Welcome to Garden Valley: Garden Valley Series

By Jean Shelby

Joanie Nelson has been pulled under by the currents of life for years, and she's fooling herself when thinking she has it all together. She runs from her career to raising two rambunctious boys to never having enough time with her husband or friends, wondering if she'll ever get caught up. Scrambling in every area of her life is what she knows though, and change is a dirty word in her vocabulary. When her husband is offered a job out of state, Joanie is faced with adapting to change when moving to the unfamiliar territory of Garden Valley. 

Once known as Mrs. Fix-It, Joanie gave up on her dream of becoming a carpenter long ago to pursue a career in nursing. When her family moves into the ultimate fixer-upper Joanie must dust off her hammer and get to work. Busting out the elbow grease, she's unsure if her abilities will live up to her high expectations of turning their shambles of a house into a home worth loving. Will their family be accepted into the close-knit community of Garden Valley, or will she find herself being swept away by a hectic and lonely life yet again? More importantly, will Joanie be able to step outside of her comfort zone and into a life full of unknown possibilities?

The next installation in the Garden Valley series is a meaningful read that touches on motherhood, self-love and tackling the hardships women face every day.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jean Shelby
• Release date: Jun 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781737919827

Jean Shelby

Ever feel like you’re on an island with your emotions? Jean Shelby draws on her experience as a working mother to touch the heart with her inspiring stories. Her goal is to offer a sense of belonging, instill inspiration, and bring entertainment to anyone who deals with the negative chatter that wracks the brain. The ultimate success for Jean means her readers laugh or squeeze out a tear or two. She’s excited to share her world filled with quirky, emotional, funny, and unforgettable characters! Snuggle in for a bit of laughter and a book you can’t put down. You might just find a bit of yourself in these pages! *** Jean Shelby lives in Oregon with her husband and two daughters. When she’s not writing, she’s either laughing with her girls, playing the piano, or swimming laps in the pool.  

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Title Page 2

Dedication

Chapter 1 A Disconnected Life

Chapter 2 Ready or Not

Chapter 3 Inflexible News

Chapter 4 Unavoidable Changes

Chapter 5 An Unwanted Surprise

Chapter 6 Road Trip

Chapter 7 Look Who’s Coming to Town

Chapter 8 The Opinion

Chapter 9 Working Together

Chapter 10 The Coop

Chapter 11 A Haircut and Chicks

Chapter 12 New Additions

Chapter 13 Date Night

Chapter 14 Reigniting an Old Flame

Chapter 15 A Trip to the Doctor

Chapter 16 A Day on My Own

Chapter 17 The Tractor

Chapter 18 All About the Farm

Chapter 19 Morning Routine

Chapter 20 Sense of Accomplishment

Chapter 21 The Decorations

Chapter 22 Friends and Color

Chapter 23 The Party

Chapter 24 Dropping the Bomb

Chapter 25 Epilogue

Thank You

About the Author

Welcome to Garden Valley

Copyright © 2023 by Jean Shelby

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Contact Info: [e-mail]

www.jeanshelbybooks.com

Cover design by: joseonthebeat.com

ISBN: 978-1-7379198-2-7

First Edition: June 2023

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Welcome to Garden Valley

Garden Valley Series

BY JEAN SHELBY

JEAN BOOKS, LLC

A special thank you to everyone who has been following the world of Garden Valley! This book was originally my free short story, but it never felt complete. I have since replaced Welcome to Garden Valley with Winter in July as my free story to my email subscribers. This version of Welcome to Garden Valley feels much more complete with new chapters, new characters, and new fleshed out plot lines. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1 A Disconnected Life

I’m not special enough to be in the boy’s club with my two sons. At least, that’s what I’ve told myself for the last nine years. It’s my reason for why they’ve shunned me from their lives. I know parents are supposed to raise kids with the goal of them going out into the world, but do they really need to start this in elementary school?

Have a great day, sweetie, I touch Morgan’s shoulder with a smile.

Yup, bye, Morgan says with barely a glance my way as he slings his bag over a shoulder. He peels off to stand in line with his class since he doesn’t like to be seen with me. This behavior has shown up years earlier than I thought it would, pushing against unprepared emotions, leaving my heart sore. Come on, Booger, he says to his brother, who has his finger halfway up his nose.

Honey, that’s gross. Come on, it’s time for school. I successfully pull Dillon’s finger from his nose, much to his dismay. You have dried cereal on your face. As six-year-olds do, he uses his sleeve to scrape off the crumbs, leaving a dingy gray splotch on his jacket. Nice. Out of everything else he wipes on himself, I figure this is the least disgusting.

He forcefully attempts to pull his hand from my grasp while sticking his tongue out at me. I glance around in embarrassment to see if the other bundled-up moms in the school line are watching this morning’s show. A few quick glances away show their judgment of my lack of parenting skills. It’s not my style to yell at my kids when there’s an audience. Or anytime, really.

It’s not real school, Dillon says as I mouth his comment. It’s a repeat of the exact four words every morning.

"Kindergarten is real school, I respond, as usual. You’re right down the hall from your brother."

Good. I can wipe my boogers on him, Dillon sneers.

Thankfully his teacher is on time and leads the line to the side door. I silently pray that he won’t climb on his desk, throw bark in anyone’s face, or dip into his other horrible tricks. Is it too much to ask that I won’t get a Your kids have been naughty email or a bright yellow slip of paper sent home detailing Dillon’s misdemeanors for the day?

Morning, Joanie, comes a voice from my left. Awfully cold, isn’t it?

Hi, Diane. Yup, nothing out of the norm for Fargo. It wouldn’t be all that bad if we had the sun on our backs, I complain, bringing my brown hair over my ears. We have the same forecast for the foreseeable future: cold and dark, even though we are on the brink of spring. I swear there are only two seasons here: bitter cold and lukewarm. I clench the hot packs in my jacket pockets since talking about the weather seems to make it even colder.

Don’t I know it? These scrubs aren’t exactly a barrier to the cold. She hugs and kisses her little girl, who accepts the love and offers her own back. My heart aches with jealousy as they wave goodbye, full of smiles and well wishes for each other’s day. Chad might have a chance to transfer out of here. I keep telling him I’ll follow him anywhere that’s warmer, she says as we walk to our cars.

It will take you a year to completely thaw, I say with slight envy, hitting the unlock button on my key fob.

Moving has crossed my mind, even if I wouldn’t admit it. We moved to Fargo ten years ago so my husband, Nick, could work at a lumber and building supply company. It was a big step up for him, which meant a pay raise and extra benefits. It’s not the highest-paying job, but it slowly decreases the debt we accumulated in our twenties.

I’ve wasted a lot of time wishing I could go back and undo those choices that racked up this debt that still takes up space on our budget. Nick and I got bit by the vacationing bug early in our relationship, burning through our entire savings and maxing out our credit cards. Add that to our hefty college loans, and you’ve got one heck of an imbalance in our debt-to-income ratio.

It was an easy decision to move to North Dakota when Nick’s family already lived here. They moved to Oregon a few years ago, claiming they could no longer take the harsh winters. I pull my body deeper into my jacket as a stiff breeze blows right through my fabric, not blaming them one bit.

Moving sounds like a lot of work. I think my feet are stuck too firmly in my schedule to do something like that, I defend.

Or is it a rut that you’re stuck in? she teases, winking a bright blue eyelid at me. I’ve worked with Diane at the nursing home for seven years now. She knows quite a few of my quirks that I fail to hide from others. This one, she’s hit right on the head. You working this weekend?

Saturday, as always. And I’m stuck on the swing shift rotation next week. I do my best not to allow a sigh to enter my voice. I can’t work on Sundays since it’s the start of Nick’s work week. It isn’t like we ever have plans, but it’d be nice to get a day off with my husband from time to time. Aside from my feet complaining, working fifty hours a week isn’t the worst thing in the world. It’s not like the boys miss me.

They’ll come around one day. You’ll see, she says as a hollow promise.

I guess. They get naughtier every day. I went into the kitchen this morning, and Dillon was swinging on the cabinets! When I asked him to get down, he jumped off the counter and knocked three glasses off the shelf. I don’t know why they still surprise me, I say with a shake of my head.

Maybe one day he’ll be into rock climbing, Diane responds with a shrug. It’s as deep as any of our conversations. I know my issues are my own, but I’d welcome a bit of sound advice every now and then. See you at work, she says with a little wave.

She leaves me on my island of sadness, just as everyone else does regarding my troubles. I’ve talked to Nick, my mom, sister, and my sister-in-law about being shunned by my boys. They all have a similar answer to Diane’s that brushes my problems from their list: Boys will be boys, or They’re just independent. How is any of that helpful when I desperately crave love and attention from my children?

It’s the question of the century for me: how can I get on better standing with my sons? I have many skills, but solving puzzles like this isn’t one of them.

***

Good morning, I chime, sweeping my hair in a ponytail as I breeze by Rebecca at the front desk, otherwise known as the worst position at work. She hardly notices since this is her first job. For me, it’s torture to sit in that seat answering phones. I would much rather be out and about with the residents.

Hey, girl, Rebecca says to her computer screen.

My next stop is the breakroom, a place I won’t see until my shift ends in nine hours. I reluctantly shrug out of the warmth of my heavy coat and robotically untangle my long brown ponytail from my hood. As I hang my purse in my locker, the empty hook next to it makes me realize I’m one bag short. Nice. I forgot my lunch again, I say to Diane as she joins me. I swear I’ve become less responsible now that I’m in my thirties.

It’s called ‘mom’s brain,’ hon, Diane responds.

Darn. Someone has to eat the leftovers at our house. The boys refuse. Maybe today’s the day when I actually skip a meal, I say, bouncing my palms against the extra padding that is permanently glued to my hips. Even though Nick says he loves my bottom half, I wish it would spread to the rest of my uneven, petite frame. But no, it doesn’t work like that. I’m a typical pear shape: small on top and big on the bottom.

How’s it going? I ask Rebecca, coming out of the breakroom and threading the white clinical jacket around my shoulders.

Pretty slow so far. Gloria is already asking for you, she sings. She wants a rematch in pinochle.

Oh yeah? If she asks again, tell her my lunch hour is hers.

Becoming a Certified Nursing Assistant wasn’t in the original plan. Helping people is something I’m good at, even if it is the opposite of where I thought my career would go.

The phone barely rings once before Rebecca clicks the button to the headset. It’s colder than the North Pole today; this is Rebecca. How can I help you? Her peppy ways make sense. She’s right out of high school. Without years of being beaten down in the workforce, she has zero hardness to her voice. I envy how easy this job seems for her. I love my job, but my chest is typically gripped with the tension of demands from this place. I’m in charge of distributing the medications, among various other duties, which is quite an undertaking for one-hundred residents.

Ready to get started, Joanie? My shoulders flinch at the grate of my boss’ voice. Robert always seems to come out of nowhere. I turn to find his shining, red face peering over the top of the bright blue clipboard he clutches to his chest.

Ready as always, I respond with a smile that never comes close to matching Robert’s enthusiasm.

Let’s try and get the first med pass out by nine today, okay? He varies the pitch of his voice, as one would do to convince a child to do something unpleasant. The dentist will have new toothbrushes after your cavity. You’ll get a lollipop after your shots today.

Isn’t that a bit risky? I say with a cock of my head to soften my opinion. I rush as it is and can barely make it by ten.

Chuck can do it, he says over his shoulder as he walks away. Chuck gets here an hour before me. I don’t dare say this, not wanting to broach the subject of Robert wanting me to work all hours of the day. Instead, I take a deep breath to steady my nerves.

Robert’s energy has always clashed with mine. The med pass most certainly cannot be done in this short of time, and I will not rush through it and instill a higher probability of errors.

Robert is constantly adding tasks to my list, changing my hours, and wreaking havoc with my morning routine of getting the boys ready and out the door on time. I’m not one for spontaneity. My planning brain struggled last week when I had to change the type of dish soap I use because the store was out of my brand.

Diane, Rebecca, and I have a surface chat once Robert flits on to his next task. We discuss light subjects such as the weather and what’s new on TV, as if I have time at night to get attached to a show. It’s our daily five-minute discussion before diving into the never-ending requests from our residents.

I gather my trays and little cups to put the pills in, listening to Diane excitedly talk about the possibility of moving. I’ll sure miss giving baths if I move, she says with seriousness before we giggle at her joke. If I go, we should get together outside of work, maybe have a little party to say goodbye.

Sounds good, I nod, knowing I’ll never follow through with this engagement. It always sounds good to agree, but I don’t have time to fit a social life, well, into my life.

These women are nice, but I consider these hollow friendships. Nothing we talk about is profound. Rebecca is sweet, but we don’t have much in common since she’s nearly young enough to be my child. Diane has kids, but they seem picture-perfect, distancing her from understanding my own situation with the boys.

My watch buzzes with the daily reminder of my dinner menu at home. Darn, it’s lasagna night, I say aloud, moving my hands as quickly as possible to set the cups on the tray.

Why is that bad? Rebecca asks as she files papers in charts. I love lasagna.

It takes forever to make, and I’m working until five-thirty today.

Just make something else, Diane says with a swipe of a hand as she flips her curly black hair out of her white coat.

You know I have my dinner schedule. It’s lasagna night. The greens of my wide eyes flicker comically to emphasize my dedication to my four-week meal rotation.

My family doesn’t eat leftovers and get bored with repetitive meals. Therefore, I’m tasked with making a new meal every day except for pizza night, which is Nick’s night. It’s great that my kids aren’t picky, but their taste buds refuse leftovers…which I left on the counter at home today.

I don’t know which is better, to wing it every night, yet fret about what you’re going to make, or to be so strict with your meals that you can’t make any changes. Diane digs into the pile to help Rebecca, not realizing how her words have dinged me.

These problems are my own. I’ve altered my life in ways to deal with these hang-ups the best I can. If that means that I have a laminated meal schedule on the bulletin board at home with the associated ingredients, so be it. A mom has to save time when she can!

I know, I’m weird, I say, brushing off her comment. People don’t mean harm when putting their stamp of opinion on others’ lives.

Mr. Alders, one of our residents, approaches Rebecca with an angry look. I locked myself out of my room!

Again? Okay, let me get your key, she says, standing to get into the locked drawer of keys before handing him one.

What am I supposed to do with this? Mr. Alders asks, his eyes on the key like it’s a foreign object. I know him well enough to know that he locks himself out of his room at least three times a week for extra attention.

I’m not going to open it for you. It’s a snarky response from Rebecca, as usual. She laughs it off as if it’s meant to be a joke.

I’ll help you, Mr. Alders, I say, abandoning my stressful task at the med station to help. These little interruptions are what make the arduous job take longer. I’ve barely started, which should make picking up where I left off easy. Did you get new slippers?

My daughter brought them by. Do you like them? he asks, sticking his right foot out of his long blue robe.

They look cozy. Morning Mrs. Cline, I say to another resident, who gives me a pat on my shoulder. These people are my second family. We’ve lost quite a few residents in my seven years here, but the connections are worth it. I’ve grown to know each and every one of them. I know their favorite foods, medical histories, and daily routines. It’s because of this that Robert feels like I shouldn’t have any off hours.

Mrs. Cline makes eyes contact with me. Joanie, my toilet is making that hissing sound again. Do you think you can….

I’ll stop by right after my med pass, no problem, I answer without skipping a beat. I help Mr. Alders into his apartment and return to my station, only to find Robert waiting for me with a scowl.

And where have you been? This door is to remain locked when you leave, Joanie, he reprimands, his breath thick with the scent of coffee.

I needed to help Mr. Alders into his apartment again. Diane was here when I left, I say in defense.

"It’s your responsibility. I’m going to have to write you up for this," he says, writing on his clipboard.

Write me up? Robert, I was gone for one minute.

You know the rules, he says without heart before moving along. And Joanie, remember that number fifteen has a different dose for his Vasotec. You have the old dosage on the sheet, I noticed.

What? I ask, frantically reviewing the check-off sheet with each patient and every medicine and dosage he or she takes. It doesn’t show that for Mr. Miller.

His doctor called last night and changed it, Robert says irritably.

Who took the call? They are supposed to update the med list, I quip.

You should be checking the charts.

I shake my head, ready to explain that this isn’t how it goes. It would take eight hours to check every patient’s chart, Robert. Everything goes on the med sheet.

I know the rules, but you’re wrong here. Make sure you update the pill, he commands before leaving me in a cloud of judgment.

I sigh, knowing Robert will write me up on this as well, even though I suspect he’s the one who took the call. I swear my own employee file is thicker than some of our patients. It’s full of these little errors that are other employees’ mess-ups, not mine. Robert doesn’t see it like that, as he loves to target me.

I continue sorting the meds, swiping at the tears of frustration before they leave streaks down my makeup-free face. After Robert’s lecture, I diligently check every patient’s medicine list against every pill as quickly as possible with my brain on high alert. After nearly one-hundred cups are labeled and filled with accuracy, I carry the tray to the cafeteria to distribute the meds.

There she is with our goodies! Mrs. Grogan says, rubbing her hands together.

Other residents make their daily jokes about getting happy pills, as they call them, thanking me and offering small hugs. It does good for my soul to earn this affection. Lord knows I don’t get much of this at home.

After passing out the tiny cups of pills, I start my rounds with my twenty assigned patients. There are five of us CNAs on duty during the day. We help with showers and baths, change sheets, stock apartments with necessities, and serve as a general friend and counselor.

I first stop by Mrs. Cline’s apartment to make good on my promise to fix her toilet. You know, my son-in-law tried to fix it over the weekend, but he’s not very good at this sort of thing, she lilts in a gossipy tone. "Not like you. You can fix anything. They should fire that so-called maintenance guy."

I must have the touch, I say, not leading on to my past. It’s true. I can fix just about everything.

In college, my carpentry instructor said I was the most skilled and creative student in the program. Possibly the best he’s had. It was a natural progression for me to enroll in the carpentry school, having learned so much from my dad growing up. It’s what I wanted to do for a living: throw myself into the craft of making furniture or doing repairs for others. I figured the associate’s degree behind my name would be a good selling point had I followed through with my now-forgotten plans to own a repair business.

I smile, remembering how envious my two brothers were when the three of us made birdhouses. Mine wasn’t only functional but also what my dad labeled the mansion of bird homes.

You’re a magician, Joanie, thank you. That noise has been keeping me up the last two nights.

I’m sorry about that. You should be good to go now, I say, accepting her hug. It feels good to be given recognition. I try hard in every area of my life, sometimes to a fault, and it’s nice when others notice.

My phone dings with the reminder to check on Dillon’s behavior at school, as requested by his teacher. Nick and I have been called away from work several times to pick him up after he’s repeatedly yanked on some poor little girls’ hair or drawn all over the bathroom mirror with permanent marker.

Today doesn’t seem to be much different than the rest, with the report noting that Dillon has already sat in the hall due to excessive talking and that he played too hard during dodgeball and hit another kid in the face.

Played too hard? Is that a thing? I ask myself.

What’s that? Clint, one of the other CNA’s asks.

Oh, nothing.

Hey, do you know where the extra wheelchair is? The one in my wing is missing.

I roll my eyes with a smile. The night shift probably played that racing game with them again. Try the closet across from the breakroom.

Great, thanks, Joanie.

Joanie, do you know where the key to the supply closet is? Mr. Alders wants the special soap for his bath, another CNA asks.

Yes, it’s hanging on the lanyard behind the door in the med room. Robert made us turn in all our keys to the supply room, making it exponentially harder to access. He says we need to cut down on the budget, even though the last time I checked we were under for this time of year.

My feet have wings as I fly through a million daily tasks. Still, Dillon’s negative progress report is like a dark cloud hanging above it all.

My bi-weekly conference with his teacher has wrung me dry with reports of Dillon being unaffected by any type of authority. When Nick and I discuss what to do, it usually ends with us staring at each other, awaiting the other to devise a brilliant idea of how to tame both our sons.

I’m in a daze as the minutes tick by, wracking my brain for ideas of how to be a better parent. The carpet I’ve been staring at fades into a watery blur until a single tear slides down my face, returning me to my current setting. I’m still coming to when I turn to find Robert standing right behind me.

I practically leap out of my skin. Robert! You scared me.

His chin is set as firmly as his grip on his clipboard. You abandoned your post, Joanie.

What is this, the military?

I had to fix a toilet, and….

Robert laughs as if this has been a big prank on my behalf. I’m joking. Gosh, you know I don’t crack the whip.

Hardly.

Go ahead and start your regular duties, he demands, wandering off.

No, really? I mumble, rolling my eyes at his obvious command. I’ve secretly been vying for his job for the last year and a half. Lord knows we could use the extra money if I got the promotion. I’m not perfect, but I know I’m good at my job. Would it kill Robert to occasionally recognize that?

Chapter 2 Ready or Not

The report of my boys misbehaving at the after-school program is typical. Still, they are in trouble for entirely different reasons. At nine years old, Morgan gets in trouble for trying to be the boss of his peers. He’s been caught more than once for putting kids in timeout when they don’t follow his rules. Dillion is wearing thin on the staff with his antics. Messing with the teacher’s things, jumping from desk to desk, and switching name tags on cubbies are all in his repertoire of mischief.

Perpetual embarrassment leaves me tucking my invisible tail between my legs on a daily basis. The way the boys act reflects my lack of parenting skills. It’s something Nick and I haven’t made enough of a priority of, coming together to enforce stricter rules for the boys.

When Nick’s mom, Marge, lived in town, she told me I needed a firmer hand when they were younger so they wouldn’t get out of control when they were the age they are now. She used to watch the boys when she lived here and was the only person who could control them. After she moved, Morgan took it upon himself to try and be the one in charge. With my lenient tendencies, he has pretty much succeeded.

Tough day at school? I ask Morgan, lightly resting my hand on his shoulder. I should be used to the disappointment of his snub, but my feelings still fall as hard as my arm after he shrugs it off.

The kids in the after-school program are so stupid, he says with an attitude. One kid went to the bathroom and left the door open. Then he didn’t wash his hands! I’m inwardly amused at his description of what being bad is. Morgan has always been quite the stickler for rules.

We rush to the car with the freezing rain fueling our feet. Dillon, come over here! No matter how hard I try to scold him, my quiet voice never rings as loud as I intend. Dillon continues to run around the parking lot. Luckily, I’m the last parent of the day to pick my kids up, so no one witnesses him misbehaving in the parking lot.

There aren’t any cars, Dillon returns, ignoring my command.

Dillon, now, Morgan says seriously, starting toward him. Dillon comes back to us, though he plays it off like this was his decision.

Boys.

When we get in the car, Morgan immediately gives his brother a noogie on his head. Morgan, be nice, I say,