My Mail Carrier...

My mail carrier came to my house this morning, around 11am. I was still in my pajamas and she was hand delivering a certified letter from a bill collector. I signed as she pet Nali. A connection was made. She told me how just 48 hours before, she had her own dog put down by the vet. Last year, about this time, her 2 year old pup had been shot, point blank in the head, by pheasant hunters annoyed by her presence. Fortunately, the shot had gone through her upper snout and out the other side, missing her eyes and brain. She had lived through the ordeal and was seemingly healthy… until about a week ago. She became lethargic and her owner took her to the vet where she had remained for 5 days, getting gradually worse. A couple of days ago, her pupils and gums turned yellow, suggesting jaundice. Blood tests revealed an inoperable illness and the autopsy and x-rays suggest that there had been a metal fragment in her snout from last year’s shooting that made it into her blood stream and traveled to her liver, slicing it and causing irreparable damage. The loss of her loved one was still raw as she rubbed Denali’s head and snuggled in for a lick on her cheek, commenting on the beauty of Nali’s blue eyes. As she left, she warned me not to let Denali out at night because of the coyotes. 

This is my story...

I owned my own restaurant and bakery. It was one of those crazy dreams that I had. It seemed like a long shot, buying a successful 30 year old business. As it turns out, it was.

In late 2011, the stock market was going crazy, my 401k was sinking, and there were no teaching jobs available in my area so I was working as an Advertising Sales Rep for the local newspaper. I decided to cash in my teacher retirement and used it as the down payment to purchase the Fresh Sourdough Express Bakery & Café in Homer, Alaska. The only way it was possible was for it to be owner financed, creatively. Let me tell you, from experience, creative financing is never a good thing. I had to make a lot of concessions in order for the deal to go through. I should have walked away, but it seemed as though these successful business entrepreneurs were trying to help me. Again, note to self, successful business entrepreneurs are trying to help themselves, not you.

So, I agreed. I agreed to give them every penny in my bank account in October, 2011. I agreed to give them any money that I might happen to inherit or otherwise acquire for the foreseeable future. I agreed to work April through August, the summer of 2012, for a salary of $2,500/month while working every position in the restaurant for 100 hours/week. I agreed to take over the business 100% on September 1, 2012, with no money in the bank and over $7,000 in inventory to pay off. I agreed to pay $2,500/month September, 2012, through May, 2013, and then $10,500/month June through October. I agreed.

September 1, 2012, was a heady day for me. I was a business owner. 100%. The bank owned my car, I rented my house, and now I’d mortgaged my future on a wing and a prayer. All of that and I was now an Empty Nester, and had been for not quite two weeks. That was a lot. I took a deep breath and stepped forward into my future.

The Fresh Sourdough Express Bakery & Café had not been open during the winter months in over 15 years. The previous owners lived in Hawaii and just ran the restaurant/bakery as a summer business, taking advantage of the tourism dollars and spending them in Hawaii. It was because of that and some of their extremist environmental views, that they had alienated many of the locals. Not a week went by that I didn’t have locals telling me that it was the first time they had been in the restaurant in years, but they had come in when they heard it was under new ownership.

The restaurant is located on the far side of Beluga Lake, which is on the way to the Spit. That means that it is prime real estate in the summer months since the Spit is the hub of the tourism industry in Homer. However, the Spit shuts down in the winter and then no one has a reason to  cross Beluga Lake. My prime real estate was a ghost town by October 1^st. Business quickly dropped by 90%. I cut staff, began waiting tables myself, and struggled to make the $2,500/month payment, which was now over 30% of my monthly income.

Adult Baking Class

I advertised in the newspaper and on the radio. I sponsored school events and non-profit fundraisers. I started running daily Blue Plate Lunch Specials, Friday Night Pizza nights and Saturday night Southern Comfort Food specials.

During my “training period” that summer, I was never taught much-needed managerial skills such as plate costing, menu development, bulk food purchasing power, business bookkeeping, or needed certifications and licensing procedures. I taught myself these things using the old fashioned “trial & error” method which was costly, in more ways than one.

Teen Baking Class

I learned that I was not shrewd enough to be a business owner. I followed the rules too closely. For example, the previous owners did not have a single person on staff who was legally certified to serve alcohol, including the owners themselves. I followed the letter of the law, paying for my employees to get the necessary certifications. I never re-used leftover food from catering jobs because that goes against health regulations… after watching the previous owners repurpose salmon filets from a catered self-serve buffet into fish cakes served in the restaurant the following week. The list goes on and on. But, being honest costs money. Money I didn’t have.

I also learned that the owners had sold the business, via owner financing, at least twice before and then taken it back when the tenants couldn’t follow through on the terms. Coincidence? Probably not. I was determined not to be the third!

By the end of November, I was deep in debt and considering closing the doors. A local man who was a regular customer offered to buy into the business as a 50% partner. He had been a commercial fisherman who had suffered a severe head injury on the job, received a considerable settlement, and was looking for something to invest both his money and life in. I agreed. On January 1^st, one handshake and a personal check later, I was able to make payroll and keep the doors open. There was never a signed contract.

By March, I had a local attorney write up a contract for my business partner to sign, but he refused, saying he would have his own contract written up. He never did. Meanwhile, he told me that he was looking into obtaining financing to purchase the entire business and property outright from the owners so that we would not have to answer to anyone. The deal should be ready to move on before our first large payment of $10,500 was due June 15. As it turned out, whether due to the brain injury or some other reason, he was difficult to work with and eventually decided that he didn’t want to be a part of the business. He told me this on June 4^th, saying that he was going to start his own business. I was devastated. We had no money in the bank. The winter had been hard on us and we owed a lot of vendors a lot of money. Now, it was just me again and I had a 10.5k payment due in 11 days. The weight of it all nearly knocked me over.

Teen Baking Class

I hated the restaurant. It had served me nothing but heartache and long hours. I had spent over a year married to it and it was tearing me apart. I wanted to walk away. I just wanted to be a teacher. I had so enjoyed the cooking classes that I had taught to local teens and adults during the winter months. I didn’t want to be a business owner. I didn’t want to be my own boss. I didn’t want to be responsible for others’ paychecks. I just wanted my own life back.

My kitchen and front of house managers wouldn’t let me give up that easily. They believed in me and they believed in my business. We decided to have a three-day BBQ, Friday-Sunday, outside in our picnic area… a sort of fundraiser for the restaurant, serving Birch-smoked BBQ chicken and my fabulous Potato Salad. My employees saved me. We would be open another month. We made the payment, 5 days late, but we made it.

Being as deep in debt as I now was, almost 50k, I struggled to keep the vendors at bay for another month, knowing that they would be getting nervous as summer went on and they didn’t get paid up to date. I made July’s payment, barely, but continued to sink. I honestly don’t know why I couldn’t make it work. I think I just got so far behind during the winter months that I never could get caught up. I also think that the numbers I had been told about previous years’ income and expenses had been padded. That, and money hadn’t been used for appropriate fees and licenses, in addition to some other practices that I probably shouldn’t go into here. Anyway, it all added up to me being too honest and forthright to run a profitable business.

August was the end. My main food supplier cut me off. I got behind on employee taxes. I couldn’t pay my August 15^th payment and there was no money for payroll on the 19^th. I sought the advice of an attorney and was advised not to pay anyone anything, if I couldn’t pay everyone everything. I honestly didn’t see it coming until around August 12^th. I still thought I could pull it off. I could make it another month, another 2 weeks, even. I was so close to making it, to turning the corner.

My bestie, Vicki, was in town visiting me at the time. She and Lori, my other bestie, and I were all sitting in my living room Wednesday night, August 14^th, discussing my options. At least I had some. First, if I closed the restaurant, I would be unemployed. Second, I would owe a dozen vendors in the local area and my name would be trashed because of nonpayment, making it very difficult to find a job. Add to that the fact that I was not going to be able to pay my 20-some employees for the past two weeks of work. I’d just ruined my own life that I’d worked so hard to carve out in Homer, Alaska. I would have to leave town, quietly and quickly. It was not an easy decision to accept, and one that I own with a heaviness known only to me.

I called a meeting with my managers Friday morning at 10am, the same time that my attorney would be calling my landlords to let them know that I was unable to make payment and would be turning the business back over to them effective immediately. It was a tearful goodbye with my managers and I left my keys with them, trying to reassure them that the landlords would do the right thing and keep the business going.

I went home and packed or sold everything I owned until I was left with nine boxes to ship in addition to what would fit into my Jeep with my faithful pup. I was so fortunate to have Vicki there to help me, physically and emotionally, as I packed up my Alaskan dream. I put her on the plane to go home on Sunday night and I left Homer Monday morning, beginning an eight day road trip to Texas, to live with her until I could get on my feet.

If I ever have a tombstone, it could very appropriately say, “She never wondered, ‘What if?’”

The 320

The Kysar Farms property in North Dakota actually consists of five separate pieces of land, totalling 1,162 acres, within about a 4 mile radius and only accessible via well-worn, dusty (or muddy, depending on the weather) county roads. They are named according to their size, in acres. For example, the home and lodge are located on the 160.

I’ve been to the 320 twice before, once with my Uncle Bud and once with my cousin, Kurt. Both times, we were in a pick-up truck and just drove straight across the property on a brush-hog path. Both times, the conversation centered around the lack of wildlife on the property as compared to the others. We’re not sure why, but the 320 is noticeably bereft of birds, pheasants in particular. Even though there are some mature trees and viable habitat cover, especially in the area of the original homestead, and the property is bordered on two sides by cropland (providing plenty of food for birds), it’s still a wildlife wasteland.

The property definitely has a different aura from the others, if a property can have an aura. It’s mysteriously melancholic winds blow through the tall grass with whispers of a bygone era. Bordered on the south side by an abandoned school house and on the north side by a century-old cemetery, this unassuming plot of land surely has stories to tell.

The silos still stand, four of them in all, as if they are simply patiently waiting for this year’s harvest to fill them up. They will stand empty again this year.

Backed by a double row of mature trees, some twisted by hard winters and strong winds, the silos and pump house are all that remain of the original homestead. The rest of the property is rugged, with buttes that provide stunning vistas of a part of North Dakota steeped in a tradition of farming. The land itself is rocky and uneven, undeniably providing a daily struggle to maintain crops and a constant search for water. Very little of the 320 was ever actually farmed. Most has always been left wild to the winds of time.

Coyotes have left their evidence behind, in the form of a lost cow’s carcass from a couple of years back, and, more recently, flattened grass where they have bedded down for the night and traces of scat scattered around the entire 320 acres. But, Denali and I didn’t even see a coyote that afternoon as we blazed new trails across the property on Big Red. Not a bird, not a field mouse, not a deer, not an animal anywhere. It might have been unsettling in its lack of life, but we found peace in its solitude. Bordered on two sides by active cropland and the other two sides by farmland populated with cattle, this isolated section of land is reserved for hunting. There is a kind of quiet justice in that.

Upon exploring the abandoned school house to the south, we found a two-story, four-room school with blackboards on three sides of each room with the fourth side being floor to ceiling windows. There were electrical outlets giving away the secret that it couldn’t have been abandoned terribly long.

Upon further research, I found out that Cherry Butte Consolidated School was built in 1913, three years after the town of Regent was founded with a population greater than 200. Consolidated schools were a new concept at the time, replacing the lacking education offered in rural one-room school houses. Students had to travel many miles to attend school here, but classes were larger and teachers better trained. Transportation was provided for the students via horse and buggy.

The main intent of the Consolidated School concept was to provide an education for country kids that was equal to a city education. Unfortunately, shortly after Regent’s peak population hit 405 in 1950, farming methods became more mechanized, land was consolidated, and traditional homesteads were abandoned along with the Cherry Butte School.

The school yard is now overgrown but the metal playground equipment stands strong as a reminder of the strength and resolve engendered in rural America.

The cattle in the adjoining pasture are curious and eager reminders that progress has its victors as well as its victims.

On our way home, Denali and I stopped at the cemetery bordering the north side of the property. Knee to waist high grass has long since buried any grave markers. The only tell-tale signs that it’s even a cemetery are the rusty iron gate and the fact that this small plot of fenced-off land isn’t harvested. There is something innately sad about a cemetery that’s been forgotten. Perhaps the spirits of the residents there now spend their days roaming the 320, since it’s the only peaceful, unharvested property for several miles. Perhaps that is where the overwhelming sense of melancholy comes from.

What's for Dessert?

I made muffins to sell at the bakery on Friday. Almond Joy Muffins (vanilla muffins loaded with chocolate chips, coconut, and toasted almonds), Wake-Me-Up Muffins (coffee and maple flavored), and a Lemon Poundcake with Lemon Icing, sliced and served up like Starbucks. “Where did you learn to bake like that?” was the question from my co-worker, Erin. No recipes, just instinct.

“That’s some good Custard Pie!” Kurt complimented tonight while eating the dessert I had made, smothered in my signature Whiskey Cream Sauce. “Where did you learn to bake like that?”

“What’s for dessert?” was a common question in my house as I raised my two daughters on my own for 14 years. You see, when I was growing up, my mother was a “clean your plate” tyrant. If I didn’t finish my hamburger at dinner, it was served to me cold-from-the-fridge for breakfast, and every meal after that until it was gone. I was determined to never do that to my own children.

My solution? I made dessert every night for my kids and my house rule was “if you clean your plate, you get dessert.” Sometimes the peas just weren’t worth a bowl of ice cream. So, I upped my game. I wanted to make sure that Chocolate Cheesecake would make anyone eat their brussel sprouts. It worked! My children became adventurous eaters… and I became a stellar baker!

No, my mother never let me in the kitchen when she was baking, and she baked everything from scratch… bread, cookies, cakes, kuchens… everything. I raised my girls sitting on the kitchen counter stirring batter as soon as they were old enough to hold a spoon.

 How did I become a baker? Necessity. As a single mom in a low income situation, making sure my girls ate well was number one, so dessert was a Must-Have! It worked. My girls are healthy adults with a love for food and a love for cooking and baking. And, I… well, I am a baker.

When You Say Nothing at All

His name was Paul. I guess it still is, somewhere out there in the cosmos. He was 6’2” with a slim, muscular build from riding his bicycle everywhere and hiking the backcountry when he wasn’t hitchhiking to someplace new. He had straight, dark blonde hair that hung loosely past his ears when it wasn’t tied back in a pony tail. An electrician by trade, a wanderer by heart. Thirty-two years old on the outside, but an old soul on the inside. He was a musician, a writer, a philosopher, a mathematician. He played the mandolin and guitar and made regular use of recreational drugs. Soft-spoken with a wide smile and dark eyes, he stole my heart.

We met at work. He came in as a prep cook, the roommate of my head chef from Anchorage. Biding his time until he could get his electrician business going in Homer, he spent his days chopping vegetables and making dressings and sauces. As tall as he was, he hardly ever showed anyone his eyes, keeping them downcast most of the time, hiding something, anything, everything.

Paul was playing for me in this picture.

We found each other at the same party at a mutual friend’s house, Lotus, one evening and spent the next several weeks inseparable. Stolen glances at work. Long walks on the beach in the Alaskan midnight sun. Dinner out and dinner in. Sharing favorite movies together and then talking until dawn. He sang to me, playing the mandolin or guitar. Shy, quiet Paul sang to me.

He was battling demons, as we all do. He felt like an outcast in this world, not necessarily fitting in anywhere. Then, one evening, he told me that he just wasn’t being fair to me because his heart belonged to someone else and he would never be able to give himself completely to me. The problem was that she had moved to Kodiak to live with her lesbian girlfriend. He was carrying a torch, unrequited love. But, the depth of his character and the strength of his loyalty would not let her go. So that was it.

It was a sad parting, but not in anger. At least not directed at him. I was angry at her. I hated her. I think it was just too hard for him to see me after that. So, he found another job. However, he and my head chef were sharing the cabin on the restaurant property meant for employees only and I had to ask him to move out.

Meanwhile, I met someone else at a bonfire at Lotus’ house a few days later. Paul was there, stoking the fire all night, alone, while me and this new man talked and laughed. Paul had a sadness he carried in his shoulders that night. But, what could I do?

A few days later, Paul had still not moved out of the cabin and I had to tell him, pressured by the owner/landlord who was now on site, to be out by the weekend. He moved out and into a tent in Lotus and Tristan’s backyard until he could get a cabin rented.

A couple of days after that, it was July 1^st and I was petsitting for Lotus and Tristan while they were visiting family. Paul had wanted to go along with them, but Lotus had insisted that it was family time. It was raining. My daughter, Sarah, had forgotten her key to the bakery and came to the house to pick one up from me. When I met her in the driveway, sheltering myself under a tree, she said that she had just seen Paul sitting on his backpack on the side of the road, in the rain. Weird, we both thought, as we shrugged our shoulders and went on. I briefly wondered why he wasn’t staying in the tent out back that night.

The next morning, at about 11am, I was at work when my landlord told me I needed to go see what was going on outside because there was a police officer talking to my head chef in the parking lot. As I walked up to them, I could see the broken look on Chef Jeff’s face. As the officer calmly explained to me, Paul’s body had been found earlier that morning near the trailhead at Paul Banks Elementary School. He had shot himself in the head. The officer had Paul’s belongings in the squad car. I lost my breath. My lungs caved into my spine. My heart fell onto the gravel parking lot. The tears wouldn’t stop… for days; they still come, on occasion. Jeff had been his best friend and I had been his girlfriend, up until just over a week before.

I have been in dark places in my life, more than once, and contemplated ending it all. But, I never knew, never truly understood the impact a split second action like that has on everyone around.

Jeff thought, “I should have known something was wrong. Paul was my best friend.”

Lotus thought, “I should have let him come along to dinner that night.”

Tristan thought, “I was working with him every day. How did I not know?”

Sarah thought, “If only I had stopped to see if he was okay that night.”

I thought… and thought.

In the end, no one was to blame except Paul. Gentle, sensitive, old soul Paul. Yes, sometimes this world does give someone more than they can handle.

The Winter of My Life

As I wake up to the sound of the wind and wonder if there has been any snowfall, I head to the window to take a look. Reaching for the blinds, it occurs to me that even though winter is coming fast just outside my window, I feel like it’s springtime in my own life. I’m slowly emerging from one of the longest, coldest, hardest winters of my life. It’s actually lasted several years. Hard to believe, I know.

I’ve tried to put on a happy face through it all, and I’ve learned that that was maybe not the best thing to do. Except for a very few close friends and family members, no one knows the depths of my own, personal winter. It started in Kwethluk, Alaska, and ended in Regent, North Dakota, spanning a distance of around 6,000 miles. Google can’t even calculate it.

Don’t get me wrong, there were some bright moments, as there always are during any winter. It just so happens that winter is my favorite season. Perhaps I like the struggle of it all. My own life has been quite a struggle, quite analogous to winter, in itself. Hardship has always been my companion, my comfort zone, my pillow. I’ve learned to smile at people and say - I’m doing great. I can make something out of nothing. I’ve been a single mom for 15 years. I don’t need a man. Money doesn’t matter. I’d rather have a few friends than a big family. I can do it all myself. And on and on. The truth is… that I’m ready for Spring.

I’m not doing great, but I’m doing better. I’m learning to play the guitar again, finding my inner song. It’s a lonesome, melancholy melody. But, it’s beautiful. I’m working as the baker at the Regent Co-op, with earnings pretty close to the poverty line and no health benefits which is scary, but I’m needed there and that feels good. The Hungarian Mushroom Soup that I made for Friday’s lunch sold out in less than an hour! That made me smile. And, of course, here I am writing again. Now, that really says something. I’m doing better.

I can’t always make something out of nothing. I like to think I can. I thought I could. That’s why I put my entire life, savings account, and retirement into buying the Fresh Sourdough Express Bakery & Café. Yeah, that didn’t work out so well. I literally put everything I had into it, even my children. But, I feel like I made a deal with the devil, twice actually, trying to keep it afloat. First of all, when I first purchased the place, the deal was that I would train all summer (of 2012) in all aspects of the business. The truth was that I was given a salary of $2,500 per month and worked 100 hours per week. I was scheduled to fill shifts as needed in the bakery, as a dishwasher, waitress, barista, prep cook, you name it. I was never shown how to price plates, buy in bulk, create menus, keep track of expenses, etc. I was a servant, not a manager-in-training. Only, I didn’t realize how little I knew until the business became 100% mine on September 1^st with no money in the bank, heading into the first winter season in over 15 years. The rest of that story will come later, but rest assured that I learned a valuable lesson about taking over a business with no liquid assets and zero business experience… I can’t make something out of nothing.

I have been a single mom for 15 years, but honestly, that’s nothing to brag about and it’s not as much an indication of my strength as it is of my need for solitude and self-imposed seclusion. Like hardship, seclusion is an old friend. I can thank my childhood for that. Solitude is on the same plane as safety in my mind. Opening myself up to having a partner who would help raise my children was way outside my safety zone. Being raised with abusive stepfathers (plural) myself, that was out of the question. After all, do you ever truly know someone? That was not a chance I was willing to take with my beautiful daughters. Add to that the fact that their father filed for custody three times during the first five years after our divorce, each time was when I entered into a serious relationship… well, that made me give up, for sure. As a side note, the only thing that ever came of those three custody court battles was an increase in his child support each time. I’m sure he thinks he won, and maybe in some way he did, because I never had a serious relationship after that. But, in my mind, I was in control.

I don’t need a man. Now, that one is true, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t want to have one in my life. That someone special who reminds me that I’m beautiful and that I don’t always have to be the strong one. I basically swore off men until both of my girls were out of the house and on their own. It’s been just over a year now that I’ve been on my own. Empty Nest is not nearly a strong enough term to explain what that feels like. My other single-mother friends will know exactly what I mean. I dabbled in relationships this summer and that didn’t work out so well. I dated a younger man, 32, who committed suicide a couple of weeks after we stopped seeing eachother (it really wasn’t as much of a break-up as it was a mutual understanding). I’m in no way taking responsibility for what he did… he was an extremely sensitive soul who was dealing with a lot of demons. But, knowing I was his last relationship struck me deep. Relationships came fast and hard for me this summer. I then dated another man who was ready to get married the first week we were together. That one didn’t end so well either… I think he’s now on a fishing vessel in the Bering Sea somewhere. Time and space heals the heart and strengthens the soul. This summer was the darkest part of the winter for me, relationships included. With spring come new possibilities… I’ve met a combiner (a farmer, if you will) who I see on occasion. I met him in the middle of harvest season, which doesn’t end until Thanksgiving here, so that means we don’t see a whole lot of each other, which I think is a good thing. I would describe him as a cross between Clint Eastwood and John Wayne, very western in his approach to life and love. It’s a welcome change to be around someone so hardworking and laid back, just taking life as it comes, but as loyal as the day is long (during an Alaskan summer, that is).

Money does matter. I learned that the hard way by losing the restaurant. However, sometimes it’s more important to know what you don’t have than what you do. I left Alaska with my dog and what could fit into my car, shipping out only 9 boxes of belongings. My life of 46 years was reduced to that. Humbling? Yes. Scary? Yes. The art of realism is being able to separate the actual necessities of life from perception. My long winter has brought me enlightenment, if nothing else. I came out of winter with next to nothing, using up all possible resources, but ready to embrace the newness of spring. I feel kind of like a new spring baby, going from restauranteur to local baker. However, learning to run the Kysar family hunting ranch (www.kysarfarms.com) has really rounded out my life here. After all, it is the entire reason I came to North Dakota. To see hunter after hunter pay $150 to kill three pheasants belies my inner reasoning power. Yet, they do it day after day. Extremely wealthy men arrive in their new, freshly pressed hunter orange outfits and pay $1,000 to stay in a bunk room with other men for 4 days, sharing a bathroom, a kitchen table, and, no doubt, countless stories over beer and Crown in the evenings after shooting their three pheasants each day somewhere buried in the 1,180 acres of prime hunting land surrounding us. They fly and drive in from all over the country, year after year, to have this summer-camp type of experience, escaping their lives as bankers, doctors, & lawyers, if only for a few days. Yes, money does matter.

As much as I do love my few close friends, I’ve come to realize how important family is. If it weren’t for the Kysar family, I wouldn’t be as happy as I find myself right here right now. My family has been my safety net. Actually, I feel like they needed me as much as I needed them and it’s been wonderfully rejuvenating to reconnect with them. I’ve never lived anywhere before where the Kysar name was recognized. It’s actually kind of fun to introduce myself in Regent and have people say, “Are you related to… (fill in the blank).” Yes! I am! Friends cannot replace family ties. That, I know. Blood is truly thicker than water. The Kysars are a fairly prolific bunch and I’m proud to be a part of them. I know I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my dad… not only for his original contribution to my conception, but much more so because of his continual support and belief in me. I have a family, and for the first time in my life I’m embracing it.

I can’t do everything myself. My family has taught me this. More importantly, I don’t have to do everything myself. And, it’s not a sign of weakness. It’s a sign of solidarity, which is a positive turn in my life. Not only family is important, but neighbors are important, as well. I’ve never known so many of my neighbors as I do here where my nearest is almost 2 miles away. Yet, when I first moved in, they stopped by to visit, exchange phone numbers, and assure me that if I needed anything, I could call them anytime. When we lost power for 23 hours a couple of weeks ago during our first winter storm, my neighbors called to check in on me – that has Never happened to me before, anywhere I’ve lived. What a weight has been lifted to know that I don’t have to do everything myself! I have family AND neighbors! I am blessed.

This morning’s wind brought only rain, no snow. But, the clouds are looming and temps are dropping. It won’t be long until winter socks me in from the outside. But, on the inside, it is spring and I’m just emerging to this new life with new challenges and new rewards.