August 30, 2026

Dear Susan or Current Resident,

Boy, time doesn’t stand still, does it? When I see your name in my old address book, I automatically think, Gary and Susan, like Sonny and Cher or Captain and Tennille. I have fond memories of you both, mostly of you smiling or laughing. A good way to be remembered. I hope you are both happy and healthy and if this is no longer your address, I hope you are also happy and healthy, current resident.

For the price of one craft beer at your local watering hole, you can become a paid subscriber to read the rest of the letter.

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This is the very first letter of a collection I am starting, titled Or Current Resident. I am sending letters to people in my address books that are over thirty years old! I am excited to see where this journey takes us!

The letters will be available to my paid subscribers…of course, until my book is published!

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Ian and I combined households over a decade ago and ended up renting a storage unit for our overflow of duplicate, sentimental items. My cousin moved into our heated, unfinished garage for six months and Ian closed his two restaurants several years ago, which prompted a second storage unit rental. A year ago, I promised to purge and rented a third storage unit that allows a garage sale...most don’t.

This summer, I PROMISED Ian that I would take the time to simplify and eliminate at least one storage unit. Well, June was consumed by a visit to St. George, Utah to visit family. July snuck by with a visit to the ER (ok, granted that was only 4 hours) and a three day visit at my aunt and uncle’s house. I have managed to keep up with laundry, dishes and some basic housework. The dogs are fed. The plants are watered. Facebook marketing says my cortisol is through the roof.

Here’s the scoop. I have spent the last week moving van loads of stuff from one of my storage units to my driveway with the intention of having a mega blowout garage sale. I’m sweaty. I stink. I’m drinking three beers every evening like I earned it.

I have basically saved every single thing for the last 20 years. WHAT WAS I THINKING!?

Ian and Logan and I sorted through the pile and set up the garage sale. Most everything is dusty and dirty and I’m absolutely mortified to have a white trash garage sale, so I’m pulling the plug. I’m ditching the garage sale.

And now I’m drinking wine like I’m sophisticated.

(p.s. Photo is a stock photo. )

My friend made bank last year at Under The Big Sky as a bartender and suggested I apply. She baited me...hook, line, and sinker!

We were stationed in the busiest tent near the main stage and I admit, I was a bit nervous. The bar menu was extensive for a novice, but I was up for the challenge. Our tent had strict rules. Card and wristband EVERYONE and two single drinks or one double per person.

About three hours into my shift, my computer blanked out on me and I had to reboot it and it took forever! I was flustered and neglected to card the 60+ year

-old in front of me. Next thing I knew, I was told to grab my things and step behind the tent. I thought I was being relieved for my 30-minute lunch break. Nope. Basically, I was fired. I have never been fired in my entire life! Mortified and humiliated, I endured the long walk of shame through the massive venue back to my car. The silver lining, is that I could resume working the following day. I found out that seven more people were “fired” from my tent of 28 bartenders that night. I’m ashamed that the demise of others made me feel a bit better about my situation. I was not alone in my failure. Whew!

Day 2: I thought for sure I would be placed in a different tent...maybe one that just served two brands of beer. Nope, to my surprise, I was assigned the same tent. I thanked my manager for letting me come back. My friend and I were able to work next to each other and we had a fun day listening to the bands and slinging lots of drinks. I was getting the hang of things and even though my friend was faster than me, I held my own. My ego recovered from its deflation the night before. As I walked into my driveway after my nine-hour shift, my sole thought was collapsing onto my bed. We have been doing some yard work and a piece of rolled up fencing lurked in the shadows of the driveway and I very ungracefully became one with the pavement. My wrists saved my face, but my knees and arms had shooting pain and of course the bruises would follow. I downed a couple of Ibuprofen and called it a night.

Day three: Predicted to be the busiest day of the three-day concert, my friend and I arrived early. We checked in for our shift at the entrance and had about 20 minutes to kill before we were to be at our post. We ordered Mountain Berry Bowls and browsed the merchant vendors. We leisurely made our way back to our tent. Energized, we were excited for another fun day! Unfortunately, we were placed apart from each other, but we were there to make money, not chit-chat. I proceeded to set up and stock my bar station. We brought our own can openers, bar towels and tip jars. I was ready to seize the day!

All of a sudden, I started to feel a tightness in my throat. I took a sip of water and it was difficult to swallow. Was I having an allergic reaction to the food I just ate? To be safe, I grabbed my water and emergency Benadryl from my clear backpack. My manager sent me to the medic tent, which was conveniently located adjacent to the bar tent. The medic unwrapped two of my expired-in- 2022 Benadryl and I was able to take them. I really felt fine and thought we should just wait for the meds to kick in. I could still breathe through my nose, but they were more concerned than I was and suggested I would have to be intubated if my airway closed. ‘Is that like a trach?’ my mind asked itself. He basically suggested that death was my alternative. My three life insurance policies are way more robust than my $5000 deductible, empty HSA health insurance. So, with much confusion on my end, because this certainly was not the day I had envisioned, I was escorted into the ambulance. They promptly gave me a shot of epinephrine and started an IV. I thought that after the shot I would be free to go, but no...they started strapping me in. I told them that I’m not a violent person, and wondered why they were treating me like an insane asylum resident. Apparently, I was getting a first class ride to the ER. Upon arrival, I told them that it was ridiculous to use the gurney to wheel me out. I was perfectly capable of walking. But, no, their rules are stricter than the ‘card everyone’ rule at the bar tent.

After all of my hookups...the thing on your finger to monitor pulse and oxygen, blood pressure cuff, EKG stickers and wires, and steroid injection through my IV, it was decided that I would most likely live. They wanted to monitor me for a couple of hours, so I asked if they could find the channel so I could watch the last of the World Cup. They honored my request. I enjoyed the exciting game on my loopy Benadryl buzz that had kicked in. The hospital ER ambiance felt rather spa-like, for what I falsely perceived as a non-emergency situation. But, I was very impressed by their professionalism and genuine concern for my life.

It was determined that I had not experienced anaphylactic shock, but an elevated case of oral allergy syndrome. Perhaps the bee pollen on my Mountain Berry Bowl, since I had moderate arm swelling from a yellow jacket sting a few years ago. An epi-pen will now be a permanent accessory in my purse.

My friend’s words say it all, “Heidi, maybe you’re just not cut out to work Under The Big Sky.

I think maybe she’s right.

P.S. Tip your bartenders well. They earn every penny! I’m sticking with library assistant

My son is missing assignments, getting up at ten o’clock, missing his morning classes, all with a shrug and burying his head under his comforter when asked why he isn’t ready for school. I’m at my wits end. I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to trade him in for a terrible two-year-old.

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I have listened to Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert on audio at least three times. Today, I picked up her book at a thrift store. If you are looking for inspiration in your own life, please read or listen to her book. It’s a true gem!

Now, here is my story. Enjoy. Please leave a comment if you wish!

Dirty Little Secret:

It sort of sneaks up on you, like a distant relative showing up at your house unexpectedly for the holidays. I’m not proud. My mother would tell you that she raised me better than that. Marie Kondo would be mortified. Martha Stewart might shake her head and pivot her finger back and forth with pursed lips. My grandmother, who ironed sheets and underwear is most likely rolling over in her grave. If I were Catholic, I would be ridden with guilt and spend countless hours in the confessional.

I pack dirty laundry. It’s true. When I go on vacation or weekend road trips, I pack my dirty laundry, in hopes that there is a washer and dryer at my destination.

I haven’t always been a dirty laundry packer. It starts out slowly. First, it is underwear. As a last-minute packer, I head to my underwear drawer and reach in, to feel the cold laminate at the bottom of the drawer. I am completely out of clean underwear! I’m pretty sure that I know I am low and tuck this information in the front of my head, where the “getting low on toilet paper” section of my brain is. But, life is hectic and thoughts migrate to the back of my head, where there is a floating black hole. Thoughts, ideas, hopes, and dreams vanish…never to be seen again. Having children adds to the growing abyss in my brain. I only have one kiddo, but time management and organizational skills are not my superpowers. I can’t even manage my underwear inventory.

Although, as an important part of the wardrobe for some, underwear might be optional for others. Not me. I prefer underwear, especially as I age and my pelvic floor panics when I sneeze. I admit, I have gone commando a time or two. Underwear is easy to wash in a sink or shower and dries quickly overnight. It is easy to discretely tuck them in the bottom of my suitcase in a zip lock or grocery store bag. The risk of exposure to a TSA agent as a dirty laundry sinner is minimal.

Once I normalize the comfort of packing dirty underwear, it’s easy to up the ante. Next thing I know, I am packing a pair of jeans with a ketchup stain on the leg, a dog-hair ridden pair of black yoga pants, and a favorite shirt that doesn’t pass the armpit smell test. My carry-on roller suitcase is sectioned off in two compartments by a zippered panel. My dirty laundry secret is disguised neatly as long as they are folded and placed on their designated side of the suitcase.

I start to pack laundry soap in a recycled two-ounce container and a few dryer sheets and a roll of quarters in a sandwich baggie. They become part of my travel grab and go stash in the back of my closet.

My dirty laundry pile is never ending. I can’t keep up. My wardrobe shrinks as my waistline grows. The struggle is real. The packing dirty laundry secret, although contained, launches suspicion with my family when I head to the laundry room during a vacation packing frenzy. Are they planning an intervention?

My skeleton in the closet is finally ousted during a pre-pandemic girls’ trip to visit a close friend in Minnesota. Upon arrival, the four of us gather around her kitchen island to catch up. The wine flows and I sneak to the laundry room unnoticed to throw in a load. We are headed to a Miranda Lambert concert the following day and I want to wear my favorite jeans, which definitely need a good wash. I toss the jeans in and push some buttons. Her washer is much fancier than mine. Suddenly, the machine starts to beep a very loud beep and a red light flashes. I panic and out of desperation, push more buttons and look for the cord to unplug the washer. My three friends appear, wine glasses still in hands, our hostess is shock, “Heidi, what on earth are you doing?”

I squeak, “I’m washing my favorite jeans.”

Confused, my travel companion adds, “But we just got here! You packed dirty laundry?”

I am caught! Oh, the shame! The humiliation! The absolute mortification that I am exposed packing dirty laundry!

Would I have to go to therapy? Shock treatment? Wear a scarlet DL on my chest?

One would think that the embarrassment would set me straight. Quite the opposite. I begin to plan my laundry days around my trips. The reality is that I have more time to do laundry on vacation than I do during my day-to-day chaotic life. Folding clothes is enjoyable in a clutter-free condo. Somehow my clothes smell fresher, like an ocean breeze…even in the southern Utah desert.

My dirty little laundry secret becomes a stress-free ritual that I now hold sacred. I sometimes let it slip, when asked by co-workers or friends if I have packed for a trip yet. Especially a recent, week-long trip to Florida. “Have you packed yet?” This question intrigues me. Is packing competitive? A friend confesses that she packs a week early! A small part of me is envious. The reality is that I will never be that put together.

Recently, my Minnesota friend is in Montana, visiting family. Our same group of friends gather. This time, we are in the living room, drinking tea and catching up about work, kids, ailments, and menopause. Then, the conversation shifts. Suddenly, one of my friends, bursts into laughter and shrieks, “Remember that time, when we went to Minnesota and you packed dirty laundry?”

I laugh and assure her that I have changed my ways.

“Really?” she retorts, obviously not convinced.

I admit that now I pack an entire suitcase of dirty laundry, not just my favorite jeans. I am loud. I am proud. I shout from the jetway that it is perfectly acceptable to pack dirty laundry as long as there is a washer and dryer at your destination!

No washer or dryer? Buy a new wardrobe on vacation! Oh, the pleasures of packing dirty laundry!

This afternoon, I dropped off some small boxes to a friend of mine, who has a side business selling clothing on Poshmark. She is an avid thrifter and loves a good find on Facebook Marketplace. She is also an art major, and her soul craves an outlet of creativity. She is part of my tribe.

Our quick hello turned into a show and tell of her day’s trip to the clearance thrift store in the adjacent town. All of her precious finds were still in her car, in boxes and a heavy duty, black, lawn and leaf bag. Among the haul was a vintage ski jumper, a vanity mirror size metal decor platter with indented flowers and a like-new crock pot. Of course, she already has a crock pot, but this one was twice the size, making it convenient to fix a meal capable of leftovers. Who wants to cook twice, when there is an option to only cook once? I do!

…for the price of a fancy coffee, a glass of house wine or a couple of PBR’s…you can become a paid subscriber and indulge in the rest of this silly story. If you are here…you are my tribe. Thanks for your support!

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This morning, after putting away and starting a load of dishes in the dishwasher, throwing in a load of laundry and picking up the house a bit, I softly landed on the couch to relish five minutes of perfect peace.

For five minutes, I soaked in contentment. I erased all obligations and pressing chores from my brain. I enjoyed a glass of iced tea and felt the warmth of my faithful dachshund, Rose, curled up in the crease of my bent legs. My breath calm, I relaxed the tension in my body. I might describe the feeling as bliss.

Just five minutes of focused time for me. A thought crossed my mind to remind myself to embrace this feeling more often. Daily. I don’t need to set an alarm. I don’t need to carve out a slot in my Google calendar. I need to practice this ritual so that it becomes second nature. An invisible self-care autopilot button that I can push at any given moment in time.

In my twenties, I tried to practice meditation. It gave me anxiety. It seemed forced. My brain and thoughts would not quiet. Later in life, someone mentioned a practice of sitting and just “being”. To sit in silence and let your thoughts have a party if they wished. The act of sitting with yourself, without the pressure of clearing your thoughts. This was easier, but I’m a lazy meditator and the practice never stuck.

One would think that in my fifties I would have the discipline to incorporate these practices in my daily life. One would think.

Tomorrow I will try to pay attention and catch a moment of bliss, even if it is just a couple of minutes or perhaps seconds. I will relish whatever moments I remember to capture. I will carry my bliss catching net by my side just in case.

I’m wondering if the rules are like fishing. Catch and release the bliss.

Catch. Relish. Release.

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It sort of sneaks up on you, like a distant relative showing up at your house unexpectedly for the holidays. I’m not proud. My mother would tell you that she raised me better than that. Marie Kondo would be mortified. Martha Stewart might shake her head and pivot her finger back and forth with pursed lips. My grandmother, who ironed sheets and underwear is most likely rolling over in her grave. If I were Catholic, I would be ridden with guilt and spend countless hours in the confessional.

I pack dirty laundry. It’s true. To clarify…when I go on vacation or weekend road trips I pack my dirty laundry, in hopes that there is a washer and dryer at my destination.

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at least three times on road trips, and soak in new gold nuggets every time.

I love her theory that ideas are living entities that seek out a host to materialize their dreams. I have a lot of ideas that I better put into action before they move on to another human host with more ambition and discipline. It’s not like we get to bury our ideas in the backyard and dig them up later when we have the time. Ideas decompose, just like dead bodies.

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I call them my roaring twenties…the nine years I spent frolicking in the sand and sunshine on the valley isle of Maui. My parents had followed my hippie aunt and uncle, who had moved there a few years prior. I, consequently, joined my parents after high school graduation, and decided they weren’t quite finished raising me.

Maui held many firsts. My first encounter with a jellyfish. My first hike through a rainforest and a volcano. My first taste of fresh-caught sushi. My first sip of a Mai Tai and my first true love. Also…the first time I shaved my head.

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Winter in Montana, for women of a certain age…. (I just happen to be that age. Perhaps I am making that up and you can really be any age and proclaim you are at that certain age at any given time.) …means going into leg shaving hibernation.

I’m not exactly sure if it is laziness, lack of vanity, or just pure exhaustion. Life gets busy and shaving my legs drops to the bottom of the to-do list quickly when the weather turns and no one sees my legs except my partner and my pack of wienerdogs. And they simply don’t care if my legs look like sasquatch or Bo Dereck.

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1. Danger

The danger of thinking too long takes me to places of the past or dreams of the future but rarely keeps me in the moment.

So, at 11:09am on Thursday, March 12, 2026, I’m going to write in the moment.

2. Where am I?

I’m attending an artist retreat at Erik’s Ranch, located at the base of the Absaroka Mountain range in Paradise Valley, Montana. For those of you unfamiliar with the landscape of Montana, the ranch is about thirty minutes south of Bozeman.

The main house is grand by my standards. Currently, I’m tucked in the south wing. The billiard room. The light is glistening through the windows that stretch two stories. If my dogs were here, they would be in heaven, lounging on the wide-plank, bleached oak flooring. Overstuffed chairs with matching ottomans are nested in every corner of the L-shaped room. I’m stretched out in one of them. Well-worn, tan suede. My feet are kicked up and crossed on the cushioned ottoman. A rocking chair lined with cow hide and brass upholstery tacks, sits perfectly still between me and the massive, frescoed, concrete fireplace. If smoking and shoes were allowed, a cowboy weary from a day of rounding up cattle, might enjoy a pipe in the rocker. A tan leather couch faces the south windows, hugging black and red throw pillows. The decorator could not decide on solid, floral, or chicken print, so picked all three. A four-foot by four-foot hand hewn, solid wood coffee table holds a barbed wired, square candle in hues of burnt orange and cream. A ceramic brown bowl with child-like cattle brand markings cups an assortment of pinecones and twig-woven balls. A zebra-print wrought iron chair leans against the north wall, under a whimsical tree branch lamp. An obvious place to sit and watch guests partaking in a game of strategy at the old-fashioned pool table. A round, wood table is placed off to the side, near the south window. Four high-backed, leather-carved chairs invite guests to play a game of poker or rummy.

The furniture doesn’t really match, yet everything is perfectly placed and serves a purpose. It is everything you would expect from a Montana ranch. Big and rustic. I’m sure this room is the hub for family reunions and wedding parties. Today, it is all mine.

3. A new day

It is now the following day. Friday.

I sit in the same chair. This time with a leg tucked under me and a soft, white throw draping my lower body. The wind has seemed to die down, but there is a constant knocking on the exterior of the building. A woodpecker? The ranch hands repairing a piece of siding? An irritated spirit trying to reclaim their space? Under normal circumstances, I might find it quite annoying. Today, I find it calming. The rhythmic beat puts me in a focused trance. The whirl of the high-ceiling fans drown the tinnitus buzz in my ears.

The air has a slight chill to it, which is great for keeping me alert. Otherwise, I might hibernate for the entire five-day retreat.

The others notice a faint smell of onions or chives when walking in the house. A head cold from three weeks ago still lingers in my lungs and sinuses and my smell is compromised.

The morning Earl Grey tea, with a splash of vanilla cream and dab of honey satisfies my sweet tooth and wakes me for the day’s journey of words that I hope will pour like a waterfall from my brain, through my fingers onto the screen of my laptop.

This is a moment of my savored retreat. Not a story. Not a plot twist. Not a character arc. Not even a setting. Perhaps an experience, but not even really that. Simply a moment. Suspended.

I must remind myself to cherish these moments and wake my senses to the surroundings each day. Perhaps setting an alarm on my phone will do the trick until it becomes a habit.

4. The Challenge

It is decided. 5:00pm. Fifteen minutes. Five senses.

Feel free to join me on my journey.

Edit: 5:00pm. Five minutes. Five senses. Fifteen minutes is too big of a commitment. I’ll start with five minutes. Why not mornings if I am waking my senses, you ask? Mornings are a hot mess and I’m barely able to make it to work on time. Baby steps, my lovely tribe. Baby steps.

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Now take a deep breath.

It’s easy to be a writer who doesn’t write. Or only writes occasionally. Or forces themself to write by signing up for writing classes or story telling classes and concerts. It’s easy on the outside. But, the inside, not so much. I proclaim, “I’m a lazy writer”…and stutter a laugh. Because it’s funny to me. Noncommittal writing is an easy way out. An escape from expectation.

1. Today the wind is restless

I’m launching this space for me, however, you are invited to stop in. Check out the array of furniture and have a cup of tea or a glass of Malbec. Stay awhile. If you have an appointment or need to wash your hair, feel free to sneak out the side door and come back later if you wish.

I’m attending an artist retreat at the base of the Absaroka Mountains in Paradise Valley, Montana. The wind is literally howling outside the grand picture windows. The winter storm warning threatens 1-3 feet of snow and wind gusts up to 80-90 mph.

Perhaps the wind is stirring something inside me.

2. About my tribe

Substack says this is not a newsletter. Not a blog. This is a place for my people. You are a little imperfect and like to laugh at yourself. Your socks may be mismatched due to lack of laundry organization. You love animals and hopefully Tom Petty. You don’t sweat over first world problems. You are a rock skipper…your actions and ideas will reach the farthest shores. If you are none of these things, that’s ok. You just might find that the quirkiness of us rubs off on you and you just might like it. If not, that’s ok too. You be you.

3. The bait

Personal essays with a twist of humor are my jam. My stories are relatable. What will you get as a Heidi’s tribe paid subscriber?

• Weekly essays, posted no later than 11ish, Sunday evenings. These may be rough drafts and contain imperfect grammar and punctuation. If you are looking for perfection…well, you are at the wrong Substack page.

Free essays will be posted randomly.

4. Welcome to my world, excuse the mess

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