Grieving Gardener

Yesterday was a special day. Sunday’s are always wonderful in my book. Spending time with my church friends is the best. Three baptisms made the day all the more special. An older married couple and my Teacher Friend were baptized. Before church, I asked for permission to view the font. Very interesting. Like a gigantic hot tub, it has stairs hidden from view on either side. One entrance for men, one for women. The pastor stands in view in the back. The temperature is a balmy 98 degrees. Warm enough for anyone.

The premise of the baptism is that the unsaved person dies and is buried, while the saved person arises. All this is done surrounded by prayer and ceremony. Such a beautiful and solemn event. Always a special day when the font is full.

Learning names and to whom people are related, I feel closer to everyone each and every week. One friend is leaving for a once in a lifetime trip to Germany. Others are in need of hugs and prayers. A true family of kindness and helping hands. What a church SHOULD be.

Sharing a talk with the Pastor about troubling issues cleared my thinking about many important topics. Life is confusing when one is a single woman. At times, confounding. Often, ripe with so many possibilities, it’s hard to decide what the correct choice would be. My Pastor always knows the right things to suggest, scripture front and center, from which personal insight can be gained. I’m blessed to have found such a safe place in which to heal. I value his insight and wisdom. His wife always has a calming hug to share. And, she smells really wonderful. I need to find out the name of her perfume.

Attending church to worship God becomes even more special when new relationships are formed over smiles and welcomes. One church couple has been married for 69 years. I can’t imagine all the situations in which prayer was the glue that held them together. Such a beautiful example they are of undying love and care. Sitting near the front, they are a testimony to marriage. An example to the rest of us that a long and happy life is indeed a goal for which to strive.

More new faces arrive each and every Sunday. People are longing for direction and comfort in this crazy world. Something that makes sense like the beautiful old gospel hymns we sang during service. More than once, I heard people say, “I don’t like the new church music. I want to hear old hymns.” At Baptist on Main, we sing old hymns full of memories, sometimes causing leaky eyes of the best kind.

Things like this only happen in the mind of the writer, and yet, it seems it is happening right here in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada. Enjoy your day, whatever you do. Try a new Pork Roast Recipe with family and friends. Be sure to bring laughter and great conversation. Take some pics. You won’t be sorry when you capture a great moment on film.

Life around Winterpast is kicking into high gear. With a major trip just a week away, I have a full plate just getting everything done. The autumn chill has arrived. This morning, it’s 38 degrees! Just delightful. The last of the apples hang tightly on the tree, waiting for a pie. What a year! Blueberries, plums, apricots, potatoes, and green peppers are all just memories. Time to turn off the sprinklers and get ready for winter.

Yesterday was Taco Tuesday at the local Mexican restaurant “Palomino”. For $0.99, you can enjoy a wonderful street taco. Miniature versions of the real thing, they’re delicious. Just like everywhere else, the owner struggles finding dependable help. He works long hours taking orders and busing tables. He tends the cash register and washes dishes. Restaurant owners are unsung heroes of this pandemic. It has been risky, but also trying in so many ways. Support your local business men and women. Things are tough for them right now.

For the next few days, I’ll be extremely busy. Kind of like the restaurant owners, it’s just me manning the fort. Needing a little time, I’ll return Monday, October 4th. Please take this time to try writing something on your own. Try out a new recipe, or pick up a real book that has been waiting for you. I’ll be back!!

My first load of leaves went out with yesterday’s trash. Wishing I could burn them in neat little piles, I did the proper thing by raking and stowing them in the two trashcans. The threat of fire is just too great. With 35 – 40 trees all undressing at once, I have my job cut out for me for a little while. The temperature has been cool enough for Oliver to spend time outside on toad patrol. Fall is such a lovely time of year.

Summer 2021 was a hot one, for sure. Only my second, I don’t know why I didn’t expect the inferno of the high desert. Lulled into a false sense of wonder the summer before, I just expected more of the same. Summer 2020 was a mild one. The days were still hot, but not scorching. Evenings were pleasant. This year, the desert didn’t hold back, giving us a real picture of how lethal she can be. Yikes.

The mustangs are down from the mountains now. Looking for every blade of grass and drink of water they can find, they were munching on the lawn at In-Town Park yesterday. Lawn ornaments. They seem so quiet, surely they must be gentle. Hahaha. It is a felony to approach or bother them in any way. They aren’t your barnyard friends, for sure. These wild animals are protected, rather like cows in India.

The thing people don’t realize is the volume of stuff a horse consumes and leaves behind. This isn’t a small amount. Gallons of liquid. Anywhere, anytime. Pounds of solids. Anywhere, anytime. The solids much be dealt with. Hope you have a really large scoop shovel on hand when you need one. No, city folk just look at the beauty, not the reality.

The other day, I was coming home from getting a milkshake at Dairy Queen. If you haven’t tried their Blizzard products, run, don’t walk, to the nearest DQ for a treat. Yum. They also have a Hot Fudge Milkshake that is superb. Anyway, I was making the turn on the West end of Main when the traffic stopped. Flashing lights ahead, it was going to be awhile. I assumed road work. For some time, the flashing lights slowly traveled West down main, towards our line of waiting drivers.

The closer they got, the more strange the problem. Two police cars were traveling side by side, filling both the East and West bound land. Traveling slowly, they had their lights blazing. On the side of the road trotted two mustangs, just ahead of the bumper of one of the patrol cars. It was a round-up by cops!!!! The mustangs had made it dangerously close to the interstate. Big rigs and horses don’t mix. The outcome could cause a major collision.

The policemen had obviously done this before, being skilled at keep the two marauders moving along towards the hills. One of the horses is a troubled horse, always in the middle of action. Pure white, this horse is a ring-leader. The others always follow, getting themselves in trouble by doing so. This horse actually reminds me of something out of a fairy tale. Not a true albino, it’s eyes are brown. Not a palamino, but rather a translucent white, he shimmers. Being a stallion, he’s unpredictable and dangerous. He insists on getting his way at all times.

So, there we sat. Happily, I downed my milkshake while the mini-rodeo went by. Eventually the city gravel truck turned off its warning lights and we were allowed to proceed. It won’t be the last time the horses cause a traffic jam. It’s just always a relief when no one is injured in the process, including the horses.

The horses used to be managed so that everyone could enjoy them. Every year, quietly, the herd was thinned. The native animals could share the range with the invasive horses. Nobody starved. Everyone was healthy. Now, that’s not the case. There is nature’s law of carrying capacity, basic and exact. There is a finite amount of food and water for a certain number of animals. When their numbers gets too big, the weak animals die off. It’s simply supply in demand of food and water. Without any management, the horses are now at a number more than the land sustain. Many are starving. Many will die a painful death. Not much can be done, unless the numbers are artificially sustained, which only makes the problem worse. It is illegal to feed wild horses.

Horses complicate life on the high desert, but are also a rare treat. The other day, WP and I were driving to church when a few bachelor horses decided it was time to run. In the seven years I’ve lived in Nevada, I can count on one hand the times I’ve been lucky to see a galloping herd of mustangs. Traveling all over the high desert, it isn’t a sight you see very often. Galloping uses up calories. Calories are precious in such an intense environment. WP made the same comment as we both watched their special show. The Running of the Mustangs. Something must have spooked them. Just as they run across the plains, they can just as easily spook and run across the roadway. You never know what they’ll decide to do.

Other than the horses and leaves there isn’t much other news. That’s the beauty of the high desert. Quiet and open, you can hear the autumn winds approaching over the mountain canyons. The train whistle in the distance. The hum of the trucks on the interstate reminds me how lucky I am to sit and write in my PJ’s. Have a wonderful Tuesday with whatever you decide to do.

Funny how two people can live in the same town years and travel in completely different circles. Orbiting around their private galaxies, they choose favorite little restaurants full of comfort food on opposite ends of town. They visit the same Walmart on at different days and times, meeting random associates that color their experiences. More active during early morning or late afternoon, the town takes on a different feel for each of them. Such is the case with my new friend, Widower of the Pines, and me, Widowed at Winterpast.

“Have you been to ……???”

“No. Where’s that?”

Through the days, we’ve created a list of places that we’d like to visit together, making this neighborly affair more fun that two people should enjoy. Sitting in the front yard at The Pines yesterday, I saw my neighbor’s houses from entirely different views.

The Peach People, named so for their gorgeous tree loaded with fruit, were of interest to me over the last year. We share the north east corner post of my back yard. Every day over the last few months, workmen disturbed the neighborhood silence. Stucco contractors. Painters. Concrete professionals. Landscapers. They all came and went, while no one was there during evenings and weekends. For the longest time, I thought the house would be flipped, while in reality, there were just two homeowners making revisions before moving in. Enjoying the transformation from another perspective, they did a beautiful job.

As I looked more closely, roofline’s made sense. There was Madam President’s house, (known to me through my service group). And Fence Buddy, whom I’ve only spoken with over our back fence. Sitting in the yard looking towards the mountains, there was my huge backyard tree. The one that resembled a burning bush last winter in the glow of the early morning sun. Just like that, I realized that when I sit in my hot tub, the only thing between WP’s house and mine is about 100 yards and Fence Buddy’s RV barn. I could stand up and wave to WP. Our houses stand that close to one another.

My beauty salon wasn’t known to WP, until he enjoyed a wonderful pedicure there. He didn’t know we have a Dairy Queen or Wendy’s. I hadn’t enjoyed his favorite hamburger spot, where the waitresses watch over us like royalty. He didn’t know about my church, Baptist on Main. I didn’t know about the local chiropractor. As the days go by, our love of this little town has grown. With more exploration we’ll know every shop and service in the area.

Last night, after a long day of chores while running errands between our houses, we were exhausted. Pizza would be a good choice for a Saturday night dinner. Usually, I’d just dial up the local Round Table for delivery. WP suggested something new. Had I tried the 76 Deli on Main? Well, no, I hadn’t. I’d heard it was a gem, hidden away in the back of a convenience store. I’d give it a try.

Picking up the pizza, there was a local woman laying on the pavement next to her car. A friend was nearby. Neither seemed stressed, so we left them to their problems and went inside. Descriptors escape me, except to say at first glance, the place didn’t scream “Deli”. WP knew right where to go, and in the back, the kitchen and staff became visible. A box was presented for approval with a delicious pizza, hot and ready.

Upon leaving, WP stopped to inquire about the woman, still laying on the pavement. Clothed, she laid by her car without anything under her body. Just quiet and face up on the ground.

“Everything okay?”

Yes. Everything was okay. It turns out she’d put her back out. She was just resting on the ground. Waving, we left. That sums up the quirky little red neck town in which we live. You just never know what strange things you’ll see. The unnatural is totally normal. No one is offended if you ask whether everything is okay. With a smile and wave, we headed home to enjoy a wonderful evening.

From Winterpast, we can see the airport strobe from my back yard. We can see part of the large letter on the side of the mountain marking our town’s location. From The Pines, we can see the expanse of mountains and the big Nevada Sky to the West and the night time glow of the bigger town just beyond them. From Winterpast, with less light pollution, the stars are brighter. From The Pines the Sky is bigger. Added together, we get a more complete picture of our dusty little town at a wide spot in the road.

Who knew that with the exchange of business cards at the end of a community meeting, a friendship of neighbors could begin? Certainly not me. Certainly not WP. We speak of this often. What are the chances that a widow of 17 days would move to a dusty little town in which she knew only two friends? What are the chances that a Widower from Southern California would pick our tiny town as a good place to heal from heartbreak? Knowing a handful of new friends, we traveled our in separate circles each day, learning Nevada Means Home. Our circles now create an interesting Venn Diagram of possibilities. A happy accident here in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada.

The pizza was wonderful. Enjoying nerdy reruns on TCM, sat two content people. Nothing fancy. Nothing our of the ordinary. Just a quiet night shared by two neighbors. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it. Have a beautiful Monday.

Biology was my first love. As a child, the animals at the farm were fascinating. I learned life by watching their interactions. They’re forgiving and deal with each other in sensible ways. If they don’t get along, they stay away from each other. They take turns eating in a way that makes sense to them. In every way, animals are logical and remember important things that keep them alive. They only stress about serious stuff in the moment.

On the farm, animals are usually there for one reason. It’s not the best idea to get to attached, because, well……. most of them are there for one reason. I never had to wonder from where the food in the grocery store came. I knew. In participating in the processing of food, I learned about major organ systems and what an animal looked like on the inside. My nose was always right in the middle of the exciting stuff, with Dad explaining the inner workings of an animal body.

4-H gave me opportunities to grow animals for sale at the fair. From a scrawny lamb into a blue ribbon winner, many days went into feeding and general animal care. Rabbits and chickens were also raised for the same purpose. The fair was a time to miss a week of school to hang out with kids from all over the San Joaquin Valley of California. Kids slept in the hay with their animals, keeping the pens spotless so they could. Steers were bathed and brushed daily, while the sheep were fluffed. Even the chickens and turkeys got baths. When you see animals at a fair, rest assured, they don’t look or smell like that on a working farm.

In college, when it came to labs and dissection’s, I was a natural. Learning the names of hundreds of muscles and nerves in many different types of animals my love grew. But, I suffered from a major lack of confidence. When looking around at classmates that had come from private high schools, I convinced myself that I would never be smart enough to become a doctor. Wrong-oh. I would have been a wonderful doc, just needing to work a little harder than the others. As a second choice, I earned my MRS degree, marrying the March of my Senior year in 1977.

Through the years, my Bachelor’s degree in Science helped me to be a better teacher. A love of all things medical has remained with me through the years. Doctors are fascinating people. Sacrificing a normal life, they take an oath to “Do No Harm”. They live for messy problems that make the rest of us squirm. Nothing causes alarm, but rather a determined focus to find the cause of the trouble and fix it. They’re interesting and worthy of respect.

At a community meeting, WP and I had the rare opportunity to sit with a trauma surgeon who is running for Governor of Nevada. Dr. Fred Simon, M.D. He also runs a successful Italian restaurant that serves breakfast, lunch, and dinner. While doing those things, he mentors teens, while caring for his own family. Two hours wasn’t enough to pick his brain about so many things.

In the last two years, he worked in a Covid unit and had lots to say about that subject. Very interesting to hear information from someone who was in the trenches. Very openly, he talked about things behind the scenes. Scary to listen, and not for the reasons you might think. Medicine is a business. The Pharmaceutical Complex is even a bigger one. Money leads. Follow the money. Yes. Covid is a deadly and horrible virus. No question about that. There are many different ways to treat a patient with Covid. Not all of them involve dangerous drugs that cost $3,000 a dose. The cheaper versions have excellent results. The only difference? $$$$$$$$$

The big take away from the Doc was this. DO YOUR OWN RESEARCH. Make a choice for yourself based on what you learn, not on what you see on the news. Look for ways you can strengthen your body with nutrition. Take anti-viral supplements, easy to find in any town. If you are overweight, get out and do something to change that. Get enough sleep. Try to stress less. Meditate. Social Distance. Find happiness. Don’t forget to pray. Choose a medical course that is right for your body. One size doesn’t fit all in medicine. Yes. Covid is very real. It can be very deadly. We all need to be careful.

Our dinner was way to short. Inviting us to visit his restaurant, he told us table #22 or #24 were the best in terms of listening to the jazz music playing on the weekend. I hope he becomes our next governor. His battle will be intense because the wheels are greased for other candidates, slimy and perfect in the eye of the camera. With big endorsements and money behind the chosen ones, Doc has a tough job ahead of him.

Our local chiropractor had a health scare this week, as well. Across the street from the Tee Pee Bar and Grill, his little parking lot is always crowded. In his 70’s, he sees patients day in and day out. This week, an aching leg sent him to the ER. Luckily, it was nothing serious. He is a beloved and needed part of our little community.

My dentist, Dr. B, worked diligently to save my tooth for me this week. His happy nature and skillful procedures made this dental appointment easy and painless. It’s refreshing to be around a dentist and co-workers that are positive and happy while they work. Thankfully, he is a young dentist. I really hope he outlives me because we get along just fine.

Love and pray for your doctors. They are in the trenches. With every patient they see, they need to adjust their thinking skills and diagnostic abilities. They need to listen intently to hidden messages we give as we describe our medical concern. They do this while observing body language and our physical being. In a matter of minutes, they come up with possible answers to our illnesses, usually with a big dose of comfort. They are angels on earth that are often forgotten as soon as our medical issue is corrected. They need our prayers.

Enjoy today. Do something that feels healthy. Fresh air clears the head. Happy Sunday.

The last twelve months have taught me a lot about myself and my writing habits. I write best while drinking my first cup of coffee in the morning. This occurs long before regular interruptions of the day begin. I need quiet solitude, with only the irritation of a headstrong little dog to bother me while keeping my feet warm. Needing space for my thoughts to flow, I love this time of day.

I’ve tried writing at other times of day to identify my creative zone. Over the years, I’ve learned 3:00 AM is even better. That crazy hour being too much even for me, it’s become a habit to leave my journal on my nightstand for those inspirational moments that awaken me from a dead sleep. If you are contemplating a blogging future, try writing at different times of the day and use what works for you.

Last year was full of firsts for me, all rich with details about which to write. I’m hoping this year will be the same. Writing my first book, the opportunities to learn about self publishing has been overwhelming. Online, one can find many webinars about various subjects in the field of writing. From contests, to blog sites, everything needed to start is available at your computer screen.

I find myself swamped at times, and decided I needed to try something new to better organize my days. Well aware that there is more than ample time for everything I would like to do, I picked out categories that were necessary parts of any day. Sleep. Personal time. Writing time. Friends and family. Household and garden chores. Time for spiritual growth.

Drawing a pie chart with 12 slices, each one represented two hours. With a little thought, I created a picture of what my day could be. Juggling hours here and there, a balance came into view. Something for which I’ve been searching but have yet to find. A balanced day. Once the big picture was more visual my scheduling became easier.

In my second year, when sitting down to write, I envision inspiration and creativity. Writing with a purpose, I intend to write myself a salary this year. Calm and relaxed, I want to entertain and inspire my readers, giving them the best product I can produce. I’d love to work at least 20 hours a week. Right now, I write about 14 hours a week, so there’s room for improvement. I also want to have some down time over the weekend to rejuvenate. Following a loose schedule, my job as a writer should fit into a balanced life.

Through the next twelve months, I’ll consider myself successful if I publish at least 340 blog pieces, along with my first book, Widow. Research will help me monetize my writing to produce an income. A business plan will organize my financial goals. A weekly writing class guiding elders would make my life bloom even more brightly.

Year One helped me declare that I AM a published writer. Writing IS life, as a very wise 5th grader told me in an essay during my last year as a teacher. Writing is everything interesting, invigorating, and awesome in this world. Stories are everywhere, just waiting to be told. Beauty and tragedy beg detailed discriptions. Readers gotta read. Writers gotta write. Simple as that.

_{Reinterpretation of Circle Game by Joni Mitchell}

Just last year this gal came out to wander

With some stories trapped inside my head,

Fearful, I loved my new home and strange town

While tearful for the falling of my man.

Then this gal wrote twelve months ’round the seasons

Describing lonely widowhood to all

Friendship, love, and writing of adventure

Promising to make all my dreams come true

And the year, has gone round and round

And this gal’s life has left her unbound

I’m blogging ’bout my Winterpast and time

I can’t go back, I can only look

Ahead towards what I know

And go round and round the months

As they turn so slow.

Fifty two weeks and four long seasons gone now

Since first I put my words upon the screen

My book takes time, surely it won’t be long now

As I drag my feet feet to slow the process down

And the year has gone round and round

And this gal’s life has left her unbound

I’m blogging ’bout my Winterpast and time

I can’t go back, I can only look

Ahead towards what I know

And go round and round the months

As they turn so slow

Through the year, this gal is now more settled

My dreams and writing rose to carry me through

There are new dreams, a sweet love, new and plenty

Before my last revolving year is through.

And the year has gone round and round

And this gal’s life has left her unbound

I’m blogging ’bout my Winterpast and time

I can’t go back, I can only look

Ahead towards what I know

And go round and round the months

As they turn so slow.

#####

To all my beloved readers,

On this the one year anniversary of my blog, THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart. This has been a most rewarding experience as I share my thoughts with you. Thank you for following my journey. I love you all. Joy

Gabby Petito died alone in a National Park. There should’ve been someone there to help her. In reality, 22 years of age is still a trusting kid. I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing her. I wasn’t there for her first steps or Kindergarten graduation. Pretty sure Gabby sailed through her milestones like all children do. She’d started a career as a “nutritionist”, but longed for an adventure. Living her dreams, she bought a van and converted it into a camper. Sharing her words with the world, she blogged across America.

In case the story has escaped you, Gabby was the victim of a homocide while visiting Wyoming. Murdered. We haven’t been told the entire story yet. Violent stories usually feature two angry people throwing wood on a flaming relationship. There are details that’ll never be revealed. It appears Gabby was in over her head, just like I was at her age. Those that COULD have helped didn’t know the entire story either. If so, things wouldn’t have ended this way.

Battered women have so much in common. We are quiet about the situation thinking we can handle it. We think each time will be the last, but in reality each time gets worse. We hope we can do better so the violence doesn’t come back more wicked and strong than the last time. Most battered women never get up the nerve to say “Enough is Enough”. It takes so much strength to tell. Even more strength to walk away. I know. In 1983 I did just that with a little boy under each arm.

Gabby was in a police car for a time. Four or five professionals talked to her, and then, Brian. Over an hour was recorded on police cameras. She was safe for a tiny bit, looking child-like in the back of the patrol car. Of course, Brian looked like a choir boy. In the end, Gabby was found to be the villain, Brian the victim. Brian got a hotel room from a victim advocacy group. Gabby was told to take 24 hours to think about things. She was safe, until she was dead days later. The policemen are victims, too. Their hands were tied by what they could and couldn’t do legally. It’s all displayed on You Tube for the world to watch. If only things had gone differently. Gabby might be safe in the loving arms of her dad.

Gabby had strength. Evidenced by her courage, her heart yearned for adventure and a writing career. It feels amazing to watch blog readership grow. In one year, I have IP addresses from over 70 countries. Just little, old me typing away at 4:30 in the morning. With no advertising, 65,000 computers have logged onto my site. Friends write to check up on me when I go off line for a day or two. I matter to a few other people in the world. People I’ll never know. Just a few months ago, 70 people a day were reading. These days the number is around 440. I know Gabby’s blog was much more successful than mine, and she must have been so proud. Even though Brian didn’t believe in her, she believed in herself. She thought she could so she did.

It’s dreadfully painful when your partner doesn’t believe in your abilities as a writer. Her boyfriend didn’t. I’ve experienced that. For many years, I shelved my stories in a mental vault. Steered by “Shouldn’t” and “How could you?”, I allowed my stories to wait. I’ll never wait again. It took me 65 years to discover who I am as a writing woman. Gabby knew this much earlier in life.

Camping for weeks on end isn’t all glamor. It’s hard work. Setting up camp. Breaking up camp. Long hours of driving. No one really knows how vast and diverse the US of A is until you drive across it. Planning the trip of a life time a few miles at a time, she was hoping to earn money working at her favorite National Parks. Odd jobs here and there could extend their trip. She would write about every last detail.

When I was her age, I was awaiting the birth of my first son. My destiny changed my life’s path. Gabby was charting her own course. Beautiful, happy, and just plain lovely, she had the world at her fingertips until it was robbed from her and her loved ones.

Being a mom, my heart goes out to her family. They must be gutted. In a fog worse than any I’ve ever experienced in my life. The light of their family is gone forever. Pointless. Needless. Violent. Forever. All in the high beams of Headline News.

I long to hit the road in a van like hers, knowing what it’s like to live on the road for weeks at a time. I long to sit by the side of the road and watch the bison, elk, and antelope. The big blue sky of Wyoming dwarfs that of Nevada, and stole my heart long ago. No comparison to any other place in the world, in my experience. She died in a place I plan to visit someday. She died doing what I can only dream of. She lived as my heart wishes it could. On the road. Gabby and I had a lot in common, and yet, we never even met.

My heart goes out to Brian’s family, as well. Mental illness and violence are horrible things that plague many families, including my own. Struggling white sons have a lot on their plates in this crazy world. Vilified by the imaginary sins of their white fathers. Hard work labeled by the lazy as “White Man Privilege”. Trying to pick out their own path, step by step, the methods their parents used to create a life are not the same today. Many young men have no clue what their life’s direction should be, and so they wander. The 20’s are an age of confusion. An age to try different scenarios. A time to play at adulting, when in reality, they’re just kids in bigger bodies. Under the microscope of adults that don’t quite understand today’s world, they smolder.

Pray for everyone involved in this, the saddest of stories. With time, justice will be served. It’s not ours to judge, as we’ll never know all the details leading up to this tragedy. Battered women suffer every single day in silence. No doubt you’d be shocked at those you know already. Really listen to your friends. Support them. Hear them even when the words they utter are different than what you observe. No woman or man deserves abuse at the hand of another.

Gabby Patito. Rest in Peace, Sweet Girl in the Rainbow Angel Wings. You’ll be missed. Every best seller you were destined to write will wait for us in heaven. Wyoming rainbows will remind me of you. God Speed, Gabby. We miss you.

Without faith, life wouldn’t be worth living. Some days, I envision VST up there in the heavens tossing a football with his buddies John Mora and Derick Wilson. With no pain of any kind, there they are having a Touch Down kind of day. I hope don’t peek down here to see the sorrow and suffering of the world. They lived enough of that when they were alive.

Through the years, I learned so much from him. Very seldom did he play the pity card. If there was a problem, it was identified, analyzed, and repaired. No problem was too big or small. As I’ve said before, one of his favorite lines was , “Can’t go nowhere on yesterday’s train”. Truer words were never spoken.

People would ask him how he accomplished everything in his daily life. Through our farming years, he raised five children to adulthood, made a home for his parents across the drive, while keeping the mastiffs in 20 pounds of dogfood a week. He made part runs and did 100% of the repairs on very old farm equipment. He completed three University degrees, the last being a Doctorate in Psychology. He did every bit of tractor work on the farm, with each trip on the tractor being 16 miles long, going at a snail’s pace. He made 30 trips to Hawaii over 17 years, and made time for boating trips to the California Delta. All this while working 7-6, running a multi-million dollar John Deere franchise in the Central San Joaquin Valley.

VST had three main careers in life. Farming, private business management, and social work. He flipped houses on the side. Between 2014-2015, we moved a bulging trailer of our belongings to Virginia City, one weekend load at a time. Fifty two weekends, fifty two loads, each one carefully packed by him. Leaving for the six hour trip on Friday night after working all day, we’d enjoy the time together. On Sunday, sad to leave, we’d head back home to return to our day jobs.

Over our 32 years together, friends and family would ask “How is there time for you to do all of this?” He would smile his dimpled smile and say, “Well, there are 24 hours in a day.” He squeezed life out to the last second. While doing this, he was calm and collected as he rested on his faith in God. Comforted by the ultimate knowledge that life wouldn’t throw anything at him that he couldn’t handle, he made touch down after touch down right up to the finish line.

Some days, finding faith is tough. Crafty is the devil. Some days, the madness of the world is astounding. I’ve found that turning the television to the off position is a start. Such things on display! Decency isn’t fashionable or current. What a shame.

K took a beautiful picture on the morning her dad passed to the other side. The sky was dark that day. Scary and ominous, she captured a moment we all felt. We were losing our rock. Our leader. Our hero. He couldn’t stay and somehow, we’d needed to find a way to let him go. God chooses, certainly not us. What wasn’t captured was the brilliant blue sky later in the day. These days my winter has passed and life has become the most brilliant of blues.

With faith, I moved to a town in which I knew two friends and my realtor. I bought a house that I didn’t know. I had two vehicles that I trusted would not break down, leaving me stranded. I drove miles through deserted desert having faith that I wouldn’t be abducted and murdered. I found a way to sleep soundly at night. I risked new friendships with total strangers, putting faith in a smile and kind eyes. But, most of all, I put faith in God’s love for me. God carried me through the flames of grief and I wasn’t burned. Through those days, he surely knows my tears. A true comfort in this crazy world, my faith increases every day.

To be a successful farmer, you need to have faith. Buying the farm in March 1990, we were excited and nervous about the venture. Although we grew up in a vast sea of vines, we had never owned one, let alone 16,500 of them. Being 100 years old, thank goodness their wisdom and perseverance helped us through. The vines knew what to do and they did it. The first week we owned the ranch, there was an early winter frost. The temps dropped to -11 degrees Fahrenheit. For California, that’s unheard of.

A long time girlfriend, a little jealous of our adventure, called me the morning after the frost.

“Do you think the frost last night killed your vines?” All the vineyards were still dormant, but no one really knew what damage the severe frost could have done. Worry about that very thing had robbed us of sleep the night before. We could have just purchased 40 acres of dead vines.

“No. No. No. God has this covered. The vines will be fine.”

Just like that, we felt better in our faith. On March 15th, bud-break occurred. Tiny little leaves came out everywhere. By April 15th, little bunches of grapes bloomed, and the race to harvest was on. Soon, the frost was just a distant memory, as our first Sunmaid raisin crop was on the ground, drying in the San Joaquin Valley heat. God had us covered all along.

Whatever the trouble, find your faith. Everything will be okay, even when the darkest of clouds block the blue sky behind. Remember to use your time wisely, for time is a terrible thing to waste. The days are short. Get hopping.

Country people are grounded in time and truth. Of course, I over-generalize and am probably a wee bit prejudice. Being a red-neck girl, I gravitate towards boot cut Levi’s, cowboy boots, a western shirt, and a great Stetson. Saturday, I experienced the closest thing to time travel possible through an annual dinner.

It was a day to turn on the radio and begin scouring, on a mission to finish fall cleaning by Nevada Day, (the last Friday in October). Always very confusing, Nevada Day is sometimes the same day as Halloween, causing families to make the choice between attending big parades or taking the kiddos to Trick or Treat. Living in a small town, both dates are loved and celebrated.

Fall cleaning includes everything from changing out the AC filter to washing the base boards. Living in the desert, the wind blows. By the end of summer, it’s quite a job to get everything holiday ready. This is a great time of year to donate to my favorite thrift store, or just throw stuff out. Each room is tackled seperately.

Planning my cleaning schedule, I was interrupted by a phone call from a woman from my past. Almost old enough to be my mom, she raised her children on a vineyard very near our home place. Always light-hearted and fun, her kids knew how to play, while being lucky enough to have their very own pony. From now on, I will refer to her as Pony Mom.

Pony Mom birthed three children, but she also owned a small horse. Not just another animal, this was the fourth child. It knew when to be an older sibling and watch out for the kid brothers and sister. It knew when to be patient and put up with the kids, or when to call it a day and return to the barn. This pony was invited into their house on at least one occasion that I know of. Named Sugar, she had an willful identity all her own. I never knew her to hurt anyone intentionally, but have no doubt, she ruled her own little world.

Ponies are like the cutest of small children. Their behavior is often like that of an indulged child. Quite frankly, they can be brats and get away with a lot because of their cuteness. Once in awhile, Sugar visited our ranch. She’d tolerate all the extra rides and attention until deciding her visit was over. Trotting just faster than six stair stepped could run, she’d head down a row of vines, make a turn at the avenue, arriving to the safety of her barn. Great kid’s ponies are not trained but a gift from God. Sugar was just such a pony.

As kids do, we all grew and their family moved to another ranch miles and miles away. We’d run into them over the years, always marveling that all of us did okay in life. The country is a great place to raise free-range children. We learned to problem solve and create our own kind of entertainment. Bronzed kiddos, lean and inquisitive about the world, we snacked on bell peppers and cherry tomatoes from the garden. Summer time brought Elbow Peaches, named so because of the juice that would run to our elbows as we ate them right off the tree. Sitting under a vine, we’d plan our lives while reaching up to pick fresh grapes. If we were really quiet, we were be totally hidden from view while watching the world go by. The simple life of farm kids, magical by any standard.

Answering Saturday’s phone call, to my surprise, it was sweet Pony Mom. During the conversation, she made reference to some ancestral names shared between our two families. We’re probably distant cousins. We talked of people from the little country church that my Great-Grandparents helped build. The elders are slowly disappearing now. Women who cooked for funeral dinners for neighbors are all gone. The church community is different now, being more modern.

We talked about the American Historical Society of German’s from Russia. A small museum in Fresno, California houses historical records and heirlooms from valley residents who made their way from the Volga region of Russia to the Central Valley of California starting in the late 1800’s. Our ancestors did just that, traveling through Ellis Island. We marveled at the difficulty of the trip, amazed at how strong they were. Many people died as they walked across Poland to catch a boat to freedom. Those were MY people. I assure you, there was no white privilege when forced to leave their home or face exile or death.

Chatting with Pony Mom, there was no indication of our 20 year age difference. Our birthdays, both being in December, didn’t matter. It was the memories and history that made us laugh and remember such a sweet time in our lives.

After finishing the phone call, I had to hurry to get ready. I was about to attend an annual dinner for a gun club in a little town to the East. Not sure what to wear, I dressed as I would for church in a dress and party shoes.

The dinner was like every other annual business dinner for a club. The difference was that the door prizes were very expensive firearms. With raffle tickets costing $5 each, everyone was full of excitement as we waited until the last piece of homemade cobbler was consumed before winning tickets were pulled and announced. Winners would start the paperwork for ownership in the legal way at the local gun store. No firearms or people left early, all awaiting their chance with Lady Luck.

Members attending the meeting were my people. Looking around, it was if I was a teenager again, attending a function in my home town. This was one of the biggest events of the year. Local ranchers gathered to talk about such things as the drought and the price of beef. They talked about small town shops and gossip about those that bought thousands of dollars of raffle tickets. Five such people joined me to become dinner friends. California escapees all, we were all on the adventure of a lifetime living real life in the wild, wild west.

No, I didn’t win anything, but one of the ladies at our table won a pistol. Not bad for a $5 investment.

Driving back through the desert night, it was a perfect ending to a perfect day. The high desert of North Western Nevada is a place where time may not have stopped, but has surely slowed a little. A place where men can be men, and women love them just the way they are. A wonderful place that I call home.