Grieving Gardener

Pruning of the roses is an activity that begins with hope and ends with Band-Aids. An annual reminder that, in this life, beauty rarely comes without thorns. Roses, much like people, require a little tough love if they’re going to flourish.

Pruning always starts innocently enough, encouraged by winter’s vast blue desert sky overhead. Its reward is armloads of fragrant blooms in a few short months. Yesterday, I stepped outside with optimism, thick gloves, and the sleek, sharp nippers HHH gave me for Christmas. Careful to avoid the ice still present from the snow of two weeks ago, I retrieved a trash can for the trimmings before realizing that if there is still ice on the ground, I should wait for a warmer day.

And so, pruning will wait. To prune, be prepared with thick, leather gloves, a winter-weight sweatshirt, and long pants. The smallest bit of exposed skin usually ends up with scratches and embedded thorn tips.

Always present is the great pruning debate. Just how much is enough, and how much is too much? Every rose guide says something different. Knee-high? Waist-high? Cut back by a third? Cut back by half? It takes experience and patience to learn about your own bushes, creating true art when it’s just right.

This year, HHH and I have a plan. He’ll choose the height, which, if too short, will feel reckless and, if too long, will feel lazy. His instinct and memory of last year’s blooming plants will guide him. I’ll follow to remove dead and crossing stems, removing anything thinner than a pencil. Pruning is a great exercise in respecting the opinions of your co-gardener. Last year’s blooms showed that, together, our method worked well.

Each clean cut promises new growth, while the trimmed branch remind us to trust the process. Cutting back something living while knowing it will come back stronger is Faith-Gardening at its finest.

Meanwhile, the weather plays its own little game. While creating my own Vitamin D in the desert sunshine, it felt downright pleasant, lifting my mood. But moving into the shade, it was gloves-on, visible-breath winter again. One minute I was warm and optimistic, the next shivering and wondering why I left the fire inside. Gardening, like life, requires layers

For now, the rose garden stands there, bare and unremarkable, looking nothing like the lush beauty I’m imagining. The magic of pruning isn’t about today, but about those fragrant spring blooms when you forget all about the thorns.

The sign affixed to the shed clearly claims our position as a wildlife refuge center. Posted with confidence, we love our title. Each year, Winterpast provides water, food, and nesting materials to passing wildlife. Yes, to even random toads and squirrels.

Here at Winterpast, each morning begins the same way. We wake to wings. Not the dramatic, biblical kind, but the everyday miracle of small birds arriving for breakfast as if they’ve all synced their watches. Before we’re dressed for the day, the feeders are already busy, and the day has declared itself open for business.

HHH, benevolent provider-in-chief, keeps the operation running smoothly. Bags of bird seed are generously poured into feeders that don’t stay full for long. The finches arrive first, clinging to the sides and swaying back and forth like tiny trapeze artists. .

Below them, polite but persistent coveys of quail scurry to collect whatever falls from above. Moving with purpose, they always seem slightly hurried, as if they’re late for an important meeting elsewhere. With nothing wasted, this is a very efficient dining establishment.

The civilized world frowns on this. Don’t feed the wildlife, upset the natural flow of things, or get involved with the wildlife.

A true story comes to mind. Along the Pacific Coast, one sweet little old lady LOVED birds so much, she put up 50 feeders on her tiny, oceanfront lot. What goes in, must come out. The birds ate, and then…….ate some more. Soon, the roofs of unhappy neighbors became so soiled that professional cleaning became necessary. The California Department of Fish and Game became involved, threatening a court date unless the feeding stopped. All delicious intrigue for a tiny little street just feet above the Pacific Ocean. HHH has been warned…. It could happen anywhere (except on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada).

Noticeably absent is the squirrel. Not gone. Just…not here YET. His absence feels temporary, suspicious even. For now, we’re realistically optimistic.

As the feeders sway and the seeds fall, spring quietly begins assembling itself around us. Our birdhouses stand ready like freshly built subdivisions awaiting new tenants. Soon enough, nests will appear, followed by chirping babies and their fretful parents. Watching from a respectful distance, we’ll pretend to focus on pruning while making mental notes of their activities.

Of course, ever nearby and watchful is the hawk. Perched patiently, he surveys the scene like a diner reviewing the menu. While calmly waiting, he’s confident that eventually, dinner will make a mistake. The circle of life is alive and well, even during breakfast hours.

Hope and faith are reinforced on these frigid mornings. The return of birds. Winter life continues, quietly and insistently, right outside the window. Spring doesn’t announce itself loudly here but simply shows up, feathered and hungry, reminding us that once again, the season has turned.

At Winterpast, the refuge is open, and feeders are full. Hope, like the birds, never really left at all.

Tick, tick, tock goes the garden clock,
Plant those bulbs before they rot.
Too late, too cold, too soon, too slow—
Plant them now… or never know.

A particular kind of panic settles into a gardener’s bones more important than weather forecasts or watering schedules. Suddenly, one realizes the bulbs must be planted right now, and possibly last week. The urgency arrives without warning, usually while sipping coffee and gazing at perfectly empty flower boxes that were prepared just weeks ago.

This realization sent us racing to the garden center, only to discover that it’d vanished, like a mirage. Locked, we found an empty cavern where rows of flowers and trees once lived. Gardening season ends in September, and we are too early or late, however you want to look at this situation.

Thank goodness, our new bulbs were waiting in the garage. HHH doesn’t waste money buying hothouse flowers from Walmart. Planning carefully, he’s planted the most beautiful array of blooms that will arrive year after year. Everything from Iris to Tulips, I only need to go outside and select the bouquet of the week.

Back at Winterpast, the front yard looks refreshed and smug with the crisp, new flower boxes waiting with purpose. Meanwhile, weeds have taken full advantage of the balmy 50-degree afternoon skies, popping up everywhere without invitation or plan, disrupting our plans.

Ignoring the weeds for a moment, our entire focus was on getting bulbs into the ground. Repeating, “It’s not that late,” and “People plant later than this all the time,” yesterday was an exercise in optimism wrapped in dirt.

Of course, no plan at Winterpast is complete without considering the local mustangs. As we imagine bulbs sleeping peacefully underground, the mustangs are imagining dinner reservations. I picture them watching from the hills above us while quietly taking notes. “Ah yes,” one seems to say, “freshly painted boxes. Clearly the appetizers.”

Will these bulbs bloom gloriously in spring, filling the front yard with color and vindication? Or will they become the most expensive forage the mustangs have enjoyed all season? That remains to be seen. But still, we plant because gardeners always do, with hope. With crossed fingers, we understand that nature has the final say, sometimes showing up wearing hooves.

With bulbs in the ground and the weeds taking over, the garden center remains closed until March and the mustangs keep watch. Spring feels close enough to believe in, and belief, after all, is what keeps us digging. 🌱🐎

We don’t want much. Just a little soil.
Not dirt.
Soil.

They are not the same thing, no matter how many garden bags say otherwise. Dirt is what you sweep off the porch. Soil is what feeds the world. Dirt is what you curse when the wind comes up. Soil is what you kneel in with hope. Good soil is full of decaying organic matter. On the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, we are surrounded by dirt. That’s just the way it is.

I grew up in California’s Central Valley, where soil was so rich it felt like cheating. You could drop a seed, turn your back, and come back later to something edible. Fields stretched for miles, dark and generous, producing food for places far beyond our view. They called it the Bread Basket of the World, and it deserved the title.

Back then, I never understood why people were so upset about new housing construction. Why the protests? House after house crept across the landscape, swallowing fields that had quietly done their job for generations. I was too young to understand what was being lost. Between the coastal range and the Sierra’s, the vast landscape felt endless. Farming felt permanent.

Then, all grown up, I did exactly what they warned about, building a home right in the middle of what had once been a fig orchard. The trees were gone, and the soil was sealed beneath concrete. Comfort replaced cultivation, and I didn’t give it much thought at the time. Wasn’t a tile-roofed 3/2 with a pool in the back progress at its best?

Fast forward to Winterpast. Here, we don’t have soil, we have dirt. No way around it. Young dirt, as dirt goes, is decomposed granite and sand compacted into the desert floor by wind and time. This dirt laughs at shovels and shrugs off good intentions, resembling concrete more than soil.

For twenty-two years, stubborn homeowners like HHH and me have been trying to change that. We amend, compost, mulch, plant, and believe. Season after season, we work to coax life into the ground, even adding worms. Season after season, we still have dirt. Gardening in the desert teaches you humility as well as patience, whether you asked for the lesson or not.

Recently, a memory surfaced from my childhood days on the farm. I remembered my mother at the garden center, buying bales of peat moss. Lovingly, she worked it into our already beautiful soil. Azaleas and rhododendrons grew in a secret flower bed so lush it belonged in a magazine. She partnered with nature.

Azaleas and rhododendrons are a step too far for our desert climate. That January dream would just dry up, and blow away in the Zephyrs. But, what if peat moss could nudge our dirt a little closer to soil?

So, Saturday, HHH and I bought a bale. I clearly remember my mother paying a few dollars. We paid $38.00 for one bale of compressed hope.

We stood there doing the math gardeners everywhere know too well: How badly do we want this? Gardening, it turns out, is also an exercise in economic acceptance. It will be another expensive year for gardening, but then again, it always is.

Because soil is more than dirt. Memory, time, and care are layered season after season. Soil happens when you refuse to give up, even when the ground resists you. And, just maybe, this year our dirt will become something a little closer to soil.

More tomorrow.

January arrived quietly, without fanfare or fireworks. Around here, there weren’t parades or parties, only an exchange of one calendar for the next. With the rest of the year all about doing, January is about imagining new plans for what could be.

After finishing the scrapbooking of our December cruise, we’ve decided to continue. First, pictures of our Alaskan adventure were glued in place. Another vacation was memorialized with glue and printed photos. But this getaway had many problems. The wind blew at 70 mph, while the seas were too fierce to battle. Over seven days of rough seas, ports, and excursions were canceled, limiting our Alaskan experience.

Thumbing through the new scrapbook, our January dreams turned back to room service and non-stop housekeeping help. The endless buffet available at any time, day or night. Activities prepared and at the ready. A full staff beauty salon and spa. Most importantly, the beauty of falling asleep on the high seas.

Memories flooded our brains, and then our eyes met. At that moment, these dreams became reality, and the next steps were obvious. Alaska 2.0 is on the books for 2026.

Not all dreaming requires a checklist or deadline. Dreams can take form while staring out the window at a dormant backyard while a steaming mug of Costa Rican coffee warms very cold hands following December holidays.

While the yard is waiting for us, we are waiting for the weather to warm up just a little before we begin the 2026 gardening season. With highs in the high 40’s, it’s still a little too cold for serious gardening.

Alaskan waters await our return. This time, we’ll enjoy our time among the glaciers and whales, while returning to our home away from home on the high seas.

January is a fine time to dream. It’s certainly a great time to remember fantastic vacations enjoyed just months ago. There’s plenty of time to plan the Gardens of 2026. With only two weeks left in January, there’s no time to waste.

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

Returning home from adventuring, our heads full of stories, and phones full of photos. At some point between unpacking shoes we didn’t wear and souvenirs we absolutely needed, we decided to scrapbook. HHH accepted this challenge with calm bravery normally reserved for turbulence or escargot at sea.

One day at sea, while looking for Christmas presents, I discovered a complete scrapbooking set. Not only was everything included, but this set was themed especially for Princess Cruise Lines. The Love Boat thinks of everything. Successfully hiding the 12 x 12 journal and accessories for the rest of the trip, HHH was surprised on Christmas morning!

The box of scrapbooking accessories included papers with just the right shimmer, essential stickers, and a scrapbook itself that felt important enough to deserve its own shelf. We were both confident this book, when finished, would be magnificent.

Printing began. Enter the tank printer, the unsung hero of modern memory-keeping. If you don’t have one, you should. Truly. Bottled ink allows a crafter to print with wild abandon. Big pictures. Small pictures. “Let’s just try it” pictures. No rationing or guilt, but absolute freedom. HHH looked through hundreds of pictures on his phone, picking the best of the best. A monkey here, a tanker ship there. It was surprising how many during the cruise.

Choosing photos was an adventure of its own. Some were ours, carefully framed and occasionally artistic. Kind strangers captured others on the internet with better light, angle, or steadier hands. We welcomed those photos into the family without shame. Scrapbooking is no place for pride.

As the pages filled, so did the conversation. Long, detailed conversations about things like whether a photo was taken on Day Seven or Day Eight, and whether that mattered (it did). We revisited the highlights of each of our 16 days while time slowed as glue dried. Memories of us secured a place in our brains.

Passage through the Panama Canal was covered throughout four very stubborn pages. Suddenly, my confidence wavered while the layout rebelled. This was the moment HHH came to the rescue, calmly taking over. Organizing the best pictures we had, he made sure each one was in the correct order (because that DOES matter when you’re traveling through the Panama Canal.) Together, we finished those pages. HHH, my mysterious Marine, is now a proven scrapbooker.

The finished book is full of color, laughter, and memories pressed safely onto pages. A place we can return to on quiet afternoons, just to smile and relive our beautiful trip together. Thanks, HHH. I truly couldn’t have done it without you… or at least not without significantly more frustration and a much worse attitude.

More tomorrow.

Cruising into Cartagena felt like creeping onto the set of an adventure movie. Over the smooth bay and under a cooperative sky, the ship eased in as if nothing unpleasant had ever happened there, ever. Boarding a bus parked just feet from the ship should have been a red flag. Appearing convenient and efficient, our departure was clearly designed for passenger safety. For the day, we were property of Columbia. Yes. The Columbia presently on the news.

The bus ride took us to a barrio outside the walled city known as Getsemaní. Assuming the name had biblical roots, after about thirty seconds on the street, I was confident prayer would be a great idea. Before noticing the colors, architecture, or people, HHH pointed out raw sewage running through open gutters. Just… there. Flowing along like it had every right to be. It was the kind of thing you see once and then spend the rest of the day pretending you didn’t.

We were ushered into a restaurant where we were served fried plantains, ceviche, and a coconut milk and lime drink that worked very hard to distract us from our surroundings. After experiencing the walk to the little restaurant, the last thing I would be eating on this strange day was raw fish, no matter how it was prepared. So, twenty-five new friends sat on stools made of scrap wood and rebar, knowing inside was safer than outside.

Then came the coffee. Lots of coffee. Glorious, rich, Colombian coffee. If bravery could be brewed, this was the attempt. I drank it willingly, hoping caffeine might double as courage, and the water temperature killed any pathogens.

Back on the bus we went, heading toward the walled city, where the rich live. The buildings were undeniably historic, but I never felt safe the entire day. It was a low-grade unease that hummed quietly in the background, like bad elevator music you can’t turn off. Every step required a little extra awareness while I clutched my already secure fanny pack. Losing a passport in this place would be the worst, and it seemed many would love to take it. Thank goodness for HHH.

After enjoying a wee bit of air conditioning in an emerald museum, HHH, sensing both the moment and my state of mind, surprised me with an emerald and silver cross necklace. Putting it on immediately, it was something solid to clutch as we continued on, surrounded by pushy locals selling absolutely everything under the sun. If you could imagine it, they had it. HHH bought a t-shirt and a hat because resistance was futile.

Eventually back on the bus, we rode a short distance to the harbor, where we boarded what can only be described as a frat party on the water. Music blared at a volume that suggested long-term hearing damage was part of the experience. People enthusiastically encouraged us to drink more, more, MORE, and tried valiantly to turn a boatload of seniors into something resembling Dance Dance Revolution. It did not happen. It was never going to happen. If they could have just turned down the music, perhaps negotiations could have begun, but as it was, I’m fairly certain I left a small portion of my hearing somewhere in the Caribbean.

At the very end of the day, after being dumped off a little ways from the ship, we stumbled into what turned out to be the very best part of Colombia. A quiet indoor tourist park. Peaceful. Calm. Civilized. Inside were live flamingos, toucans, parrots, sloths, and monkeys, all just hanging out, being wonderful. Who knew? Apparently not us. We could have simply enjoyed the day there among the animals.

With coffee once again in hand, we boarded the ship for the last time. Ahead of us were three blessed sea days to process everything we had seen, heard, and survived. Aruba has replaced Colombia in future itineraries. Cartagena may have been uncomfortable, but Central America, with all its chaos and beauty, is an amazing place. Even the rough days come with stories worth telling.

More tomorrow.

Last September, counting down the days to my birthday extravaganza, we carefully chose an excursion for each port. Visiting baby sloths, monkeys, and butterflies on my birthday was a special treat, but nothing prepared us for an excursion to Monkey Island on Gatun Lake. A zoo-like, long-distance view of monkeys doing whatever they do. Instead, our experiences were up close and personal, while even witnessing a theft on another boat. Oy Vey. Let me start from the beginning.

To begin with, the boat reminded me of something we watched on Gilligan’s Island. Without Skipper or the professor, the setup was a little sketchy. Two elderly tourists took their walkers up to the boat, and then, the sweetest crew helped the frail couple aboard. Once we put on the life jackets, 18 souls were ready for the river. This was definitely less of a cruise and more of an adventure.

Once we left the dock, the captain hit us with a sudden acceleration across Gatun Lake. Along the way, we passed many huge ships making their way through the Panama Canal. Skipping across the water, our boat jumped the wakes with back-jolting hits. At least, we were too fast for mosquitoes. Chopping along at high speed, hair whipped as passengers clutched their hats.

Racing our sister boat, it was neck and neck. Each captain tried to catch fewer waves to reach the monkeys first. Quite the competition was underway. With each slap across the water, I prayed the fiberglass shell would hold. These weren’t the safest or newest boats on the water. While the race continued, tourists scanned the shoreline with cameras at the ready.

After about 20 minutes on the water, the engines slowed, and the rainforest grew as quiet as a rainforest could. The captain and guide began making strange calls, a sort of blend between clicking and whistles. Ever once in awhile, the guide would snap out a word that sounded like “Bendt” in a language foreign to me. Arriving at Monkey Island, we waited, as everyone wondered how this would work.

After trying several places along the tree-covered shoreline, the first monkey materialized from the jungle. One after another came to the shoreline by swinging through tree branches. Howlers, capuchins, and tamarins showed themselves. One Howler came aboard the other boat and quickly stole something from a tourist’s open backpack. Like a flash, it was back among the tree branches eating a candy bar, and then dropping the blue wrapper in the water below. And so, the adventure was in full swing.

The capuchins had curious faces and clever eyes. Agile and confident, they clearly ran the place. These felt friendly (except for the thief.) According to the guide, they are cute, but not safe or friendly.

Not to be left out, the howlers came to visit. Although we didn’t hear them, these monkeys have deep, booming calls that roll across the lake. These monkeys are too large to ignore, and we all looked up to watch their antics.

The Tamarins were the last to show up and the most suspicious of our boat. After our guide rubbed fruit on a hanging limb, they came down to enjoy a little snack. Two father’s carried their babies around on their backs. Squirrel-sized and extremely fast, they were hard to photograph. The fatherly love caused our collective hearts to melt.

Monkeys visited our boat. The guide handed me a leaf from one of the trees to pass off to the littlest passenger. Grabbing it, he was gone in a flash, back into the safety of the trees of the rainforest. Monkeys were hopping aboard, here, there, and everywhere. We weren’t to touch or smile in any way, as exposed teeth are a sign of aggression. The thought of a possible attack sobered up the group. Calm and still, everyone did a good job hiding teeth and excitement.

Being surrounded by wild monkeys in their own world was exhilarating. Experiencing equal parts of wonder and disbelief, this was one of those rare travel moments that can’t be recreated. Just experienced and never, ever forgotten.

Once docked, we returned to the bus. There we received water, a turkey sandwich, and coconut muffin, a delightful end to a most wonderful morning. Although photos couldn’t possibly capture the rich experience, we all took home magical memories. Truly something unforgettable.

Waking before the alarm and most of the ship, we watched the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean. You read that correctly. Panama is one of a few places in the world where the sun RISES over the Pacific and sets over the Atlantic. The sky shifted from ink to blush to gold, and for a few quiet minutes, it felt as though we were the only souls awake on the water.

That illusion lasted right up until we saw the lineup of thirty-six ships, all politely waiting in a nautical pattern similar to a very well-behaved traffic jam. Apparently, nothing says good morning quite like maritime gridlock.

Gathering in the bay before the sun had fully committed to the day with engines humming, everyone inched forward with the patience of saints. This was a slow, deliberate procession toward the locks, a crawl so measured it felt like we could knit a sweater between movements. Somewhere along the way, we discovered we’d done something rare and magical in travel: we had booked correctly. Not only were we on a ship built to travel through the historic locks, but also on the correct side of the ship. Happy accidents!!!

Too excited to sleep, we climbed to Deck 18 right after sunrise over the Pacific. I’m not sure what time the other passengers assembled, but it was before us. The stairs leading to Deck 18 kept many from enjoying the best views. Every vantage point along the railing was taken, with many people bringing chairs. Everyone quietly anticipated the big show of the day. The Panama Canal.

As if all the excitement wasn’t enough, a tour guide narrated the entire day, calmly explaining every gate, cable, tug, and inch gained.

Days earlier, Room Service had contacted us to ask about breakfast preferences. At that time, it seemed crazy that the woman on the other end of the phone was asking endless questions about our preferences, down to the type of berries we’d like. Really, two omelets with sides of bacon would’ve been great. Yes, we had ordered a multi-course private breakfast, served directly to our own port-side balcony. However, we weren’t prepared when, promptly at 8 am, the waiter arrived with champagne on ice, along with at least eight courses of steamy, hot food.

There is something magical about privately sipping coffee while watching one of the world’s greatest engineering feats pass you by. Plates arrived, courses followed, and food disappeared. All while gliding forward at a pace best described as geological. Built by Americans and opened in 1913, it was later handed over for $1 by a president whose generosity exceeded his negotiating skills. These historical facts landed softly while we floated between concrete walls with only twenty-four inches to spare on either side, trusting completely in people with clipboards and teams of little trains called mules, that ran on a cogged track.

The day unfolded through three sets of locks and two lakes, each transition slow and mesmerizing. Time blurred while water levels rose and fell. We became experts in waiting. And then, just when it seemed the day could offer nothing new, we spotted movement along the shore. Frolicking animals that weren’t deer, cows, horses, goats or sheep.

It turned out to be a herd of capybaras lounging, waddling, frolicking, and living entirely unbothered lives while global commerce cruised by. They were the perfect reminder that while humans are very proud of their canals, nature remains unimpressed.

By the time the final lock released us and the ship turned toward Cartagena, the sun was setting. As the horizon shifted and open water returned, a new set of questions arose. Heading towards Columbia, would we make it through without pirates? Random bombs? Mild intrigue at minimum?

More tomorrow. Stay tuned.

A sixteen-day cruise, including three formal nights, requires strategic packing. In our case, it began a month before embarkation. The week before traveling, the suitcases were weighed many times. Three would provide plenty of space for necessities and souvenirs. With three days dedicated to laundry during our trip, laundry rotations work out just right. After all, we were taking 150 pounds of clothing and necessities. But even the best cruisers can’t outpack time.

The first laundry day was planned for the sixth day of the cruise, off the coast between Puerto Vallarta and Guatemala. By then, the two garbage bags I’d brought from home were fully separated into whites and colors. All systems were go, as I lugged the bags 1/2 of the length of the ship to the aft.

Cruise ship laundry rooms are very busy places. You just never know, after walking a football field carrying two bags of laundry, if you’ll find an open washer. It’s a crap shoot, so, I started early. Arriving promptly when open at 8 am, I found two empty washers. Score!

On our last cruise, the use of the washer, dryer, and detergent were free, a lovely situation. A bigger ship, there were 8 sets of washers and dryers. This ship was a little different. Five brand new Samsung dryers sat atop their washing partners. It was a great sign that they all worked. The token dispenser was another story. After a bit, I left two washing machines working, as the line continued to form out the door. $8 lighter, I’d be back in 27 minutes.

If you happen to be leaving on a cruise of your own, I have a suggestion. Pack the new sheets of detergent/softener. They may not work the best, but they beat the boxed powder sold by the cruise lines. I felt as if I was in a 1960’s commercial for laundry soap.

My second suggestion is this. Make NO eye contact with anyone in the laundry room. Don’t start any happy little discussions, because there will be someone there to ruin your moment of blissful domesticity. Some seasoned wench will bully the sweet 70-year-old who uses TWO machines at one time, considered a breach of laundry etiquette. (No one told me.) These people, usually women of a certain age, revel in their absolute and unspoken authority. Their word is law.

During our cruise, I’d experience the laundry room two more times. I learned that IF there is a chair when you enter this tiny little laundromat, sit in it. It won’t be there for more than a few minutes, so claim it. Sitting claims your machines, while standing invites chaos and help from strangers. It also allows time for premium people-watching and lesson-learning.

While watching, I discovered that people waste tons of time and energy by leaving their clothes in the dryer far longer than needed. After waiting 20 minutes for a dryer, the timer was down to minutes. The owner of the four items in the dryer returned. It was obvious this load had been dry for the previous 20 minutes, but no. She waited until the timer marched on to zero. DING (dong). Tip — Check your laundry partway through–they may dry earlier than the scheduled time.

Hours later, warm, clean clothes felt like a major win with a sense of accomplishment. Even after breaking the two-machine rule, everyone still smiled and wished me well as I left with my bags of fluffies.

Life on a cruise is magical in so many ways. But, laundry happens, even to the most seasoned passenger. And, just like every Friday morning, mine awaits today. Have a great weekend. I’ll be back on Monday with more stories from the high seas.