Grieving Gardener

Yesterday was a day to relax and enjoy the spa at this most beautiful resort. There are spas, and then, there are REAL spas. This is in the later category. An indulgence that is so special, it must be savored, every minute a treat.

My day started with room service breakfast, a vacation favorite. No. It isn’t cost effective. In fact, the prices are nuts. But, to have a hot breakfast delivered to the door goes hand in hand with vacation.

There was a problem connecting to Bluehost for blogging in the morning. Technology wasn’t agreeing. However, with a simple phone call to a techno-nerd, things were up and running, giving me the ability to report on Day 1. Sitting by the window, overlooking the magnificent pool , I felt as if I’d traveled to another country. The resort lists prices by night on their website. On a busy weekend, the room might cost $700, luxurious beyond compare. By shopping for off days, it was a little over $100 a night. It pays to investigate these things.

After blogging and breakfast, it was time to walk to the spa. Elegant and swanky, two attendants waited at their marble perch for patrons to arrive. Proper reservations in order, another attendant guided me into the inner sanctum of serenity. Wearing black tunics and leggings, the attendants were sleek and attentive. They ushered me to the locker room, giving me an amazingly thick and luxurious spa robe. My adventure began.

Up one level by elevator, the door slid open revealing tranquil nirvana. No glaring lights. Delicate scents of lavender. Everything neat, tidy, and restful. I made my way to the Himalayan Salt Room and melted into one of the white leather chairs of which I have spoken previously. Whatever the Himalayan Salt does, sign me up. A wall of water created a delicate splashing sound, while the low lights invited peace. It was there I waited for my masseuse.

Being a redneck farm girl, all this pampering is new to me. I didn’t grown up with manicures and pedicures. Facials weren’t a weekly event. And a massage?????? That wasn’t part of country life. A gym experience involved walking the avenue to irrigate the vines. Picking up pruned stumps in the spring and tossing them in the trailer while walking at a snail’s pace up and down 109 vineyard. Painting, cleaning, trimming, pruning. Always in tip-top shape, plenty of physical work kept us that way. No, a spa is something fairly new to me.

When sceduling my appointment, an interesting question came up for consideration.

Male or Female Masseuse?

Yikes.

The me of old would have cowered and demanded a woman. But, the new me, brave and bold, cared not, casting fear to the wind. As Doris Day whispered in brain, Que Sera Sera. What ever will be, will be. Now, sitting in the Himalayan Salt Room, I questioned my decision while waiting for my treatment.

Reuel called my name (pronounced Rule). Collecting my bag and nerve, we were off down the darkened hall into our own treatment room. Professional and proper, we discussed my ideas for the proper massage. Explaining that my Senior Citizen self didn’t want a forceful experience, he totally understood. I was left to situate myself under soft blankets on a pre-warmed table, softly vibrating with the music.

As experiences go, there are little day spas in ever town. In strip malls or a converted house. Peaceful little places in which to experience a nice massage. This spa is above and beyond, offering the finest equipment to enhance the experience. The spa table was just one example.

For 50 minutes Reuel got rid of ever crimped muscle and doubt that I’m a true fan of the male masseuse. Sharing a tip, he took folded towels, and placed them under my shoulders as I lay face down. This relieved stress on my back, something I plan to do at home once in awhile. Slathered with creams, lotions, and potions, I drifted into the soft background music. 50 minutes evaporated quickly, and it was time to enjoy the rest of the spa.

Taking an elevator up one floor again, I entered the Caldarium (Latin root — room containing warm water for bathing). Filled with relaxed people, a private pool and hot tubs await completed the scene. Walking right past all that, I headed straight for the Relaxation Room. The last time I’d been to this room, Miss Firecracker and I were enjoying the day together. This time, I went in alone.

Tranquil and serene, this dark chair-lined room featured a video display of the Northwestern Nevada night sky on a screen high on the wall. The chairs flipped easily into Zero Gravity. To explain, you sit down, press a button, and your feet are then way above your head. This takes all pressure off your back, positioning you perfectly for the show. Again, soft Zen music accompanies the stars. There are salt candles and a wall of water creating peace. No yappy women came to ruin the experience. Just me and the heavens. I think I fell asleep for just a minute or two.

After time had passed, I was off to order lunch. Miss Firecracker had done the smart thing on our last visit, ordering the Crab, Avocado, and Pita Salad for lunch. Oh. My. Goodness. I will be recreating that recipe at home. The freshest crab. Ripe California Avocados. Cherry tomatoes. A creamy dressing. This was an amazing lunch taken on the peristyle, alone. Inside, the unmasked throngs were poolside in their robes. No one took the time to go outside for a bit of sun or social distancing. While a bit smoky, the 75 degree breeze was delightful for sunbathing. Thirty minutes of sun a day provides us with much needed Vitamin D. The patio was mine to enjoy alone.

Finally, dropping down two floors, I’d hoped to enjoy the private women’s facilities, complete with steam and dry saunas and a bubbling hot tub. Sadly, women yapped incessantly until I could take no more, causing me to return my room for a nap. Women. Just shut the front door, ladies. There is a time and place for continuous gabbing.

The rest of my day was complete with intermittent trips to the pool for some sunshine and more room service. Some people can’t even enjoy a meal alone. I took an entire Italian vacation all by myself and enjoyed every minute. Truly, it seems I’ve been on a Tuscan holiday. Ready to find out about Oliver’s run with the pack at Puppy Camp, we’ll trek along the Loneliest Highway back to Winterpast. Back to the mail and yard work. On towards tomorrow.

Arrivederci, faithful Readers. Have a wonderful day.

Good Morning, dear readers. Grabbing a vacation during the last dog days of summer, I find myself sitting poolside as I blog. Technology and vacations blend nicely, allowing me take you along. Yesterday was a day to rest and recharge. Absolutely glorious.

Laughing on the phone with Miss Firecracker while poolside yesterday, I did ask her the all important question.

“What exactly am I resting and recovering from as a retiree?”

Not finding exactly the right answer, we both decided it is because it’s rest and recovery we need. Period. Widowhood is a brutal journey. Good enough answer for us.

The resort I’m staying at is like a trip to Tuscany. Attention is paid to every detail, with the hotel shining. Marble floors are spotless and gleaming. Soft, romantic music is playing when you enter your hotel room. So inviting. A huge soaking tub awaits those of us that love bubble baths. A television hangs on the bathroom wall in case you want to enjoy your favorite TV program while you soak. A walk in shower with two, not one, invigorating shower heads. Marble countertops. Marble floor. A Keurig machine for coffee. A frig to keep waters icy cold. Every little detail has been considered to make sure guests are comfy and cozy, even if the vacation is just a 2 day get-away from retirement.

An early check-in granted, I was sitting poolside by 12:30PM. Children did cannonballs into the deep end, while their parents soaked in the hot tub. The smoke here as been so thick you can taste it. A mask is actually needed in these conditions for more than Covid. Lake Tahoe, a most beautiful and pristine spot, is burning. Not wanting to know the heartbreaking news, I’m not sure if South Lake Tahoe has been evacuated. Please pray for our little mountain towns. Lake Tahoe is a dangerous place to be caught in a fire, with few escape routes available.

With sunshine darkening my fading tan, it was lovely to fall asleep for a little while on the lounge. Relaxation for one.

Avoiding sunburn, a real nap followed the poolside cat nap. A cool, dark room was the perfect setting.

At 5:00 PM, I ventured back to the pool, to find the wind whipping. Having chased many of the tourists away, I found a comfy pool out of the wind and got caught up with girlfriend chatter. Blessed. Just blessed. CC and I exchanged all the latest news, and there is plenty to be shared with you at a later date. With laughter and squeals of delight, we both agreed, life is wonderful. In 42 years, CC has been there for every delight and trauma. She’s been a best friend, roommate, confidante, partner in crime, and advisor. We’ve helped each other with our children since they were wee ones. Through it all, I’ve adored her.

Not wanting to dine in a restaurant in this coupled world, I hit the delicatessen and ordered a Prime Rib Dip with fries, and a scoop of Vanilla Gelato for desert. Enjoying dinner back in my room, I got caught up on the days news, and more beautiful music. Ending the night with a two hour conversation with a new friend and neighbor was perfect before it was time to dream of Vacation From Retirement — Day 2.

Not everyone can jet off to a resort these days. I’m truly lucky. Vacation is a state of mind. Find some wonderful Andrea Bocelli, pour a glass of red wine, dim the lights, and there you’ll be, vacationing in your very own mental resort. For me, today hold the SPA experience. I promise, I will divulge every single detail tomorrow. About the Spa Day, that is.

Arrivederci!

My youth was not normal in any sense of the imagination. For you city-types, you’ve no idea what can happen on any given morning on a farm. You can lose a drive train on the tractor during harvest, blow a tire, birth a lamb, and irrigate all before 6 AM. Trying to be prepared for anything, life comes fast and furious from every angle. You put out fires as fast as they come your way.

One day, your vineyard looks healthy with a great crop. A rain storm comes activating dormant fungus, causing your crop to wither and die. Mites and spiders are in a war to the death. When mites are sucking the profits out of tender leaves, you spray. Then, spiders die of starvation. The mites explode in numbers and laughter, with the predators gone. The cycles are a dance the outside world cannot and will never understand. Farming is a universe all it’s own. You need to possess a skill set that the average city dweller just doesn’t.

Number 4 in a group of five daughters, each birth held a bit of disappointment. Every farmer dreams of having a team of boys to help with the work. My dad got girls and girls and girls and girls and girls for 16 years in a row. By time I came along, the entire community was rooting for the long awaited boy. Nope. A Christmas present of ruffles and bows.

My mom, Esther, was a seamstress, master chef, butcher, gardener, bookkeeper, law enforcement patrol, and part runner. She was an amazing woman that could’ve run an entire country if my dad had asked her to. She kept her girls in dresses and patent leather shoes. Easter bonnets and Christmas curls. The community named us “The Skoegard Girls”, because of the sheer numbers. Remembering our names was too much. At one point in life, we were each in a different school. From Kindergarten to College, we marched through life, respectable, Good-Girls. I don’t know how Mom kept her sanity. By the time I came along, I raised myself a good deal of the time.

Mornings were always busy. The olders drove across town to the big college we’d all attend someday. The youngers stood outside in rain, snow, fog, or sleet, waiting for the big old school bus.

Meals were on time, balanced and hearty. Everything was grown fresh. Meal preparation for seven was something about which my mother never complained. She never a repeated meal or served left overs, because there was nothing left on the table by the end of each meal. There was no waste. Not a hint of “I don’t like it”. Everyone was hungry and ready to enjoy the delicious food she prepared.

There are two meal time visitors that stand out as memorable. I’ll share them both with you, my beloved readers.

My dad, Elmer, was known around the county for being able to fix anything broken. If wiring or welding, or wire welding was needed, Dad was the go-to guy. His side business was called Implement Hospital, and he supported our girly shopping trips by fixing the neighbors plow or spray rig. Over the years, he was exposed to every single chemical known to mankind, including, but not limited to, Paraquat, DDT, Cyanide, Seven, and a host of others that make people freeze with horror. He didn’t shrivel and die of cancer, nor did any other the other hundreds of farmers I knew throughout the years. He died of Alzhemier’s at 93, longing for the opportunity to give one more city kid a tractor ride.

Lunch was at 12:00 noon. Sharp. Anyone needing something fixed knew Dad would be at the kitchen table enjoying a meal with his girls. If something needed fixing, people knew to come to the house to find him.

On this particular day, my mom’s sister pulled in driving her luxurious car. This particular aunt didn’t visit on a regular basis. As she got out of the car, she had a stressful expression on her face. A woman was on a mission.

“Hi there. I’m sorry to barge in on lunch, but I need you to fix something for me, Elmer. Something important.”

Now she had our attention. Farm wives didn’t have their own personal tools or shovels. They were cared for by their attentive and protective husband’s. Everything they needed was handled, while they did woman things in the house. My dad, being the exception, could cook, clean, or help with the laundry with the best of them. But, today, his expertise was needed for another problem.

Out of her bag, she pulled out something that brought us all to tears and a collective roar of belly laughs. For, in her hand was her favorite bra.

“Elmer, could you weld this? My wire broke.” To this day, this memory makes me laugh again. The thing is, my Dad replied, “I’ll try, Marie. You can just leave it on the counter.” He was always the guy to help in any situation. And the matter of fact look on Aunt Marie’s face saying she KNEW that Dad COULD weld it was priceless. He did, by the way, fix her bra.

The other visit involved a very colorful neighbor who came to find my Mom for help with a sticky situation. Bertha was one of the most wonderful women I’ve meant in my life. Hair died a Hazel/Red, she flamed. Kindness in a waist cinching girdle, she had an hour glass figure, the envy or talk of the neighborhood. Bertha’s makeup and hair were always perfect. She was in church, front and center, every Sunday with the brightest of smiles. Bertha was a memorable angel in my life.

Well, on this particular day, she had a scarf around her considerable smaller hair-do. In those days, hair was done big. The bigger, the better, and Bertha had the hair to go Big.

“Esther, I need you help,” was her soft plea as she entered the kitchen to find us practicing lunchtime manners.

Removing her scarf, she had perfectly formed curls on her head. It seemed that the new rage involved wrapping hair around curlers, after soaking hair in gelatin. That’s right. Jello. She had used too much. Her rock hard curls sat stone-like on her head. We all lost it. Laughing so hard I thought we might all choke. And with that, Bertha started to cry through her own laughter. She had done it now. Her hair would never recover.

Dirty looks from Mom AND Dad stopped the laughter. My little sis and I had to just look away. At any moment, we would start again, and it would be curtains for us. At the ranch, you were never disrespectful to adults. Ever. But, let me tell you, it was the funniest darn thing I’d experienced for a very long time.

Life on the farm. Rich. Wonderful. Eventful and Unplanned. I can’t speak to city life, because I’m a country girl, through and through. Lunch is ready. Don’t be late, or you’ll miss out.

A man without a woman is like a ship without a sail.

Is like a boat without a rudder, a fish without a tail.

A man without a woman is like a wreck upon the sand.

And if there’s one thing worse in this universe,

It’s a woman,

I said a woman,

Yes.

It’s a woman without a man. _{Alfred Williams, 1907}

VST was mine for 32 years. I have a spoon rest in my kitchen which reads “Lucky Girl”. Reminding me of how blessed I’ve been in life, even though somedays can be pretty darn lonely.

Turning back the clock to August of 1987, I was a stunning, bright, and beautiful young single mother tending to two little boys. Madder than a wet hen at life and my predicament, I went through each day quite certain that I’d never need anyone more than myself. For goodness sakes, I had a full set of Corel. Indestructible dishes you could drop, throw, kick, or knock around with no chipping or breakage. I had matching towels in various colors. I had my own lawn mower and garden tools. No. No. No. I needed nothing, especially not a mate. How foolish.

On the other side of town, VST was pretending he wasn’t damaged goods, as well. VST was a head turning bachelor from all outward appearances. In the morning, he jogged for miles. After work, he rode more miles on his bike. His new home gave him a sense of pride and hope for the future. HIS future would be without the complications of a relationship with a woman. Bachelorhood fit him perfectly. He kept his body in tip top shape. Eating right, enjoying his three children, and making new friends, he didn’t need anything more serious. No. No. No. He needed nothing, especially not a mate. How foolish.

September 5th, at a class reunion, we clashed like two opposing weather fronts. Having been high school friends over a decade before, things were complicated now. Five children complicated. Besides. No. No. No. We needed nothing, especially not a mate.

He proposed eleven days later.

I said yes.

Thinking back to our time together, our partnership wasn’t the trendy modern day romance with all chores weighted and split 50/50. We both had to wear many hats to make things work. There wasn’t a way to divide things 50/50. Besides, how boring it would’ve been to have a checklist life. Sometimes it was fun to change lanes and trade jobs. When he was unable, I’d pick up his duties. He’d do the same for me. We both gave 100%. Not looking at each other to analyze percentages performed, but, both looking ahead as we pulled the load together. And a load it was.

As a single guy, VST was never a ship without a sail, a boat without a rudder, or a fish without a tail. He managed to cruise along at a good clip, enjoying life. He’s set his compass heading and trimmed his sails to perfection.

I, as that single mom, was on my own course. I think we moved along parallel journeys quite well, considering the storms we’d endured. We didn’t run aground or get stuck in the shallows. We kept our lives running in shipshape condition.

Looking over the 32 years, the love that kept us afloat was something we couldn’t have imagined. Love that was patient. Kind. Without envy. Not boastful. Not proud. It didn’t dishonor others. It wasn’t self seeking or easily angered. It kept no record of wrongs and didn’t delight in evil. Rejoicing in the truth, it protected us. Always trusting, strengthened by hope and perseverance. Love was a wonderful place to be. A blessing I shared with VST for decades.

Now, it’s my turn at the helm. So glad I’m not that 30-Something girl anymore, insistent life would be better alone. This Senior Citizen isn’t ready to abandon ship due to rogue winds of loneliness and despair. Nope. I’m enjoying blue skies and happy trails. Life is good. Such a lucky girl was I to have shared the journey with my VST, and lucky still to possess the strength and vision to chart my own solitary course, for now.

Oliver is already sleeping soundly at my feet. Grateful his food bowl is magically filled every morning, he always enjoys breakfast, searching for every last morsel. After he’s sure there isn’t one last piece of kibble hiding somewhere, he’s happy. Chewing on his favorite bone, his eyelids get heavy and off to puppy dreamland he scampers, while cozied on the bed under my desk. Life is wonderfully easy for Oliver. Living in the present, most of his moments are worthy of a grateful mind. His tail is always wagging.

Reviewing my week, I think back to all the miracles that’ve occurred , and how grateful I am. Too often in our busy lives the littlest things can pass by unnoticed. An afternoon without smoke. A gentle breeze full of cool air. A 56 degree morning. A ripe tomato. Friends that greet you with open arms and a smile, genuinely happy to say Hello. A strong hug. A grocery shelf full of toilet paper or water. Every minute of every day, we can all find a single blessing. Someone to thank. A situation that could be worse, but isn’t. The list is endless.

I’m thankful that in my little town, people still exist that love God and Country. Ninja Neighbor, dead tired after her heroic efforts on Yard Sale Day #1, was cocooned in her home when I knocked on her door for some friendly advice yesterday. Her home is cozy and inviting. Curling up on opposing couches, I talked and she advised in a way only a true Ninja Neighbor and Friend could. Lovingly, her words settled my mind on troubling matters. A blessing in every way she is to me.

Ten hours earlier, we’d shared a breakfast of farm fresh eggs and sausage at her table, wondering what the day’s profits would be. Non-breakfast eaters did last minute adjustments to the array of goods which spanned NN’s entire front yard. An estate sale of bargains. In April 2020, I couldn’t foresee the group of new friends I’d meet in my little neighborhood. Through the years, VST was our Ambassador of Good Will. It was through him I was blessed to meet Miss Firecracker and her Bailey’s and Cream. Ultimately, VST was the one that made sure Winterpast would be a place for me to grieve, heal, and grow. Loving me so deeply, he prepared a future for me when his was cut short by cancer. Day by day, my roots grow deeper into Winterpast, this place I love so much.

Generosity flowed during the first day, with $1100 in sales. With a slow and steady pace of customers, items drifted off to enjoy their new lives, like an adult version of Toy Story. Today is expected to be even better. As I walked through the tables, things I donated caught my eye. Retrieving none of my cast-offs, I did find a few new treasures. Yard sales. Who knew???

A new restaurant adventure awaited me at lunch. Farm House Vittles off Interstate 80 was a nice change from Tee Pee Bar and Grill. On the opposite side of town, the refined and dignified décor doesn’t quite match their name. Although still part of a Casino, the restaurant has a street entrance. Staff was attentive and efficient, delivering me breakfast for lunch. I’ll add it to the long list of restaurants that’ve keep me well fed. Since January 2020, hundreds of cooks, waitresses, and staff have brought me meals when I’ve been too sad, tired, lonely, or depressed to cook for myself. Yet another group of unsung heroes.

A day wouldn’t be complete without a wonderful conversation with Miss Firecracker. Oh how I miss her sparkling eyes and tantalizing wit. Thank goodness for phone conversations. We share so many secrets, as great friends do. Supporting each other, we always find a listening soul and a helpful heart on the other end of the line. Widowhood has been a journey the caught us both off guard. Friendship has been the scaffolding that’s helped us stand strong. You know, Miss Firecracker. You just know.

Today is a day for writing, reflection, and packing. In a couple days, I’ve planned a solo retreat just for me. Everyone needs to get away, so I’ll travel to my favorite Northwestern Nevada resort. You’ll find me poolside, soaking up rays to deepen my fading tan, or asleep in one of the plush fluffy recliners in the spa listening to soul southing music under Bose sound canceling headphones. I plan to enjoy the seclusion of the spa from 9 AM to 9 PM. Massaged, moisturized, and fed, I plan to rest up, while working on the book and blog. Oliver will enjoy his time with friends at Puppy Camp. I haven’t told him yet, so help keep the secret.

Being grateful doesn’t take energy, strength, or creativity. It just takes focus on beautiful moments that happen every day. Not extravagant gifts or events. Just everyday things that, when strung together, make life more beautiful than an exquisite string of pearls. Have a blessed day today and Be Grateful.

The neighborhood is abuzz with the excitement of today’s yard sale. Yesterday, Ninja Neighbor started bright and early. With the cavalry pulling in to help, her front yard turned from a normal drive way into Thrift Store Central. Working together, the most strenuous task of putting up the tents to the less demanding tasks of unboxing and pricing were completed. Slowly, the massive collection went from neat and tidy boxes, to an array of items spanning many, many tables. Yard sales are fascinating although still not my thing.

One of the more interesting treasures found was a small wood lined silver box. Hinged to hold small items, the tarnished top was engraved. M.A.G.A 1957. When I first saw the box, I took it inside and polished it to a gleaming finish. I googled the inscription, trying to get an idea of what the initials stood for. No luck. Even though the date meant nothing to me, MAGA did.

Along with the box, I found other goodies. A cute wind chime with a cardinal on top. A butterfly vase. A new bird house for my growing avian population. Garden gloves and a trowel. Some clip-on earrings. Little trinkets discarded from one home and looking for another.

The weather couldn’t have been more perfect. Gentle breezes never turned into more. The temperature for the last few days has been pleasant, giving us hope that fall is truly around the corner. Under the comfort of the tents, we all unpacked, sorted, priced, and placed the items on tables. Everything you could imagine waits for buyers. From a stationary bike peddle device to leg weights. Humidifiers. Christmas plates. An angel collection. Clothes galore. Shoes by the hundreds. Bedding. Towels. Furniture. A sleigh bed. Glass ware. Tomorrow, the shoppers will have a ball sorting through and grabbing items, all priced to sell.

While working yesterday, one man stood above the rest. Our President’s husband. Through all the work, he’s been there to help ladies with normal tasks men often do. He’s one of very few men that have helped with this event. Pleasant and respectful, it’s nice of him to be there as an extra set of hands and strength. Thinking of the MAGA box, I asked Madam President her birth year. It wasn’t 1957, but her husband’s birth year was. 1957. Without hesitation, I knew what I needed to do. The box didn’t really belong to me. It belonged to him as a Thank You for his help. And, that’s where it went. Happily.

Through the entire day, Ninja Neighbor was her most beautiful self. Never, ever rattled, she continued on with her work. Even though this huge amount of inventory took over her entire driveway, she remained cheerful, working well after dark to be ready for the today. She’s just that way. Energetic. Beautiful. Sassy. Funny. Delightful in every way. Surely I hit the neighborhood jackpot when moving in next to her. She is dearly loved by all that are lucky enough to know her.

The Service Organization will put money raised today to good use. Community scholarships for deserving High School Seniors. Dictionaries for 3rd graders. Constitution booklets for 5th graders. Items for the local Veteran’s home. Items for the local food bank. The unsell-ables will be donated to a local charity to help people in need, a benefit in so many ways to our little town. All monies have been raised with a cheerful heart and great attitude. It can’t help but be used for positive outcomes.

While we worked, the most amazing thing happened. For weeks, our skies have been grey with heavy smoke. The sun at rise and set glowed an eerie magenta as it peeked through the haze. Yesterday, without notice, the winds aloft did an amazing job of cleaning. Big blue skies returned. A stunning day, the surrounding mountains were again visible.

Neighbors peaked out of their windows to check out the hustle and bustle of activity. I now know more neighbors than I did yesterday. Wonderful people no longer strangers but friendly faces. A yard sale brings out the best in people.

I’ve been waiting for the right time to meet the widow down the street. Yesterday was the day. Comparing notes, my heart went out to her. Listening to details of her widow’s journey of six months, I was grateful for my experiences in Year 2. Remembering all the struggles of last summer, they stay put in my rearview mirror. The seemingly endless paperwork needed to shift a life for two into a life of one was overwhelming. Widow’s fog is great for one reason. Forgotten is a lot of pain, bewilderment, and frustration in dealing with the loss of a spouse. I hope we become friends now that she has more time. I’m sure we’ve much more in common than the Ins and Outs of widowhood.

The gentleman who faithfully walks his dog twice a day cruised by making note of our activities. A 4th grade boy rode his scooter up and down the block, offered to help in any way he could. More help arrived and by 5 pm, most of the merchandise was organized on display. Ninja Neighbor pulled it off without a sweat. A bundle of positive energy, our group is blessed to have her as a new member.

This morning, the throngs of shoppers will descend on our quiet little neighborhood. The neighbors have all enjoyed a presale viewing to get the best deals. Cashiers arrived early this morning and are making sales even as I write. Our goal is to break $2,000. Think good thoughts. Come by and say Hi! if you have time. You’ll find us in our the lovely little town at the wide spot in the road.

Salad for thirty chopped and tossed, I headed out in the early evening hours for the monthly meeting of my coterie. This group of like minded people have become my friends. There, just as in church, I’m slowly pairing names with faces, meeting more people every time I attend a function. It was for this group I offered the use of the RV barn for storage of the yard sale items, which will occur Friday and Saturday at Ninja Neighbor’s house. Pray for her, and when you do, just mention Ninja Neighbor. God knows and loves her.

The meeting was held at the high school library Tuesday night. With school starting the next day, the custodial staff was putting the finishing touches on building. Halls were blindingly shiny, almost begging me to slide down them sock footed. The bathrooms glistened. Windows were without smudges or streaks. Everything ready for the first day of school. This year, that has a different meaning. A return to normalcy.

I must say, my heart ached a bit. I miss teaching. More than teaching, I miss the kids. Children are wonderful people. Creative. Whimsical. Able to think outside the box. Resourceful. Loving. Extremely kind. Respectful. At least my classes were. For the first six weeks of school, I’d wonder why I’d picked the teaching profession. By the end of the year, I could have taken the entire class to Hawaii and had a wonderful adventure. A lot happens in a school year. With respect and patience, learning is an adventure of growth. My own truth, for sure.

There are teachers more clever than their years. Those that can charm a class to do whatever she asks of them. Learning minutes are too precious to waste on the silliness of misbehavior. All students need to row in the same direction, which takes creative thinking. This teacher’s got it. She keeps a corded phone in her classroom of 1st Graders. When someone is caught doing something good, she makes a call. She reports the good behavior to Superman, Batman, or Mickey Mouse, all for the children to hear. She doesn’t raise her voice or demand her littles comply. She leads them to great behavior and discipline. The world needs a few more of her kind. I’d love to be in her class.

Meeting at the high school library, with tables and chairs placed, a food table created, hungry members, and our officers enjoying salad and fajitas, the meeting began. Just the usual stuff. Pledge of Allegiance. Minutes of past and present meetings. Treasurer’s report. Officer’s reports.

There was a request from a member for a need of drivers for Veteran’s that can’t drive West to get medical treatment. A van and gas are provided. Even lunch. The only thing needed is the ability to drive and a few hours a month to volunteer. Such a big need, fixed by someone with time and a big heart. Lots of problems in our country are made better every day by kind and generous people doing the smallest favors for another. Just listen in your own town. People need your help.

Finally, Miss Elite US Woman of Achievement 2021 spoke on domestic violence. Standing with her beautiful sash and massive crown, she delivered her message. This gorgeous blonde spoke of her own experience with domestic violence, which led her to advocate for other women not as strong as she. She told of her own struggle with an abusive first husband, and the grief he still causes her today. Abuse takes many forms. Mental. Physical. Financial. Social. All torture to the woman who often suffers quietly, telling no one. As she talked, not an eye strayed from our stunning orator. She took her ongoing nightmare and wove it into something positive and beautiful using her own experiences of loneliness and terror. Rising up, she’s a lion fighting for the rights of other abused women.

With a vision for Northwestern Nevada, she is weaving a safety net of services for women who have no voice. The battered and abused. Each night, she studies law classes as she gets closer to earning her law degree. All while making a home for her family and working at her real job. A statement on how to step up and step out to help others. Everyone has 24 hours in a day. Use them wisely. An hour is a terrible thing to waste.

Listening to her speak, it was obvious her arrows are hitting the bullseye she’s set for herself. Even as a working mother with a full and rich life, she’s found time in her busy days to do for others. A service of love. A service BECAUSE.

Her inner beauty, by the end of her presentation, radiated throughout the room. A stunning exterior, but a phenomenal soul . Touching hearts, she sparked minds between the stacks of library books. We can all do SOMETHING. Maybe we can’t reach national beauty queen status, but, we can all do something to make the world a better place for someone else. Volunteer, if only for the smallest of jobs. You just never know when you’ll be the most beautiful person in the world to someone in need.

If we ever cancel a month, can it please be August???? Sorry to all you August birthdays, but every year that goes by, it’s August that becomes more unpleasant. Summer holds such potential on the first days of late June. Happiness. A still frigid dip in the pool. The first cutting and the scent of fresh mowed lawn. Mature rose bushes, blooming in all their glory. Fruit trees flowering with promise of a bountiful crop.

The 4th of July sparkles. Fireworks. Barbeques and late sunsets. Softball games at Out of Town Park. Yes, summer is a fine time. As a teacher, I’d look at the first days of vacation and think, “My summer is ripe with possibilities.” All wonderful things I’ve celebrated this year in the high desert. The key word. DESERT. Well folks, the bloom is off this rose. Summer needs to wind up and head on out the door.

The hills have been brutalized by weeks of triple digit heat. Brittle and dry, they sit waiting for a fire. In the high desert, fires burn hot and fast. Whipped by ferocious winds, the flames spread like –well — wild fire. When we first came to Nevada, I’d never given much thought to the height of sage brush and the other bushes that thrive on public lands (the REAL and ONLY BLM — Bureau of Land Management). Sage can grow really tall (4′ – 5′) being quite the fuel for fire. Add in Cheatgrass. Rabbit Brush. Russian Sage. All help to fuel infernos of the high desert.

Unlike forest fires of California, most desert fires are allowed to burn until there is nothing left, unless, of course, buildings are in harms way. In a year’s time, its hard to tell that a fire ever occurred, as the cycle starts over again.

Yesterday, the smoke was so thick and suffocating before sunrise, I truly thought the fields around Winterpast were aflame. Some ash fell, while we choked from the California fires that are raging. To the North and East, the smoke catches the prevailing winds, headed straight for my little town. If wearing masks because of Covid isn’t bad enough, many people are wearing them to protect themselves from the smoke, as well. Staying inside is the preferred activity.

With weeks of dismal news, smoke, virus particles, and news of neighbors fallen sick, I must say my creative juices have been on hold. Every day counts down to September 24 and my chosen date for release of my first book. It’s with a heavy heart that I must admit, my progress is not what I’d hoped. Still aiming for September 24th, I write on, but in all reality, my publish date may need to be pushed back to the end of November. I want my first attempt at publishing to be the very best I can offer, including attention to punctuation and grammar. To those wishing for more political correctness, I apologize in advance. Probably not.

Every day, I work a little here and a little there, piecing together the story I have to tell. I hadn’t factored in the additional emotional toll it takes to tell the story once more in detail. Some days are easier to get through than others. No one quite prepared me for year two, mysterious and lonely in a way all its own. Healing such a very long time, no matter how strong one is. I’ll keep you posted of my progress, and appreciate you, my dear readers, so much.

Oliver is not enjoying August anymore than I am. Being an August puppy, he just passed his third birthday and is now an adult. He goes outside in a playful mood, but immediately returns to the door, looking confused. He knows smoke smells of something wrong but can’t quite understand danger is hundreds of miles away. His mood isn’t the best, either.

With a month left until the first day of Autumn, the countdown to falling leaves, apple pie, and pumpkins is on its way. Airing out my sweaters, I can hardly wait to enjoy crisp cool days of yard work and preparations for the first snow of the year. Fall is my favorite time of year, with plans in place to attend at least one high school football game. Just two more weeks of August, and we can pack up for another year.

Whatever you find yourself doing today, be grateful if you can breathe fresh air. Be grateful if you have a quiet back yard in which to dance with the flowers. Be grateful for friends, family, and our wonderful country. Remember, when days are too hazy, stay inside and be lazy! Until tomorrow, take care.

Sunday evenings at 6PM, the parking lot at the Baptist on Main fills again. After the morning Sunday School and Worship Service, people return for a more informal study visit with the Pastor. Each class holds an hour-long lesson, bringing the Bible to life. Real life applications and testimonies are shared, while everyone benefits as our little country church grows.

Attending every meeting, we’re all on a first name basis by now. Sharing crochet patterns, card games, and recipes, the members are enjoyable company. Working to live a better life, there is much common ground. It’s comforting to find that others have similar problems. The struggle is real.

One lovely aspect of our fellowship is prayer requests. There is no shortage of sadness in this world of ours. Names are added to the prayer list, as we ask that their situations improve. Just this week, a woman claimed a healing of her back. With pain-free relief, she came to church glowing for this pain had robbed her of many activities for a very long time. So many suffer with the illness of a spouse. Taking VST’s hand as we walked through our own nightmare, there was never a more terrifying or lonely feeling. It’s an honor to carry sorrow for friends needing comfort.

Last night, a young couple I hadn’t yet met with sat near me. Adorably in love, they blended their families in marriage the first week I visited the church. Similar in age to VST and I when we married in 1988, they’re everything new marrieds should be. Loving. Supportive. Eager to build their new life together. Good parents. Faithful spouses. Glowing.

Last night, they came overflowing with troubled sorrow. Her fur baby of 18 years had been injured earlier in the day. In pain severe, they transported her 30 minutes away to the nearest vet emergency room to find there’d be a six hour wait before the dog could be seen. With temperatures hovering at 100, she’d be more comfortable at home. All day, they watched over her, not knowing what else they could do but make her comfortable. Slowly the pain subsided and she rested. They’d visit their normal vet the next day, hoping for the best.

Small and sweet, our town lacks many services that residents of a larger city takes for granted. An ambulance ride to the nearest hospital East or West is 30 minutes. EMT’s and Urgent Care can take care of the initial assessment, but, patients with serious illnesses or injuries needing hospital care are in a precarious situation. The big city to the West does offer Life Flights, when minutes count the most. Pets are not that fortunate. Vets are open M-F, 9-5. Dental services are offered M-F, 9-5. We all hope for no weekend emergencies, because in our little town, there are none.

Bride-girl went on to share about her job with the county Sheriff’s office. Not a deputy, she explained that she had a more troubling job. She dealt with securing records and evidence. Grizzly and gruesome evidence. Pictures. Stained items. Murder weapons. Grief soaked relics of horror. It was her job to account for every one and carefully file them away for their date with justice. As she told of her work, the weight on her shoulders was evident. The toll it was taking, obvious. This sensitive and lovely woman was carrying quite a load. Sorrows of crimes that couldn’t be undone kept her awake at night. Seeing the unthinkable, she worries plenty about the safety of our community.

As I listened, I realized I could help a little with her burden. I’d help her carry her load. What better place than in a little country chapel to sit quietly and listen? She didn’t need a Miss Fix-It. Just a listening ear in which to off-load her overflowing fear and frustration.

Reality isn’t always pleasant. I found out there are over 100 sex offenders living in my “little town”. Our county finds home for 75 of them EACH MONTH. Not something I wanted to hear, but something I needed to hear. It’s easy to get lulled into a sense of security, when the truth is, one needs to be aware of surroundings. Bad guys don’t always look the part. Look at pictures of Ted Bundy.

In a matter of minutes, she’d shared a bucket of trouble. Through our talk, the two spoke as one unit. Enchanting to behold, I only wished I could revisit 1988 when I had VST by my side, the world spreading before us with possibilities.

Our visit was wonderful. Just like that, two more friends added to my growing list. Now, when entering the chapel, friendly friends greet each other. We exchange updates on personal news. Ask about community events or the details of the latest Covid victims. We visit. A lost art. No noses stuck in cell phones around there. In fact, cell phones don’t ring, but laughter does. Better than anything television has to offer, for sure.

Think about carrying sorrow for a friend. Their load is as heavy as yours. Listening leads to healing. Grab a little baggage from a weary traveler. You never know what stories they have to share.

Living alone is something I hadn’t experienced until April 9, 2020. Never, in 64 years, had I lived by myself, personably responsible for every aspect of life. When VST died, there were those that asked me if I was afraid to stay alone. Maybe they had reason to ask. Peering through the widows fog that surrounded me, I faithfully answered, “No”.

Faith in personal safety exists most strongly when it hasn’t been breached. Personally never robbed or physically threatened, locked doors have always been respected. Forgotten belongings left out in plain sight have remained untouched. Strangers have turned into friends without harboring hidden agendas of torture or murder. I’ve been very lucky. In Virginia City, such lucked continued, while VST protected us with his watchful eye.

Lulled into a sense of security, we lived in the chaotic world of tourists. Coming to see the sights they’d drive up the mountain to get a taste of Grandma’s World Famous Fudge. Blasted by steam, they rode the Virginia and Truckee Railroad, Queen of the Short Line. Feeling the zephyr winds blow, they’d touch a piece of history in a way like never before. With all of those senses heightened at 6200 ft., there was little energy left for robbery or mayhem. Things left outside remained there for days, weeks, or even months, never disturbed.

Some neighbors, when we’d first arrived, didn’t even lock their doors. An owner of a 1875 Victorian would often find tourists coming up her steps, thinking her house was a museum, and she the caretaker. She finally realized the lock on the front door was there for a reason.

A tourist once asked what time the gates closed. It would have been great if there were gates to shut. When did the town close? Only on the worst of white-out blizzards that shook Dun Movin, rattling her 33 windows. While snowing sideways, winds would blow drifts off our driveway depositing them down the hill. Awakening every sense, we remained alert and prepared as storms rolled through.

In late summer of 2019, with Wyoming still in our hearts, we’d just returned home. Laundry by the washer and the rig still packed, we turned in early. Snuggling into the comfort of our own bed, we’d just nodded off to sleep when VST sat upright. A noise. He’d heard a noise. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. From the absolute quiet of a VC night, we both heard footsteps on the lower deck. Just one person, quietly moving to the outside stairs leading up the hill to the back of the house.

VST grabbed his sidearm. A Smith and Wesson 1911 that I found difficult to even lift. Heading to the kitchen, he went to investigate. The house was dark and still, while the glow of a flashlight was visible as light bounced off the fencing through the kitchen blinds. VST watched as the light traveled up the stairs next to the kitchen wall. The glow betrayed the advance of the intruder creeping towards the back of the house.

By this time, I was cowering behind VST, both quiet as mice, waiting for an exchange of gunfire that might occur when the unwanted someone burst through our back door. Through the blinds, we could see the light outside the living room window, and then, directly in front of our back door.

Not being able to quiet myself any longer, in my most bad-ass voice, I yelled, “Identify yourself. We know you are there. Who is it?”

VST yelled, as well, “We’re armed. We know you’re there. Who are you?”

“County Sheriff. Identify yourselves and open this door. Drop your weapon and put your hands up.”

Was it a bluff? Was it REALLY a sheriff? We hadn’t seen a patrol car.

Holstering his gun, VST approached first, keeping his foot as a wedge against the door. Relieved to see the uniform, we allowed the officer to enter.

Wyoming had occupied our hearts and minds for two weeks. The neighbors knew we were gone. When seeing lights in the house, they feared a break-in and called for backup. In Virginia City, the sheriff still comes, armed and ready to deal. We didn’t know whether to buy the neighbor breakfast, or go wake them from a dead sleep to rant a bit. Thanking the officer for coming out into the night to make sure Dun Movin was safe, we locked our door. Cuddling together on the autumn night, we were grateful for watchful neighbors and very brave deputies.

These days, my life alone is different. Officers are too busy to come for a well-being check. New neighbors have blinds that are drawn tight. Oliver, now three years old and a real dog, sleeps through the night, never even giving the hint of a growl. With all locks secure, I ask the angels to watch over us through the night. Protected by faith, peacefully I rest.

A medical alert device sits by my bed. A small bedside safe holds a lethal defense weapon. Sleeping soundly, I’m not alone. Ever. Loved ones gone before watch over me, comforting me as dreams come. Sentries of angels, joined by a couple English Mastiffs for good measure, keep Winterpast from harm.

A sense of peace is a fragile thing for which we should all be grateful.

***********A special Thank You to our First Responders. You are unsung heroes that run in when others run away. Your bravery and courage are so appreciated.