Grieving Gardener

“Five Feet High And Rising” — _{Johnny Cash}

My mama always taught me that good things come from adversity if we put our faith in the Lord.
We couldn’t see much good in the flood waters when they
were causing us to have to leave home,
But when the water went down, we found that it had washed a load of rich black bottom dirt across our land. The following year we had the best cotton crop we’d ever had.

I remember hearing:

How high’s the water, Mama?
Two feet high and risin’
How high’s the water, Papa?
She said it’s two feet high and risin’

We can make it to the road in a homemade boat
That’s the only thing we got left that’ll float
It’s already over all the wheat and the oats,
Two feet high and risin’

How high’s the water, Mama?
Three feet high and risin’
How high’s the water, Papa?
She said it’s three feet high and risin’

Well, the hives are gone,
I’ve lost my bees
The chickens are sleepin’
In the willow trees
Cow’s in water up past her knees,
Three feet high and risin’

How high’s the water, Mama?
Four feet high and risin’
How high’s the water, Papa?
She said it’s four feet high and risin’

Hey, come look through the window pane,
The bus is comin’, gonna take us to the train
Looks like we’ll be blessed with a little more rain,
4 feet high and risin’

How high’s the water, Mama?
Five feet high and risin’
How high’s the water, Papa?
She said it’s five feet high and risin’

Well, the rails are washed out north of town
We gotta head for higher ground
We can’t come back till the water comes down,
Five feet high and risin’

Well, it’s five feet high and risin’.

*********************

Good morning!

The waters here in the high desert are about to rise as the atmospheric river advances upon us. If things aren’t dramatic these days, they don’t sell. I long for the days when everyone was excited about a good old fashioned rain storm. Growing up in the Central Valley of California, precipitation was a welcome event. Only in California could farmers feed the world from an actual desert. Like everything else in California, the lush green fields were only made possible by man-made irrigation systems. Not natural rain.

Rain was rain. It rained at times. Sometimes alot. It didn’t need the name of a Cyclone Bomb or Atmospheric River. It was going to be a week of rain. You might get leaks. Check your roof. Carry an umbrella. Don’t drive through any more than one inch of water. If a street is flooded, choose another. Get over it. It’s just rain. Drama sells, so choose really scary new names for a natural event.

The irrigation systems depended on snowmelt from the high Sierra’s. When a drought came along, everyone nervously waited for rain. After the irrigation systems were abandoned, farmers moved on and the fertile west side of the Central Valley again returned to the desert it always was.

Water. It’s always about the water. For 17 years, I helped irrigate our vineyard. During each growing season, from March to August, our water valves delivered water to 16,000 Thompson Seedless vines (now 100+ years old). These old girls depended on us to get them every drop we could. In exchange, they’d produce a crop of grapes the flavor of which you’ve never tasted in your life.

Scheduling which farmer got water at what time was intricate and down to the minute. Water flowed 24/7. Throughout the month, every drop had a farmer’s name on it, all based on the number of acres one owned. It was precise and to the minute. You’d better not open the valve one minute before your time began or an angry neighbor would come knocking. There were those sneaky farmers that left their valves open the tiniest bit to steal what they could. We knew who they were. Everyone did. The system worked if everyone was respectful and accurate. Water wars are a real thing in the farming world.

From the 1st-4th of each month, my battle with gopher holes and the hot summer sun raged on. During a summer, a straw hat could splinter to pieces from daily temperatures of over 105. At dawn of an early morning, with temperatures already pushing 80 degrees, the peaceful walk down the avenue was a time to listen to the birds and watch for coyotes on the hunt while checking on the progress of the water coming down the rows. Through the year, the water flowed from the highest mountains of the Sierra Nevada’s, down into the valley, through an intricate irrigation system of valves and offshoots, while filling the underground aquifers of California. Summer rain was unheard of and yet we lived in a desert oasis.

In a different state today, we all sit on pins and needles, awaiting the atmospheric river that should be dropping snow, not rain. The Sierra Nevada mountain range provides water for the states of California and Nevada. The snow pack delivers that in a calm and peaceful way throughout the year. It’s melting as we speak. So far the snow pack is at 2x the normal for this time of year. There’s a lot to melt. The desert isn’t quick to absorb rainfall.

My little town was flooded once in recent history. It, too, is a farming oasis with an irrigation system. That year, the canal failed. Just ask Miss Firecracker. She lived through it with her best friends, The Floridians. Hundreds of houses were under water. People were evacuated with helicopters to higher ground. The Mysterious Marine remembers and can speak about the damage, as well.

The Truckee River flows right through several neighboring towns. It’s pretty full right now, and the heaviest rains haven’t hit just yet. With the reservoirs full, we wait.

How high’s the water, MM?

Two feet high and risin’.

As we wait on the rain, the Wookie is as round as a watermelon. We are about to be flooded with a crop of Wook-lets. This week promises to be one of suspense as we await the rising tides and new life.

Whatever you do today, pray for California and Nevada. If you aren’t being tried by inclement weather, celebrate. If you are, remain prepared. You might not face rising water, but shortages also occur due to closed roadways and interrupted deliveries. Don’t forget to stock necessary medicines and pet food. As always, be prepared.

More tomorrow.

Whew, the first week of the year has been a struggle. I’m glad to report that the Death Flu of last week is now officially over. After a week of rest and repair, celebration of the new year is in full swing. It’s Friday! Come on 2023. Give us all you’ve got!

Yesterday, I sat down to consider a fresh start for the new year. Considering my journey since 2020, I’ve experienced extreme adversity while watching it breed personal toughness, character, innovation, strength, creativity and success that I didn’t know possible. Through this, miracles flavor every situation with hope through faith. That has been the most beautiful revelation of all.

So long ago, my parents gave me the ultimate freedom to flee, fly, fall, and heal to fly again. Each time, my journeys took me higher and farther than I thought possible. For that, I can never thank them enough. My mistakes were mine, not theirs. That goes for success, as well. A great gift to give a young girl in the 1900’s.

During the winter of 1973, unaware of a grieving process, I lost the first true love of my life. His name was Derrick Ray Wilson. A Junior to my Senior, he was bright, strong, very handsome, and a jock in all sports. Our love was forbidden by four parents, but love we did until he died unexpectedly on a cold January night while fighting with his mother in the hallway of his childhood home. A raging argument turning to death in a matter of seconds.

That night, I was moments from seeing him perform at a wrestling match. Makeup. Tight Jeans. Pony tail. School Sweater. Almost ready to race out the door, the phone rang twice. Answering, my father’s voice didn’t give any indication that it wasn’t an ordinary business call. Hanging up, he whispered something to my mother. She told me to take two aspirin. They needed to tell me something important.

Derrick was dead.

That was the extent of the news. Critical information shared.

Derrick was dead.

No details needed. None known anyway.

No need to go to the wresting match.

Time for bed.

Off you go.

Farm life can be brutal. There isn’t a way to sugarcoat the facts when telling a little girl her favorite lamb died or the dog just got hit by a car. There aren’t proper instructions for sharing with your 17 year old daughter that her boyfriend dropped dead in the hallway of his childhood home while fighting with his mother. This was unchartered territory. They did the best they could, overwhelmed in a fog of disbelief themselves.

Over the months until graduation, I grieved constantly through fake smiles. I was really good at being really good and really bad at being real. Those were months of private hell I wouldn’t wish for any one. Thank goodness, no one ever noticed.

I went on to finish my Senior year, even playing the lead in the Junior-Senior play to adoring fans. It was a play about a pair of star crossed lovers finding and then losing each other in a concentration camp. I just played the raw and grief stricken lover I was in real life. On the outside everything was wonderful. On the inside, I walked in grief. But, of course, in those days, a child of 17 can’t grieve. Right?

Get up.

Patch the wing.

Take 2 aspirin.

Fly again.

Just like that.

Fly I did, right out of the coop and off for a summer in Switzerland. Not on the beaches of Lake Geneva, nor on the year round slopes of the Alps as a proper heiress would do.

I flew to a little restaurant in the town of Rufenacht outside Berne to the home of people that became a safe place to fall. There, I pulled weeds the garden, picked the produce for the freshly cooked meals, waited tables, and hung the laundry to dry in the attic to the tunes of the Sound of Music. That’s where I healed.

Alone.

In a foreign country.

Just me in the wilderness of grief.

Panic attacks would awaken me at night in my tiny, dark room in the 4th floor attic of a 400 year old house. In the night, I would scrapbook my days and journal private and painful thoughts. Even so many years ago, my writing healed me that summer. My words helped me grow stronger wings. In September, I became a brand new college coed, just months after devastating tragedy.

Fifty years later, I’m taking a little more time to heal through this round of grief. VST knew Derrick. It’s comforting to know that two great loves of my life played football for the same side. Somewhere up there in the heavens, they’re having a great time tossing the ball while waiting for me to arrive.

I’m not alone this time.

God has me covered. Great friends, new and old, watch over me while helping me through the rough spots.

I’m not in a foreign country.

This beautiful desert is my forever home in a country I love so much.

I’m my own best friend in this wilderness of grief. There are fewer foggy days, more meadows, and the views are beautiful.

LIFE is beautiful.

In the words of Taylor Swift, who gets so many things right —

I’m dancing on my own
I make the moves up as I go
And that’s what they don’t know
I keep cruising
Can’t stop. Won’t stop grooving
It’s like I got this music
In my mind
Saying, “It’s gonna be alright.” _{Taylor Swift — Shake it Off}

Whatever you do today, remember this. It’s Friday!!! Whatever struggles you are facing are at the end of their week. Do something you love doing this weekend. Try laughing at bit. It’s great medicine.

Back on Monday.

What a beautiful morning to be alive! Here on the high desert, the word is covered in white. VST always laughed when I would ask him to stop and listen to the snow fall. We were new to Virginia City where the snow falls in feet, not inches. He would always be quick to correct me, never understanding my point. Sometimes silence is the loudest sound of all. It was okay. Sometimes people are tone-deaf to the sound of snowfall.

In my humble opinion, the sound of falling snow is the most lovely sound of all. Regular noises are cushioned and become a little more muted. It seems life slows down and it’s easy to focus on the smallest of details in those falling flakes. Exquisite art work from heaven, snowflakes are. Next time, listen carefully. Falling snow does have the sweetest sound.

So many beautiful things happened to finish out 2022, my year of miracles. In my life, I’ve not experienced such a beautiful year in a very long time. In 2022, I continued my awakening into a brand new woman. It was no coincidence that miracles overflowed during my first year after baptism. No coincidence, at all.

Christmas Eve started as a regular day. My Mysterious Marine and Wookie had been busy with errands and Christmas secrets. Each day the presents multiplied under the Jolly tree, beautiful in every way. But, it was the outside of his house where his talents shone. With 3,000 twinkling lights, his house was the most lovely on the block. Each string was hung with precision, making his presentation of lights one not to miss. I would imagine his house was visible from space. We just haven’t heard yet.

Plans were in place for a festive seafood extravaganza with family, followed by the annual Candlelight Ceremony at The Chapel. Everyone in MM’s entire family are amazing cooks, but this dinner was over the top. Lobster, Alaskan King Crab, Scallops, Jumbo Shrimp, and broiled French bread were on the menu. Each bite was mind-blowing, leaving us satisfied and ready to head to The Chapel at 6 pm.

Even in our mindfulness and haste, we entered the sanctuary as the music had already started. Although very few seats were available, two were open at the very front of the room, waiting for a couple like us.

The room was packed with regulars and visitors. Everyone had come to worship on the most holy of nights. It isn’t very often that Christmas falls on a Sunday. In fact, the next time that will happen is in 11 years. 2033. Hmmmmm. 2033. Two thousand years after the death of Jesus. Exactly 2000 years later. Coincidence?

Just like that, we were singing Christmas hymns of our past. I was transported back to a little German church in the middle of a sea of grapevines. A church built by relatives long ago gone to a better place. A bright blonde girl in a handmade dress with her severe straight bangs always cut way too short doing her best not to cause trouble in church. Fidgeting little feet in new black patent leathers were lost in the sea of sisters that made up her family. Farmers scrubbed, groomed were dressed in their once-a-year suits, singing nervously with the farmer families of the little church. Memories of Christmas in the 1900’s came flooding into my mind.

In the other front row seat, MM was having similar thoughts of days in our little desert town. The one in which he grew up into a man. Days when there were barely 2,000 residents who knew every last thing the oldest brother of five was doing before he did it. I can only imagine the cuteness overload of five brothers, 10 and under. I can only imagine the stress of taking those five boys to Christmas service. That oldest brother of five turned into the Marine, successful man, and now the gentleman holding my hand while tearing up to his own sweet memories of Christmas past.

This magical evening was one of the most beautiful of my life. 150 Christmas dinners were delivered by this magical group of people. A new crop of littles fidgeted as they waited for the service to end, so that Christmas could proceed. Everyone there to celebrate with Christmas love.

Towards the end of the service, the chapel was darkened while the pastor lit one candle from the alter. He came to the front row as he shared his flame with us. It was our job to light the candle of another. While I lit just a couple of other candles, MM was gone for a very long time. With 100 people at the service, it took a minute to share the light with everyone.

Finally, MM came back.

Leaning over, he quietly whispered, “I shared my light with so many.”

I smiled.

MM’s light is brilliant. He’s always ready to serve and protect, something a Marine never, ever forgets to do. It’s in their blood.

The beautiful memories of that night will remain in my heart. Almost like the sound of falling snow, it’s there for to hear. Some say there is no sound at all. But, once you hear it, your soul won’t forget.

Whatever you do today, go light someone’s candle. Do something unexpectedly kind. The smallest deeds count. Remember it’s the little things in the day that are truly magical. Keep celebrating! Our year is brand new and rich with possibilities.

More tomorrow.

Happy New Year! After fighting my way to the end of 2022 through a tough virus, I’m back to celebrate 2023 with y’all! Holiday celebrations were over the top here on the high desert. Enjoying faith, family, furry friends, and food, everything was at it should be. Plainly, my holidays were magical for the first time in a very, very long time.

My Mysterious Marine is the pet of a dog we’ll call Wookie. I wrote that correctly. He doesn’t not HAVE a pet, he IS the pet, as am I with Oliver. Wookie is quite a character, for sure, smiling purposely when she is happy. The internet states that 93% of dog owners THINK their dogs can smile. In reality, only 3% of the dog world can truly smile. Even less smile at the right time. Wookie smiles when her heart is singing. She smiles when her favorite girlfriend comes to the door. (That’s me.) If you laugh, she smiles more brightly. Oliver and I are smitten with Wookie. Now, she is about to increase the canine population by 6 or 7. Wookie is heavy with “Wooklings”. Oliver hasn’t quite caught on yet, but in just a few short days, he’ll understand completely. He’s going to be the honorary “Dad”.

Wookie has a complete staff of two loyal, thumb-laden minions that will cater to her every need. She’ll have her very own birthing suite and two doggie-doulas at the ready. Excitement is building. Stay tuned for future announcements.

With the holidays officially over, and Valentine’s Day just around the corner, boxes packed with the red and green of Christmas are ready to return to the barn. There’s a slight cause for delay.

Snow.

Last night, as I slept soundly while still recovering from the Death Flu of 2022, snow fell quietly on the desert floor. This morning, I awoke to 3″ of white covering everything in sight. I do love the distinct seasons here on the desert. Living in the Central Valley of California, there were two seasons. Hot and Fog. Of course, you could drive three to four hours in any direction and find a little variety, but in much of California, you don’t experience snow. Ever. Of course, the trade off is surfing and the Tournament of Roses Parade, so isn’t all that bad a deal.

Sadly, I’m not prepared for the latest storm. The snow shovels sit safe and dry in the garden shed. The garden shed is at the back of the yard, (approximately 5,249.5 feet away from my desk chair), needing snow shoveling to approach and enter. Hmmm. Winter preparedness. A good blog for another day. Wish I’d put plans into action a little earlier. With perseverance, the snow will be shoveled before it turns into ice. At least, that’s the plan.

I have learned a few things about snow since becoming a Nevadan in 2014.

Windshield wipers can freeze to your window under a blanket of snow.

Your Jeep doors can freeze shut.

You should remove snow off the roof of your Jeep before moving down the road. Shifting roof snow is a bit shocking when coming to a stop.

A garage is an exceptional luxury in any snowstorm.

Whatever you do today, think a little about storm preparedness. For whatever reasons, the news tells us our storms are a bit intense these days. Could it be, that maybe we’ve become a little softer than our grandparents of the 1900’s? Have a plan. Have a go bag ready with a medications, documents, and other essentials. Disasters occur when we least expect them. Be ready. At the very least, put the darn snow shovel in the attached garage.

Putting on snow boots now.

More tomorrow.

by Jack Kornfield:

The present moment is the doorway to true calm…

It is the only place you can love or awaken—the eternal present. You cannot know the future. But here and now you can create a life of dignity and compassion, a day at a time. You can plant beautiful seeds and learn to tend them with love and courage amidst the unfolding mystery. Somerset Maugham once explained, “There are three rules for writing the great English novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.” He wrote marvelous novels, the only way we can, a page at a time.

Being alive is finding ourselves in the midst of this great and mysterious paradox. There are ten thousand joys and sorrows in every life, and at one time or another we will be touched by all of them. We will all experience birth and death, success and loss, love and heartbreak, joy and despair. And in every moment of your life there are millions of humans just like you all over the world who are being confronted by situations just like yours, some that are joyful and some that are overwhelming where they are struggling to somehow learn how to survive them. What matters is the spirit you bring to each day. As George Washington Carver said, “How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant of the weak and the strong … because some day in life you will have been all of these.”

Becoming aware and mindful is not some magical tool where you will only experience pleasant moments. Instead, loving awareness will illuminate and hold everything—the success and delight and the pain and suffering. Even being overwhelmed by challenging emotions is a natural part of the journey. If you judge yourself against some impossible ideal of how you think you “should” be feeling and acting as you struggle, you’ll only add to your suffering.

Instead, listen to your thoughts with mindful awareness. You will see the evanescent nature of feelings and thoughts, that they are fleeting, all impermanent. And then you can begin to realize that just because you have a feeling or thought doesn’t mean you have to believe it—much less act on it—and certainly not get caught up in a whole stream of them. You can release the mind of some of its more dangerous patterns. Observing the mind with mindfulness brings liberation.

After you learn to see what’s in your mind and learn to release or disidentify with the unhealthy patterns, you will discover a deeper level of liberation. My teacher Sri Nisargadatta explained it like this: “The mind creates the abyss and the heart crosses it.” When you rest in the present moment with mindfulness, you open to a loving presence which is timeless and beyond the understanding of thought. It’s by returning to the awareness beyond thoughts that you experience true healing. When your mind and heart open, you realize who you are, the timeless, limitless awareness behind all thought.

Jack Kornfield — January 22, 2020

Happy 2023!!

Thank you, Jack Kornfield for these beautiful words. You inspire me to practice mindfulness and treasure the beauty found in the simplest thing. The present moment.

As I heal from the stomach flu, I wanted to share something beautiful with my readers. I’ll return tomorrow to dish on the highlights of my holiday experiences.

Faith. Family. Food. Festivities.

Christmas and New Year’s 2022 in the desert were spectacular! I hope yours were , as well.

Going back to bed to sleep this off.

More tomorrow.

Hark! The herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King;
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!”
Joyful, all ye nations rise,
Join the triumph of the skies;
With th’angelic host proclaim,
“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”
Hark! the herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King!”

Christ, by highest Heav’n adored;
Christ the everlasting Lord;
Late in time, behold Him come,
Offspring of a virgin’s womb.
Veiled in flesh the Godhead see;
Hail the incarnate Deity,
Pleased with us in flesh to dwell,
Jesus our Emmanuel.

Hail the heav’nly Prince of Peace!
Hail the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings,
Ris’n with healing in His wings.
Mild He lays His glory by,
Born that man no more may die;
Born to raise the sons of earth,
Born to give them second birth.

Hark! The herald angels sing,

“Glory to the newborn King!”

Come, Desire of nations, come,
Fix in us Thy humble home;
Rise, the woman’s conqu’ring Seed,
Bruise in us the serpent’s head.
Now display Thy saving pow’r,
Ruined nature now restore;
Now in mystic union join
Thine to ours, and ours to Thine.

Hark! The herald angels sing,

“Glory to the newborn King!”

Adam’s likeness, Lord, efface,
Stamp Thine image in its place:
Second Adam from above,
Reinstate us in Thy love.
Let us Thee, though lost, regain,
Thee, the Life, the inner man:
Oh, to all Thyself impart,
Formed in each believing heart.

Hark! The herald angels sing,

“Glory to the newborn King!”.

Merry Christmas ! I will return on January 2, 2023!

‘Twas two nights before Christmas, in Winterpast I was home,

Soaking in the hot tub, praying for world-wide Shalom.

One stocking was hung by the chimney with care,

Sewn by me when two boys on my lap were still there.

Oliver nestled asleep in his crate,

Dreamin’ of doggie treats and how they’d taste great.

Later dried, watching movies, my nest feelin’ just right

I’d just snoozed off for restful sleep in the night

When my cell phone did rumble and ding with a clatter

From my Bestie, CC, checking on me to chatter.

Through all of our words we shared events of the day,

The next day promising a call to check in and say “Hey”.

With the star brightly shining, true happiness shone through

Two foggy years in the wilderness, widow’s journey almost through.

With sleep not appearing while I tried to relax,

The cell phone complained, my quiet now cracked.

Just Sweet Daughter checking from so far away.

A surprise of the best kind, better than presents on a sleigh.

“Everything now brighter, we’ll remember the good.

Sleep well, time heals all as we knew it would.”

Hope, Faith, and Trust, I reflect on tonight.

Santa is great, but to these things hold on tight.

My journey through life holds beauty, it’s true

There’s Hope for tomorrow, Trust that Faith blooms anew.

When the phone complained again, just once more for good measure,

Mysterious Marine checked in. A man quiet treasured.

Company tomorrow? Dinner cooked up for Miss Lazy?

“Can you check tomorrow?”

Wait….. What???????

Am I crazy?????

After a night’s sleeping, I’m not feeling as frumpy,

No time for the blues or being down in the dumpy.

Today will be one to get Christmas just right

With Hope, Faith, and Love, my spirit takes flight.

Down with the sadness, self pity, and blues.

Up with carols, treats, and friendships true.

Thanks CC, Thanks Miss Firecracker, both of you know

When troubled about life, to you I go.

Thanks Daughter, TJ, and Cambria Goddess, too,

What would I do without my Christmas angels, You?????

Heart smiling, I’ll enjoy a great dinner tonight.

The Mysterious Marine will season everything just right.

So Dash Away, Dash Away, Dash Away all.

Off to the grocery store, down to the mall.

Finish the wrapping with ribbons and bows,

With love for each other, happiness grows.

I send you this, My Christmas wish true,

Merry Christmas, Dear Friends, with love to you.

Thank you for finding interest in my writing while helping me get through my third Christmas as a widow. Your steady love, friendship, and prayers are helping me grow every day. Life is the most beautiful journey of all.

Merry Christmas to you all.

Joy

There are those things that go thump in the night giving one cause for pause. Here at Winterpast, random things have fallen over. Like the tea pot on the cupboard above my counters. Toppled right over in the night. Auntie TJ’s beautiful painting fell right off the nail that was holding it up with a crash in the night. Random things that I’m choosing to ignore as random. For now.

I learned my lesson a year ago. That night, CC and I were chatting about the latest happenings here in the high desert when there was an alarming noise outside. A thud? No. A slide? No. Not a bang or a snap, either. A dull noise made by something very, very big. Alarmed, I stopped the conversation and listened for a bit, finally writing off the event to something I thought I heard. It couldn’t have been real. I must have been imagining things.

A few nights went by, with quiet being the signature sound coming from my neighborhood. It’s so quiet, either in the day or night, that I can hear my heart beat in the silence. Rarely do I hear a stray voice or the sound of a hedge trimmer or hammer. Just silence. I’m often awakened in the night by the far away sounds of a lonely train zipping through town or Jake Brakes on the interstate. Once in awhile, a stray Top Gun jet might fly over on its way to home base, or a life flight helicopter racing someone to the hospital in the next town over. No barking dogs or bickering neighbors. Just peace and quiet.

Stray noises of the unusual kind do stand out, and sure enough, on the next very dark night there was something very large right outside my bedroom window. Moving about, it was enough of sound that I grabbed the flashlight to find out, once and for all, what would be making this noise on my property, right next to my bedroom window.

After turning on my extremely bright porch lights while Oliver barked loudly, I proceeded outside, turning left to walk in front of my studio window. In the total darkness of night I saw nothing, which made me hold the Mag Flashlight as a weapon. Whatever was there would receive a bit of a headache if an attack occurred.

It was then that not just one but two mustangs came around the corner of my house. But of course!!! The Mustangs!!! The corner of my fence and house make the perfect manger/windbreak. Relieved it wasn’t someone wanting to do me harm, I backed away, encouraging them to move on down the road. The quiet clippity-clop of their hooves on the asphalt roadway fit the night as they disappeared into the darkness. They’d need to find another place to shelter for the night. No room at Winterpast.

How lucky I am to enjoy Winter in a place so safe that I venture into the night to investigate a noise. What a blessing to live with majestic animals like the mustangs that choose us as their neighbors. Although I’m pretty sure I heard them grumbling as they left, I hope there were no hard feelings. They’ll be back soon.

As for the toppling trinkets, things have settled. Here in the desert, we’re built on sand. Sometimes things shift a little. Thank goodness not as much as they just shifted in Humboldt County, California. Those folks need our prayers as they clean up from the recent earthquake. It’s a place unlike the California you see on the nightly news. A conservative haven in a state riddled with confusion. May they get back to normal soon.

Whatever you do today, do it with some cheerful thoughts of the Christmas to come and holidays past. Unless it’s something 1,000 lbs. or more, or a 6.2 earthquake, try not to get rattled by things that go thump in the night. Investigate by the light of the day. It’s safer.

Only 2 more days until the real fun begins. Go ahead. Start celebrating early. That’s what I plan to do.

More tomorrow.

Astronomically speaking, the first day of winter is today. Meteorologically speaking, the first day of winter is December 1st. In the desert, it seems winter starts a little earlier than that. It seems much colder this year. Perhaps that’s because my old bones are a year older. It’s certainly not because I’m any less padded. Oh well, my Grandfather used to say a woman needs extra padding to make it through a hard winter. If that’s the case, I’ll surely survive a few more even if the power goes out.

Today we observe the Winter Solstice. It’s the day with the shortest number of daylight hours and the longest night. To my Alaskan readers I can only say that I don’t know how you do it. It’s hard enough to get everything done in 9 daylight hours. You folks get it done in a little over 5 hours. To my readers in the Southern Hemisphere, chuckle on. I know you’re basking in summers warm temps. You’ll get your turn at winter in a few months.

The winter and summer solstice refer to the shortest and longest days of the year while the spring and autumn equinoxes fall on days with the same amount of day and night hours. For me, the winter solstice is when I say Goodbye to my favorite time of year, while marching towards the longer days of spring. For me, it’s the long winter nights that are a bit trying. Until last night.

For years, I’ve been developing the ideal bed. One-third of our lives are spent sleeping. Add a few more for retirement napping. It should be peaceful and cocoon-y, not tossed and turned like a green salad. Slowly, I’ve amassed the right number of down pillows, a down comforter, and a mattress that can flip into zero gravity with the press of a button. I was still missing the main component. Sheets.

I remember the days of my mother hanging her sheets on the clothes line to dry. Farmers were the original “Green” inhabitants of this world. The sheets would smell sunshine fresh when we crawled into bed. Laundry was another big detail that Mother handled masterfully with the help of her five minions. Even our pillow cases were freshly ironed every week. A proper German household she ran.

Over the past year, I’ve attempted to find sheets of olden days. In the 1900’s, sheets were sheets. The best quality sheets were percale cotton. They didn’t cost enough to break the bank. A boring part of life, you bought white cotton sheets that lasted decades. Use. Weekly wash and dry on the line. Use again. With each use, the sheets got softer and softer, but remained serviceable forever.

There was no such thing as fitted sheets at our house. WE all knew how to dress our beds in military style, tight with boxed corners. It had to meet with her approval. That’s just how it was done. For years. How I wish I had those sheets today.

Over the last year, I’ve come to one conclusion. No matter the amazing thread counts or promise of the finest cotton and finish, good sheets cost some dough. Sticker shock will get you if you’re not prepared.

Christmas time is a time for gifts. This year, I tried to gift myself a robot to vacuum my floors. It ate my Christmas tree skirt. Alexa already has control of the house, she doesn’t need any more gadgets to commander. At a bit of a loss, I’d almost given up on the idea, when I realized something I really needed. Sheets fit for Presidents. Royalty. And one widowed woman living in the wide spot of a dusty little road off the interstate on the high desert plains of Nevada. Me.

On the internet, you can find such luxuries. I did. I shopped a 40% off sale, settled on flannel, and pushed “Complete Purchase”.

When the box came, I couldn’t wait. I know. I know. It’s not Christmas yet. But it IS Christmas week. Slowly, I opened the exquisite packing box. Inside, there they were. The most beautiful flannel sheets in “Coastal Grandma” Buffalo plaid. Tan, Light Grey, and Beige. The stitching is perfection. The fabric, a herringbone weave of flannel. The weight just right. It’s as if I went back in time to the days that everything high quality was made in America. Well, not quite. These were made in Portugal from Egyptian cotton, but you get the idea. These sheets are 1900’s yummy.

Last night was the test run. I am here to report that the quest for great sheets is over. I have a winter set that will last much longer than I will. Mission accomplished.

Through the next three months, the trees of Winterpast will continue their deep sleep. Although they shudder in the high desert winds, any other sign of life is gone. Outlined with frosty snowflakes at times, the back yard takes on a different beauty. On full moon nights, the outlines of the trees make their ghostly appearance through my bedroom blinds. Eerie shadows dancing outside the bedroom window cause me to turn away as I fall asleep.

Winter on the desert includes another magical event as random and illusive as the mustangs. Pogonip. One day last year, while out walking, I noticed the air was sparkling with floating glitter. The beauty of the moment caught me off guard and I had to stop. Truly, I thought I’d lost my ever-lovin’ mind. The faintest sparkles were hanging in the air like tiny diamonds, while swirling this way and that. I didn’t mention it to anyone for awhile for surely I’d imagined it. After asking a local, I found it was real. It’s called pogonip, or freezing fog. I normally hate fog, but the next time this occurs I plan to Pachanga through the pogonip. The desert is a magical place, perfect for a Pachanga Party.

Winter holds time to think and redirect. Time to envision new garden plans. Time for soup and yummy hot dishes. Time to sleep a little later in the morning and turn in a little earlier each evening. Time to cuddle with photo albums and smile at the happy memories made so long ago. Time for new memories with someone very special. Winter is the loveliest of seasons.

Whatever you do today, enjoy the Winter Solstice. Have some hot chocolate while wrapping presents and listening to Christmas music. There are only a few more days until candlelight and celebrations. Enjoy!

More tomorrow.