWN and SAFE.

VST was a cautious man. Thankfully, he was, because it has left me in a safe situation now. Without his planning, willpower, and Stay-The-Course attitude, never would I have been financially solvent and safe. I was always the one veering to the right or left, wanting to take the unmarked path to see what wonders were around the bend. VST, on the other hand, used Google maps and Garmin to be sure he was following the Right road to a Certain destination. Safe and sound we would arrive ahead of schedule, leaving me to wonder what really cool things we missed along the way.

Safety was always comforting to me. VST kept me safe through fires and my own medical issues. He always knew what we SHOULD do in any situation and why we Shouldn’t do anything other than that. He internalized his own conversations of WHY NOT and I was left with the final answer of how things would be best handled. My input was always factored in, and the whimsical thoughts of a fantastical writer were an amusement, but in the end, the practical side always won out with him. He ALWAYS knew just what to do, or at the very least, did a fine job faking it until things worked out.

On April 8th, my Garmin following Captain left on HIS new adventure, leaving me to stop and think about all the S/S decisions that faced me. In the middle of two complicated real estate transactions, while awaiting my husband’s cremation, I freaked out for a minute. The new home we had selected together was in another town, small and not much bigger than a truck stop. The town had no hospital. No major box stores except WalMart. It was on 1/2 acre with an RV barn. All more than I needed to think about in April. I began to question whether I SHOULD buy the house at all or choose another more sensible one closer to services.

After a frantic call to my realtor, and one more look at a golf-course home, small and safe on the fairway, I knew what I had to do. I had considered my first solo “Why Not/Maybe” and made a truly important decision for myself, on my own. The house we selected together would be mine. My roots were bound and waiting to sink into the lush green lawn and take hold. This little town was the right size for me to build a new life on the high desert. The Russian Sage and Rabbit Brush called my name, promising me their fragrance as I healed. The fruit trees would be in bloom soon, and I needed a season of growth and wonder more than I ever had in my entire life. I named my new home Winterpast, from the Song of Solomon 2:10-14.

“My beloved responded and said to me, Arise my darling, my beautiful one, and come along. For behold, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers have already appeared on the land; the time has arrived for pruning the vines, and the voice of the turtledove has been heard in our land. The fig tree had ripened its figs, and the vines in blossom have given forth their fragrance. Arise my darling, my beautiful one, And come along!”

In the last six months, this has been a comfort, because on more days than not, I am finding, indeed, my winter has past.

A hard and fast commonly accepted SHOULD NOT is that a newly widowed person should make NO big decisions in the first year. I blew that out of the water. With a major move involving the upheaval of my entire life to a new town, major financial decisions consolidating the estate, making choices of people that would become my new Old Friends, and making all this work while grieving became the WHY NOT? YES. I didn’t perish. In fact, I became the best version of myself that I have been in a very long time.

Grieving along the way, the S/S crowd weighed in on many issues, again, the inner me yelling the loudest. But, so far, I have listened to my rational side, and relied on the stability and friendship of our kids who have helped guide me through the worst nightmare I could have imagined. They console me, laugh about funny memories, and are rock solid in their support of me when I really needed to investigate a situation more. Their opinions create a soft place in which I can retreat and accept their ideas as my own. However, as I heal I need to forge many things and decide my own route, taking turns onto those unmarked paths to see what I missed along the way. They wait nervously, not unlike new parents watching children do things for the first time, as I take my first steps on this autumnal journey of mine.

I am in the land of MAYBE/WHY NOT at ever turn these days. I am finding that I am more cautious than I would have believed. But, the inquisitive and curious woman is awakening. That part of me has been dormant for decades and it is now time for me to play in the leaves while the breeze catches my hair just so. My days are shortening as morning retains its chill later and later. I need to live the best life of my own choosing. VST would expect no less from me, and I honor our life together by choosing happiness and life every day. I need this time to truly become the best version of myself. Freedom from the chains of SHOULD/SHOULDN’T will allow me to find the path just right for me.

Today, just for a little while, allow your mind to wander into the meadows of WHYNOT/MAYBE. Rest there for a time and dream of what might be around the corner. The new and untested experiences that await you. Although your spouse died, don’t let yourself become a casualty as well. No one really expects a widow in 2020 to sit under a black shroud for an eternity. If they do, it is only because they cannot fully understand our unique place called WIDOW’S GRIEF, which is entirely different for each of us. Merely rest here until you feel a need to grow, and then carry on, because God has amazing things planned for you just around the bend.

Writing is life. Period. A student of mine, only 10 years old, wrote that on an assignment. It was her opening paragraph. She got an “A”. Without kind words, life would be in chaos and ruin. Hearts would never find each other. Miscommunications would flare and healing would never occur. How many new love stories are never written because one or the other involved couldn’t find the words to express their feelings? I am, of course, focusing on the positive aspects of words and writing, but, anyone who has known me more than five minutes knows optimism is a core character trait of mine.

When I found myself at the birth of my widowhood, there was nothing to hold onto anymore. Certainly not VST. Covid had robbed me of the chance to be with other newly widowed. All Grief support groups were cancelled. Friends were sheltered in place, holding onto each other for dear life. I was on A Street left to fend for myself, and so, I came up with a way words would help me heal. They became counselor, best friend, confidant, and voice, having been my life since I first learned to talk.

As I child, I raised myself. I have my own feelings about these things and how they happen. In some way, I chose that childhood because I was independent. Having farm freedoms let my brain develop in a little richer way. I spent long hours learning how to entertain myself. Learning how to soak into nature and communicate with the animals I loved so much. I learned what it is like to mud bathe in the middle of a 40 acre vineyard, the long tendrils surrounding me in the most heavenly way. When I was hungry, I could go out into the depths of the farm and find whatever snack I wanted. Nectarines, apples, grapes, bell peppers, cherry tomatoes, plums all ready for one “funny looking blondie”, as Dad called me, to pick. Dad was famous for his Elbow Peaches, so named because the juice would always run down our elbows as we slurped up every bite, fuzz and all, straight from the tree.

During those years of freedom, I found that no matter what happened around me, in words I found the ultimate comfort, and in that my voice. When loneliness spiked, I could write about it and suddenly gain a better understand myself. That has never changed for me.

In this new phase of my life, it came to me that I needed a focal point, just as I had in my Lamaze birthing classes. When the pain because too intense, I needed an anchor to get me through, and so, The Word Method became mine. Not any tested method, this one. I can only say, it helped me heal quicker than I might have. Without words, I surely would have faded away to nothing.

In this method, I decided that each month, one word would be selected to represent our marriage. During that month, when the grief gripped my very core threatening to disembowel me, I focused on that one word with a vengeance. Exactly as in birth, for me, the waves of grief were that. Unexpected and intense. Treacherous seas. I could be packing, organizing, arranging and, BAM, there it was. Grief with a vengeance. Changing my focus willfully to the word, I would start thinking of every way it represented us. I might cry a little more at some memories, but usually, I smiled, or even laughed. I was comforted by the multitude of ways it represented us, and I would feel better. I never ran out of examples. There were thousands for each.

There was a second component. VST and I never shared traditions. We are Christians and love Christmas, but as a couple, we never exchanged gifts. We found that as well as we knew each other, we would choose the wrong things, and end up standing in frustrating return lines. So, on the morning of Christmas Eve we would go select our presents together. Secretly, I longed for VST to have a hidden present somewhere, wrapped the way a husband would, maybe in purple birthday wrap with a wonky bow. But, that was never to be.

So , VST has been tricky and every month since his death, there is a Christmas present to me, wrapped with messages on the paper, and more importantly, representing the word of the month. Okay, for some of you, I need to spell this out. I have not lost my mind. Yes. I have purchased the presents for myself after VST’s death. Some are personalized and I have not yet seen them. They sit in my office reminding me that I love myself. A notice that there will be a first Widow Christmas that I’m dreading. I have now created the beginnings of a new tradition to honor our marriage.

Each month, along with the word and present, I’ll create an ornament for my tree representing the special word for that month. It doesn’t have to be museum quality. Just something that would be a message that 32 years of life with VST did happen. It was rich and wonderful, reflected by the relationship we created. Perfect???? No such thing. A perfect example of an honest union of the two of us? You betcha.

The ornaments have been a snag, because to me, they will be the tangible proof that I am ready to memorialize that month and put a period on those memories. Those days will always be cherished, but not dwelt upon. I have given myself until December 16th, my birthday, to finish them. I will be creating a keepsake box for them, and plan to continue this personal tradition until I die, with notes to the kids of why each design was chosen. Because there are thousands of words and memories, I will never be at a loss for stories, smiles, and laughs for the most beautiful time in my life. And for that, I cherish VST even more.

Think of the words that hold meaning for you. You already know my first three were Food. Shelter. Clothing. from my first blog. Month 2 was FRIENDSHIP. Month 3 was LOVE-EVERLASTING. Month 4 was ADVENTURE. Month 5 was FAITH. And Month 6 is HAPPINESS. You will have words that fit your love story, I’m sure. When grief is overwhelming, take a break. Use your words. They are powerful and uplifting.

Today, spend time with memories in a different way. Choose happiness. It is a choice that you can make. Take just a moment to let out one smile as you think about the special moments that took your breath away. Soak in the loveliness that brought you excitement and tenderness. Be grateful for the love you shared. Use your words to stay afloat. Pretty soon, those same words will help you soar, if only for a moment at a time.

April 10th, the house woke me with its deafening silence. Every creak, moan, and spring wind blown comprised a cacophonous sound mourning VST’s passing. For the house had responded to his every touch, just as I had. Physical beauty surrounded me. His taste in domestic design and improvements was surpassed by no one. Standing as a testament to his skills, the house and I grieved in unison while she surrounded me like a warm hug.

By the time I got my coffee that morning, VST would have been on the move, walking the streets of VC. His power walk always started the same. He suffered from crippling arthritis, which made it necessary for him to wear heavy knee braces. Those in place, next came his white cowboy hat, jacket, and cane. VST was known throughout the town as the guy with the braces, walking on through heat, bitter cold, rain, hail, or snow. The Bionic Cowboy of Virginia City.

VST held a demanding presence with his striking good looks, debonair southern drawl, deep voice, as smooth as a fine cognac, and dimpled smile. At 6’1″, he drew looks from the ladies wherever he went. But, those looks were not returned, for I was his Forever Darlin. Plain and Simple. His friendly nature often lengthened his walks down the C Street Boardwalk. His best days involved meeting the Sheriff, after which he would come home and remind me that if I had been with him, I would have been that lucky, too.

VST was legally disabled and had been declared so for the last three years of his life. Yet, he walked four miles each and every day until a few weeks before he died. At 65, I never could consider him disabled, because of all the activities he enjoyed. But, x-ray images and doctor’s reports, and a paralyzed hand don’t lie. He powered on when others would have been on crutches recovering from knee surgery. He had no time for anything like that. He was already down the road. He was just like that. Stubborn. Tougher than nails. Tenacious. Weathered. Rock Solid. And now, gone.

The night before, I had sat stunned in his worn, leather recliner, contemplating what my future would hold. Rather like a deer, startled while grazing, I sat motionless, listening to my own heartbeat. Feeling the oddity of tears streaming down my face, I was silently grieving, staring at the wall instead of our panoramic vista. A poster girl for all the symptoms of severe shock. It was then that one of many miracles took place. Huddled in my favorite blanket, embracing tears and feelings, I realized it had been some time since I checked my emails. My pad glowed to life, showing a list of mail I would rather not open after 5pm. Medical test results from the Monday past, when I still had VST. Death related questions from the Mortuary. Condolences from people just hearing the unthinkable. All those could wait until morning.

But, there in the queue, was one email that caught my eye. It was from my teacher-friends from so long ago, when I was a younger, vibrant person, loving a healthy career and farming. Our own children growing towards adulthood. VST and I sharing all the sparks, fire, intensity, and love that our relationship held from the first HELLO. There it was , begging to be opened. The email from my Old Friends. With heart racing, I tried to digest what it said. “April 10th at 4PM, join us for a ZOOM meeting. It has been too long. We all need to touch base. Please come. Just like that, I reconnected with something concrete and all mine. They had no idea VST had passed. It had been at ten years since we had been together. A happy accident of the most serendipitous type.

The morning of the 10th was full of chores, big and small. Conquering the laundry. Emptying medicine cabinets. Packing boxes. Crying. Wiping tears. Driving back and forth to the storage area. Checking numerous emails from realtors on both sides of my life. The sale of the VC house, the purchase of the New House. Sending emails to those that didn’t know he had gone so quietly, and receiving emails from those that just found out he did. I just stayed the course. I wrote goals in my planner. Completed them. Chose three more and continued. I took time for a nap.

Finally, it was 4pm. The computer screen slowly filled up with boxes holding images of cherished teaching buddies. One by one, they clicked to life. Everyone excited and chatting at once. All looking older, but just the same. Their shock and sadness reflected from the screen, for VST and I were the couple that had it all, often excluding others to get everything done. How many times I had to forego fun outings with these friends because I had to irrigate, fix dinner for seven, or shake raisins. They never knew how many days I came to school after a rain, having been up all night crying because our crop might have been ruined by the very rainstorms they were celebrating. They couldn’t know at what a price VST and I bartered for our privileged life. It didn’t matter anyway.

They were cyber beauties. For an hour, we laughed. We adjusted our cameras to the right angle and light, maximizing our best attributes. We laughed more. We shared moments of silence. It was magical. I had a glimpse of a regular Friday afternoon with friends that had known me for decades of my adult life. How they sent that email at exactly the right time will be a puzzlement to me forever. Happenings like this I refer to as “God Things”.

“God Things” are around everyone. It depends on whether people choose to recognize them. For me, I know that God carried me through the fires of those first hours, days, weeks, and months, making sure I wasn’t burned. Not even. He gave me strength and protected my back from injury even when I knew the boxes I hoisted were way too heavy under the state of exhaustion I was in. He kept those who would have taken advantage away from my door. He brought me those friends that were the best comfort to me. Through my faith in God, I became stronger than the grief consuming me.

As you are grieving, remember to look for the beauty and miracles that surround you even in the darkest hours, asking God to carry you through the fire. He will. He will bring you peace and allow sleep to come, as he wraps you with the wings of millions of angels. I know he will, because, he did this for me.

Grief. Truly, I had never given grieving a single thought before VST passed. Sure, I had lost my parents, a sister, family, and friends throughout my life, but never did I consider the impact that grief has on a spouse. This is different in every respect I can think of. At least, it has been for me.

VST and I had the kind of marriage that might drive some people mad. We really liked each other, and for the last three years of retirement, we were inseparable. We had purchased an investment property in VC, and spent 6 years renovating and decorating this 3,300 sq.ft. home. This involved time shopping for supplies, grabbing occasional meals while doing this, visiting in the car for the 30 minute ride each way, planning, executing plans, and collaborating, all while loving and respecting one another.

We met in 1970 in high school choir. He was the handsome football jock that would come in after his PE shower, his hair slightly curled and still damp. He had dimples of the most adorable kind and a bass voice that was needed in any musical setting. Everyone loved VST. His team mates. The other students. And me, in a very innocent, friendly way. We were friends for 2.5 years and then went our separate ways.

In 1987, we met again at our highschool reunion. 14 years for me, 15 years for him. Neither of us were anything other than irritated at being there. We had both decided we would be single forever, owning our own homes and cars, and having our own children. No need to complicate anything. About three weeks after that meeting, he found himself proposing. I found myself saying yes. And from them on, VST&Joy was almost one word.

We had a life that was beautiful and overflowing with blessings. You can tell by my pictures and posts. It was a lovely marriage with the right balance. You often don’t hear of those types of marriages. Maybe you were lucky enough to have had that, too. So, when I lost VST, the oxygen was sucked out of my world and the first two months were filled with shock. Along with shock, I was extremely isolated due to Covid.

Covid. I missed all the impending doom provided by the daily news reports. When VST fell the slightest bit ill, the first 90 deaths were reported. The day he died, the death toll had reach 20,000. I had missed all information about Covid while caring for VST and still find it hard to believe that the pandemic hit and I missed every major news story regarding those first horrifying and scary days.

I hope that psychologists study Grief in the time of Covid. I refer to mine as Grief on Steroids. Being retired, I was already alone. Living in VC, away from the kids and old friends, suddenly, for the first time in my life, I was living alone. Truly alone. Grieving was a 24/7 ordeal, non-stop and brutal.

Another huge complication had been put into play some weeks before VST died. In January, he was still feeling okay. A little under the weather, but certainly nothing we viewed as shattering at that time. It had been getting tougher for him to navigate stairs, due to crippling arthritis, so, we decided it was time to sell our home and buy something off the mountain. We had looked everywhere, and found our new home 50 miles East. Buyers made an offer we accepted and Seller accepted ours. During the nine weeks VST was dying, we were in the middle of two very complicated real estate transactions. It had also become necessary to update our Family Trust, Wills, Power of Attorney docs, and Medical directives. We did all that while dealing with medical care during Covid.

Professionals advise against major decisions after a death. In my case, there was no choice. Weeks before, things had been put in motion by the two of us. Together. We chose the new place with us in mind. We were packing. I packed the day after he died. And the next day and the next. Not that I chose to. There was no choice.

As I criedpackedcriedpacked, I felt like I was in a foggy bubble. I knew people outside the bubble were carrying on with the new-normal lives during Covid. I, on the other hand, was suspended on the side of my mountain, and cut off from the rest of the world. No casseroles came. No preacher came knocking. No neighbors to help walk the dog. No One At All. Just me. Covid removed all help I could have received. There were no grief groups offered. The Senior Center and restaurants closed, taking away any quick nutrition. Impossible to get an appointment with a doctor for counseling or medication. Stores were shuttered. Even the kennel to help with Oliver, my sweet puppy, was closed. And there I was, alone and grieving.

The first problem was that in only fifteen days, I would be moving. I needed to make a tough decision. Would I pay for all clothing to be moved or not? I knew the answer. Anything that was not necessary would not make the cut. And, through tears and grief I needed to do what had to be done. New jeans, still tagged, new shoes still in boxes, favorite old, torn pj’s that should have been thrown years before. Go-to clothes, and things not warn too often, were all reduced to weight and number of extra boxes for the movers. This was complicated by the fact that all thrift stores were shuttered. Which left only one option. Many excruciatingly sad trips to the landfill off the mountain and miles away.

In my grief, during those days, I needed to handle and make decisions on every single object that signified our 32 years together. Even the tiniest item brought tears, memories, and pain. But, everything had to be boxed. And, I accomplished that. In those 15 days, I managed to pack and move the balance of what would end of being 350 boxes. I moved them off the mountain to storage, which VST and I had rented in January before he got sick. Box after box went down the hill, while I cried each trip.

In my grief, I began talking to VST. A little at first, and then non-stop. I told him the littlest things, and major things, too. I listened for his advice and help. He was there. Oliver knew this, too. Through my one sided conversations, I felt a relief that even more of our lives were put right. Every marriage has rocky times. There are always things not owned or apologized for. Things one wishes they had one more chance to say. We were no different. I talked to him all day, every day. I asked him to tuck his angel wings around Ollie and I at night so we could sleep better. I know he was there to comfort me. Thanks to Covid, it was quiet enough for me to experience that.

People suggest one should journal. It was all I could do during that first month to jot things on my daily planner. People suggest one should sleep enough. It was a blessing that I slept well in the arms of God. People suggest one should learn the stages of grief and embrace them. For me, it was more important that I listened to my inner self, which helped guide me in the ways I needed. I was my own wise voice that listened to my grief, acknowledged it, and accepted it as my truth then. Not a reality forever.

It also helped that I lived in the moment and felt everything that was happening to my body and soul right then. I prayed often. When I needed to cry, I did. When I needed to laugh, I did that too. Memories were a double edged sword. Sometimes comforting. Sometimes cutting so deep that I thought my entrails would surely tumble onto the floor. I ate when I was the least bit hungry, and didn’t eat when my stomach was upset. All this in a Covid Shroud. For me, I preferred it that way, as no one had to see the carnage left by VST’s death. Just Oliver, me, VST, and God.

In your grief today, hug yourself. In quiet moments, reassure yourself that YOU are enough and okay. You’ve got this, it just SEEMS impossible. Hug yourself. Talk to your loved one. Smile, even if it is just a little, at first. Each day will be better than the last on this journey you are taking through grief.

We were so busy living, it was easy enough to ignore all the warning signs. There were so many. Few of us really believe that death could be at our door. So many times, we have all ignored symptoms believing they held no significance. We did just that. Boy, were we wrong. After a nine week battle, I was left the lone survivor on a spring Wednesday between Palm Sunday and MaundyThursday.

VST was attacked by Cholangiocarcinoma, a rare type of cancer that forms in the bile ducts. It was aggressive, lethal, and quick. It stole his energy, strength, resolve, and finally, his brain. In the age of Covid, in my town anyway, medical treatments were being authorized by a panel of docs at the hospital. Each test needed to be approved, wasting valuable days as VST got sicker and sicker. Being the lone caretaker and hospice attendant, I found myself nursing my husband, while trying to wrap my head around the fact that he wouldn’t share another Easter meal with me.

The idea of hospice service is romantic and wonderful. The company we used was made of a group of earth angels, with a few limitations. It was a wonderful place to get all kinds of helpful drugs. Morphine, Lorazapam, Haldol, and others. Marvelous place to get supplies like diapers, wipes, syringes, gloves, and swabs for dry, cracked lips. Because we were living in a remote area, actual physical help wasn’t available. In reality, we didn’t want strangers interrupting our last and most intimate hours together. So, we went through it alone. VST didn’t make it until Easter, but left me shortly before. Bereft, Deprived. Cut off. Dispossessed. Forlorn. Wanting. Stripped. I began my grieving process.

VST died on a Wednesday morning at 10:30. His death certificate states he died at 11:15. It lies. I was there, alone. I was the one that watched him take his last breath and slowly slip away, while our beloved kids were out on some errands. I assure you, it was 10:30. The sounds my body made that morning were shocking to me. Rather like those that a woman might make during the last stages of labor. Primal and shriek-ish. Raw and from a place I didn’t know existed in me. I was so glad the kids were out of the house. Even though it is known that a loved one is going to die, no one is ready for the moment they really do. At least, I wasn’t.

In our small county, with no coroner, the Sheriff was needed to pronounce VST deceased. Moments after his death, I phoned their office to ask if the real Sheriff would come, instead of a deputy. VST had made friends with him over our six year stay, and it would be a huge comfort to me. I was told he was in a meeting, but a deputy would be dispatched. But, in eight minutes, the Sheriff arrived with hugs and a listening ear. He visited VST one last time, and comforted me in my very first hour of grief, for which I was so grateful.

A long list of players filled out my first day as a widow. A hospice nurse to neutralize the drugs. The Sheriff. The Deputy Sheriff. The Mortuary Assistants. The kids. The medical equipment personal. Until finally, evening arrived. The house was quiet. The kids and I were in shock. Our bedroom, where VST had requested his hospital bed be placed only seven days before, was returned to normal without any signs of the nightmare the last week held. Without a trace of him, of us. Just a pretty room with all furniture put back in perfect order.

In the cold void of death, the kids left the next morning, needing to get back to their lives six hours away. I was alone of the first real day of widowhood. Alone at 6,200 feet, on Mt. Davidson, suspended above Virginia City, looking out into the nothingness of my 100 mile view. The vista, once magical and romantic, was now daunting for a wife that had been so intertwined with her other half that she knew not where he stopped and she began.

It came to me that I needed to have an immediate life raft, and so I turned to the consistently comforting thing that had been there through my entire life. Words. I chose three to symbolize the first month.

Food. Shelter. Clothing.

Those words would get me to focus through Month One. For, if I focused on Food. Shelter. Clothing. I wouldn’t die in the cold, starving because I had forgotten to eat and gone out to get the mail naked. I took myself in my own arms and gave prayers for the woman I lost that day. I rocked the remaining shell and held her in the gentlest way, listening to the wails and sobs late into that first night of widowhood.

This is my story. Everyone reading here has a story just as grueling, exasperating, and horrifying. As widows, we enter a wilderness that no one has really explained or mapped for us. Each person sees the landscape differently, and must find a way through that is hers and hers alone. I found that, at first, I kept a daily planner, where I could jot down the simplest things I did. I made sure I completed three tasks a day, writing them down. I rely on that now to remember how strong I was in those early days. You are just as strong.

It is a comfort to know that I didn’t starve in the nighttime cold of Virginia City, while walking hungry and naked to get the mail. It is only by the grace of God that I didn’t, I assure you.