Goodbye Comfort Zone

As some of you already know, I recently became unemployed for the first time since 2011, so Robbie and I have begun content creating. (He’s more part of the content, and I, the creator.)

In May 2024, we became Rob & Teresa in Appalachia.

I’m not a pro at it. Heck, I’m not even great at it yet—especially the videography part. Interestingly, I lack in the promo part, too. This is odd, because for the past 4 years, this is what I’ve done—either teaching marketing or doing it; however, I’ve never done it for myself.

Honestly, it feels odd.

But if I want our endeavor to grow, I’m gonna hafta.

Wow, This Takes Time

Content creation can be monetized (I’m hoping that ours will supplement my staying at home and being available for Britni 100% of the time), but for it to start earning money, we need subscribers, followers, likes, comments, watch hours, etc. For instance, on YouTube, we need 1,000 subscribers and 4000 valid public watch hours in the last 12 months. Yes, that’s a lot. But not impossible.

Content creation takes time. First, you have to get the video (which, for us, happens after weeks of planning to get to the place where the videos are shot—we have to coordinate Britni’s care with my parents and Baxter’s stay at the resort). I get home with at least a few hours of raw (unedited) content. This is when the real work starts.

Did you know that on average, editing takes about 1 to 1.5 hours per minute of video. My most recent fifteen-minute video on Cool Cruisin’ Nights took about 30 hours to edit. Now, the more I do it, the better and quicker I’ll get, but even professionals would have taken about 15 to 22 hours to edit it. I worked during the early hours of the morning before Britni woke up, and a couple times had some creativity left in me at night after she went to bed to eke out a few more edits. Video editing requires—for me, at least—an unbroken stream of thought. Big chunks. Four or five hour stretches. I’m more of a “morning & earlier in the day” creative person anyway.

None of this is said with resentment or disdain. I love doing this. I’m just sharing what the editing part involves. Mad props to those content creators who are making a living from it—you are definitely earning it! Other places I can monetize are my blog and through my Amazon Associate store. When you order from an Amazon link I post, I earn a small commission on eligible purchases.

Doing What I Love

In 2019, I finally earned my BS in Communications with an emphasis in Public Relations, Persuasion, and Advocacy from ODU (go, Monarchs!) I’m tapping into that degree now…. using what I went to school for…and looking at every avenue for potential income supplements.

When I love something, I want to share it with everyone–I get passionate about it. Whether it’s

Cooking

Great shopping finds

Fishing

Gardening

Advocating for individuals who have exceptional needs

Music

Cars

Appalachia

Our beloved West Virginia

Our amazing Queen Britni…

And doing it—sharing & promoting—takes a bit more fancy footwork for us than your average folk. Besides Robbie & me, my Mom & Dad are Britni’s only caregivers, and they live an hour away. Britni doesn’t travel well without them with us, so when we make our short trips, she stays with them. For a two-night getaway, we must first ensure they’re available to care for her, then make sure there’s availability for Baxter to stay at Goin’ to the Dogs Pet Resort, then check for accommodations at our destination. As newbies, our outgo is more than our income because we have to spend money to get the content, from which we’ll eventually see a return (you see how I’m thinking positively?).

Makes Me Nervous!

Put $ out to bring $ in? This is way outside of my comfort zone.

But I’m 53.

It’s time.

Plus, the higher the risk, the greater the reward.

And since I’m already out of that comfort zone, I figured I’d go ahead and ask.

Would you like to show your support, and do it at zero cost to you? All it takes is a click or two. A tap on a screen. Perhaps a comment and a thumbs up (I’m not forcing a “like”, but those are much preferred over the ol’ thumbs down). And shares. When you share, it helps us reach people we never would otherwise.

Here’s How

Helping with our YouTube channel is easy. Subscribe, like, comment…and when you set notifications to all, you’ll get an email letting you know when we posted another video. (You can see how to do it here.) The time watched, too, is counted, which goes toward our being eligible for the YouTube Partner Program. Like I said, 4000 watch hours and 1000 subscribers in 12 months is a lot, but it’s not impossible.

Facebook—like the page, like and comment on posts, share on your page. Instagram—leave us a comment, hit that heart.

Just engage.

When you do, it shows these platforms we’re relevant, and they’ll keep pushing our content out there for more people to see. Your engagement doesn’t happen in a silo…it creates a ripple effect. And it is much appreciated. Not only does it help us, we love hearing from you! We love learning what others’ likes and opinions are just as much as we love sharing ours.

If you’re trying to get your business, or your content out there for the masses, feel free to share this information with your audience. Let them know how important these small, quick, and free actions are to you. Things that are too simple often seem like they don’t matter.

But they do.

And for each of you who has read through to this part, and subscribed, liked, shared, and/or commented, we are eternally grateful.

Robbie, Britni, and I thank you!

Lip Gloss & Cup Holders

I found this in old files…a recap of Britni’s 16th birthday party in 2008. I can’t believe so much time has passed since then, as I remember this day so vividly.

Lip Gloss and Cup Holders

Ahh…another good day. Britni’s party was haphazardly thrown together, which is so out of the ordinary for me. I’m usually planning and shopping six months in advance for Britni’s birthday parties, but because of some recent life-changing events, this one was “planned” in less than a week.

And a good one it turned out to be.

Her cake was yellow with buttercream frosting–green with yellow trim and a monkey on it. I had them write beside the monkey, “Goin’ Bananas!! Britni is 16!” (I love silly cakes…her 10th birthday she was hooked on the song “Old MacDonald’s Farm” so I had them put ‘E-I-E-I-O my! Britni is 10!’) The banana idea is because…well…she loves bananas! And of the few words she can kind of say, “Banana” is one of them, only she leaves off the “b”.

What did she get?

Ready for summer and ice cream!

She now has $151 and $26 in Dairy Queen bucks. I bought her a too cute tankini in orange and yellow that has orange slices all over it–it even has a sarong. From others she received a life jacket, a monkey beach towel, some bath gel in “Cherry Kiwi” scent, shampoo in coconut scent, a personal, handheld fan w/foam blades to use while she lounges by her pool, bathtub markers, sassy pjs in pink and black leopard print, and some much needed t-shirts. So happy about the DQ bucks…she knows where every Dairy Queen is within a thirty mile radius. We pass one of them after church on Sundays, and yes, more often than not, she gets an ice cream cone–vanilla, dipped in chocolate.

So much activity in my living room and kitchen for about four hours–kids playing with balloons, party horns being blown, squeals of laughter and inquiries for more cake and ice cream. In the midst of it all I looked over to the couch and saw Briana and Britni sitting together. Briana is nine…she told me last year that when Britni grows up, she and her friend Jordon were going to take care of her. “She is going to live with US because she can’t have a boy taking care of her!” Briana proudly announced.

BFFs

I noticed Briana taking the lid off Brit’s new sparkly lip gloss. I thought she would swipe some on her lips, but instead, she said, “Turn around here Britni, let me put some lip gloss on you.” Of course Britni did. Seeing that 9 year old putting lip gloss on my 16 year old’s lips warmed my heart more than one could ever know. While boys roughhoused in the floor bonking each other in the head with balloons and girls sat prissily on the couches, I was making sure guests had plenty to drink and had had all the cake and ice cream they wanted. Britni always seemed to have a friend sitting on either side of her, sometimes they were hugged up and showing off huge smiles while flashes from cameras illuminated the room.

A couple times I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Where is Britni’s drink?” one of her little girlfriends would ask. I’d hunt it down and hand it to them and they’d carry it to her and hold it while she sipped. (Britni can hold her own cup, but I didn’t want to deny them the opportunity to feel so needed by telling them she can do it herself. And to be honest, I think Britni herself allows others to help her that way because she knows it’s helping THEM feel important.)

Different, but wonderful

Her sweet sixteen. If she was a “typical” child she’d be talking about learner’s permits and cars and dates and dances at school and thoughts on where to apply to college next year. Some wonder, “Don’t you miss seeing her do all that?” In a word–no. I can’t miss what I’ve never experienced. My witnessing moments like I did today–the lip gloss on her lips, the cup-holding for her, the green, plastic bead necklace that she chose to wear with her black and white blouse with red patent leather belt–those things more than make up for it.

Yes…another good day.

You can read more about Britni here.

Mrs. B & Me

I couldn’t feel my fingers or toes.

But that was ok. I was on a mission.

christmas golden ornament on artificial coniferous garland with lights — Photo by Uriel Mont on Pexels.com

It was the day Santa was visiting. He’d be at my market pavilion that evening at 5:00PM, and I was preparing for his arrival. Kids were coming and the cookies were ready, and that morning at work, I had the nice surprise of finding extra lights in my storage area. (Our public works team had hung a few hundred feet of icicle lights on the farmers market pavilion the days prior.) Apparently, I, being spatially challenged, had ordered a couple hundred feet extra.

“We’re gonna make this Santa-space twinkly!”

Suddenly, I was Clark Griswold. I envisioned myself singing “Joy to the World” when I flipped the switch. I was working with a blank canvas in a new structure, knowing that no matter how many lights I found a space for, the festive part in my brain would be screaming, “More! More!”

But today…. the task at hand…was to get these lights up.

Interruptions

I was three hours in and the icicle lights were done. Now, lighted garland was being hung in six-foot increments. The sparkly star was up (not in its originally planned place—the wind was too fierce for it. The wind was. a. beast. Brutal, I say!) While I was squinting, standing back, and making sure the lights on the garland were spaced correctly, my Bose speaker belted out Brenda Lee.

About halfway into decking the rails, I noticed a work vehicle pull into the lot. The area isn’t public parking, and this vehicle parked perpendicular to the pavilion. My brain went into overdrive…”wonder what they’re doing”…”hope there’s no tomfoolery”…”am I going to have to ask them to move the truck”…”I’ve never heard of that business….”

The engine is cut off.

Burl Ives is in the background reminding me to have a holly jolly Christmas.

And I begin keeping a side-eye on them as they sit there.

My decorating finally took me to an area that required my facing them. I could keep an eye on them without gawking and I could see what they were up to. Suspicious activity requires that, you know.

I turned, and in the front seat I saw the driver eating something, and a tiny, older lady on the passenger side. “They’re just eating lunch,” I thought with relief.

Four minutes pass, and the passenger door opens. The gentleman comes around, assists the lady out of the truck, she straightens her peacoat, and begins walking in my direction.

“I need to walk around…my legs get stiff,” she said, as she made her way to where I was.

The man had already returned to the truck.

“I understand that!” I replied, as she made her way to me.

“I have issues with the arteries in my legs,” she continued. The doctor said I wouldn’t be walking in three years. That was six years ago. So, I make sure to get up & walk when I can.”

By now, she’d reached the area where I was decorating.

“Well, it looks like you’ve defied the odds—you’re getting around beautifully!”

A hearty laugh seemed to prompt the pointing of her cane. “My son is in that truck. I don’t let him know these things because I don’t want to worry him. He invited me to ride with him today for his work. First time I’ve done this!”

Our conversation seemed to just flow after that. I learned that…

…her bridge “didn’t fit right”

…she worked for an attorney without any formal training when she was 19 years old

… she worked for the railroad after that

…she lived in the very county where I’d previously lived almost 20 years

…she thought my daughter is beautiful (of course I showed her photos!)

…she was shocked I’m old enough to have a 31-year-old child (like I’m going to omit that tidbit…BOOYAH, FATHER TIME!)

…she believed in “divine appointments”

As she kept apologizing for taking me from my decorating, I kept telling her it was quite alright—she’s not taking me from anything.

Elegance & Grace

figurines of christmas trees and skiing reindeer — Photo by Ilo Frey on Pexels.com

I found myself smiling largely the entire time she spoke. Her red lipstick matched her pillbox hat perfectly, and her eyes twinkled more than the thousands of lights I’d just strung. Her white hair reminded me of the soft, fluffy stuff we used for snow in our mini Christmas villages in the 1970s. Like cotton.

“Well, you sure have done a beautiful job,” she said.

(It was just lights, a star, and garland…..)

She told me her name…. but to maintain her privacy, I’ll call her “Mrs. B.”

She told me her age.

Eighty-nine.

Mrs. B used to travel “these parts” with her husband, who had passed some years ago. She’d not been here in a while, and as a matter of fact, she and her son were headed to another town about 30 minutes north of us, but they wanted to stop for lunch.

My town it was.

In a non-parking lot.

Beside my Santa space.

Forty-five minutes had passed, and the feeling in my fingers and toes had returned. I walked her to the truck where her son stood waiting for her, and invited her to come back in the summer for our farmers market.

“Ain’t nothin’ like a homegrown tomato, and we have some of the best!” I told her. “I would love to see you one Thursday during our market season.”

“I may just do that!” she said, as her son helped her into the truck. “You sure have made me want to visit again….thank you!”

I stood, contemplative, as the truck disappeared over the hill. The wind blustered around me.

I pivoted and noticed the lights of Santa’s space. Heard the joyful sounds of Bing Crosby. Felt the tips of my fingers and toes. And noticed I was still wearing a smile.

My mind…my body…my heart….needed this pause…needed this reminder.

Thank you, Mrs. B. I believe in divine appointments, too.

Significance

If my eyes were closed, I’d feel like I was on my side porch in the summer, listening to the rain, the swing gently swaying front…back…front…back…

And as I watched her, I think she was thinking the same.

The Queen has had a few weeks of absolute astuteness (is there such a word?) She’s been awesome in letting me know what she needs & wants. Fuzzy socks. Her sunglasses cleaned. The car window down because she smells a dead skunk.

No worries, chinquapin, we rollin’ all four down!

She’s also seemed wired up, as I say. Full speed ahead. Rare form. Active.

Not bad things, mind you. Just “on” things.

So, I accommodate.

Night time routines

This evening, I readied her for bed. I collected her pj’s, a fresh towel, washcloth, and changed her bed sheet, while she sat on the potty reading a 13-month-old edition of my Harvard Business Review.

It was bath time.

Every time for the past few decades, I’ve had two methods of bath time: let the water run to warm, lift her into the tub, and remove the wand to rinse her while she sits in the tub; or fill the tub, add Epsom salt, baking soda, and lavender oil, and hold my arms under her to give her buoyancy to aid in the relaxation, then rinse accordingly.

But tonight…tonight I was going to let her experience something new.

A shower.

I stood her and stepped her over into the tub, the shower head spraying a rainstorm (that’s the setting) into the tub. Instead of sitting her down, I let her stand. Back to the spray. Water pitterpatterpitterpattering on her, warm water running down her head, to her back, shoulders, to her arms, and exiting out of her fingers that positioned themselves in front of her, tip-to-tip on each hand, as if instructing the droplets where to go.

Stillness.

She tilted her head slightly back and closed her eyes. I just knew she was relishing the feeling of the water cascading down her shoulders to the tips of her fingers. She stood silent. Motionless.

And I let her relish.

I was, too.

The power of water

We stood for 3 minutes. Then 5. Then 8. I worried that the water would turn cold. Or my arms would grow weak. Or her legs would give out. The water seemed to turn into tiny, rubber beads that bounced off her now caramel-colored hair. They ricocheted in unison. A cadence formed as we stood, her with her eyes closed, hands out with palms facing toward her, my hands and arms holding her weight…so she could experience what we all (at least most) have. I noticed her eyes closed, and a contented smile on her face as she soaked in her standing-shower experience. And I….became lost in the moment…my shirt soaked…my jeans now stuck to my legs.

It was bedtime.

I turned her, sat her down, and bathed her like I’ve done the past three decades. She was pliable, mellow, smiling, and what I perceived as happy for enjoying her first shower. Once finished, I stepped her over the side of the tub, dried her, lotioned and powdered her, combed her hair, sprayed it with Pravana (how’d she become so bougie??) and donned her in her cozy pjs—a combo of a t-shirt/sweatshirt and long-johns/fuzzy pants. And fuzzy socks. Have to have fuzzy socks.

To bed she goes. Teeth brushed. Drink of water. Monkey bear presented. Prayers said. Kisses given. Obligatory photos & videos…

“Yes, you’re beautiful,” I tell her. She feels prissy, and fresh, and relaxed and calm and Zen-like.

And I’m all emotional.

Thirty-one and-a-half years and she has her first shower. I’m thankful that He shows me the “little” things that can make a huge difference. The “little” things that bring huge joy.

I know I’ll never see mine the same….

Thank you, God, for making the seemingly insignificant so significant. It really does matter.

Toothbrushes, Combs, and Icy Hot

It was time.

My husband’s work car had been idle for 2 months and was in desperate need of a good washing and some TLC. I arrived home from work at the farmers market with energy to spare and wanted to do something productive.

“Want me to wash your truck?” I asked.

“Well, the White Car (she’s so old & reliable she deserves caps when referring to her) needs it badly.”

I looked over by the garage & saw what he meant–the grass was higher around her tires and instead of white, she now looked like a mottled grey. I was ashamed of my neglect.

“Oh yes, I’m washing the Grand Am.”

Husband started her right up & drove her into the bottom driveway while I retrieved the bucket, soap, scrub brush, and every other apparatus I thought I may need in her transformation. The music was playing on my blue tooth speaker, the sun was shining, and I was ready to get it done.

I’m going to add a side note here: I love washing cars. I love clean cars. I love cars. No, my husband isn’t horrible for “letting me” do it instead of him doing it. In truth, he never has an option. I wash the cars in the family. And I love it. Few things bring me as much satisfaction as seeing a car so clean and tires so black and knowing I did that.

But I digress.

I begin washing, husband sits on his tractor observing. Three minutes in to it I realize I’m going to have to use a toothbrush to clean around the trim, emblems, reflectors, and front & back glass before I do a full-body wash. Yeah, she was that dirty. <hangs head in shame>

Without saying anything, I go inside to get my detailing toothbrush. When I come back outside, husband says, “Aww…the car doesn’t need all that.”

“OF COURSE SHE DOES! What? Because it’s 20 years old and a “work car”, does that mean I shouldn’t show her as much care and attention as I would my Lincoln? Of course not! She deserves just as much—if not more—attention and care! She’s older! She’s weathered! She’d earned it!”

And I carried on.

Husband laughed & shook his head because he realized to whom he was speaking.

Attention to Detail

As Van Morrison played in the background, and the toothbrush flicked out all those bits of grime & dirt that my car wash mitt wouldn’t get, the thought occurred to me—isn’t that how some of the elderly in our society are treated?

Those who are older–those who have “more miles” on them so to speak–whose bodies are starting to rust a bit–do we look at them and think, “They don’t need that much attention—they’re old”?

Are they not as valuable?

Not as revered?

Not as appreciated?

I think that’s why I love seeing a 95-year young lady with red fingernails and learning that the activities director at her assisted living home painted them for her. Even better is learning that her great gran-daughter did it. Or seeing her with pretty pink lipstick and a touch of rouge (that’s what ladies over 70 always call it!)

My Mom and I smile as we share stories of “elderly encounters”. It seems inevitably she and I are asked for assistance while we’re out in public. Perhaps to reach a peanut butter jar. Or to read an expiration date on a package of bacon. Or carry an umbrella while they traverse across the parking lot with their walker.

Sometimes they just want to talk—and at length. I made two good friends through chance encounters at Fresh Market in Roanoke—one was a beautiful Italian lady who passed away fewer than a year after we met, the other a stylish, retired teacher who said I reminded her of her daughter who’d passed away a few years before. We became pen pals with the occasional phone call. She’s 93 now.

I remember combing my Pop-Aw’s hair for him about a year before he passed away. He couldn’t lift his arms enough to comb his hair as neatly as he liked, so I offered to do it. I even ran the electric shaver over his face and neck to help prepare him for his day. He always liked to look his best—no matter what the occasion. When I was done, I handed him the mirror to make sure he approved. He did.

I recall the October day I rubbed my Mom-Aw’s knees with Icy Hot. She was riddled with cancer, and it had moved to the bone. Her knees hurt. Mine didn’t. So I knelt, and rubbed her knees, lingering as we talked. I could tell she didn’t want me to stop, and honestly, I didn’t either. I wanted to extend that moment as long as I could, bringing relief to her in the only way possible, while talking about things that would make her belly laugh & throw her head back. That old, familiar laugh…..

She passed 3 months later.

While my car is just an inanimate object, I realized something out there in the heat of the sun while washing it. Attention to detail—it matters. Those “little” things. The toothbrush on the trim reminded me of combing Pop-Aw’s hair and rubbing Mom-Aw’s hurting knees. The little time it takes, but the difference it makes. Yes, I will take care of the older things in my possession, but I’ll take even greater care of the older souls in my life. Because here’s the thing–things can be replaced. Loved ones cannot.

Regardless of whether it’s an aged parent, or grandparent, or friend, or even stranger in the supermarket, take the time to notice. Be available. Listen to them. Smile. Be interested. Show them they’re just as important and valued and needed as they always were—or perhaps even more so.

May I always be conscientious of the details that need attention, and may I never be too busy to tend to them.

Adday’s Chopping Wood

New Discoveries

I stood the Queen at the window to watch her Adday (translated: daddy) chop wood for the firepit–first time she’d ever seen the event. Her attention was captured and stillness settled on her as she processed what he was doing. Her breath made a fog on the window, and the occasional nose print appeared when she tried to get an even closer view of this amazing and unusual activity.

Fascination

Once she understood what he was doing, she seemed to relax and immerse herself in every movement. He would swing the ax, she would bounce and giggle. We could actually feel the impact of the ax to the wood to the ground from where we stood in the house–which only heightened her mental participation.

The swing-thunk-crack turned into swing-SQUEAL-thunk-BOUNCE-crack-GIGGLE.

Adday stopped to catch his breath. B knocked on the window and emphatically shook her head “yes”–which was her way of telling him, “Do it again, Adday!”

And so he did.

May I always appreciate and enjoy the swing-thunk-cracks of life that could easily be overlooked.

The Queen’s perspective……..

The Queen watches as her Adday chops wood.

You can read more about Britni here.

Bedtime Rituals & Hair Brushing

Think about hair for a moment. We wash it. We brush it. We style it. We comb it. We pull it up in a ponytail or hide it under a ball cap. How many times a day do you have to brush your bangs from your eyes? We do it mindlessly. And at the end of the day, some of us take our hair down. Perhaps brush it again just before going to bed.

Now think about not being able to do any of that.

As I readied the Queen for bed tonight, we were going through her nightly ritual. Hands washed. Pajamas on after a slathering of “sleepy” lotion. Two pair of socks–“peh” as she calls them–the bottom layer are cotton, the top are fuzzy. She rubs her pointer finger across her teeth. “No, I’ve not forgotten,” I tell her, as I retrieve her toothbrush. After I brush her teeth and get her a drink of water, I get the hairbrush out of the cabinet.

She’s sitting on the side of her bed now, legs swinging, head down so she can look into her Meer and check her “pearly whites” as I call them.

And I begin to brush her hair.

She doesn’t look up. Instead, she watches me through the Meer, and I see her noticing her hair. It’s particularly shiny tonight, and I’m surprised by how the single light bulb in her ceiling light creates the look of spun gold in her strands.

I make sure her hair isn’t tucked into the collar of her shirt–and I keep brushing. Her legs swinging.

I take my time. Make sure to get from forehead to nape. Temples. Then back again. I lean in and sniff deeply, and am reminded by the citrus-scent that I used extra conditioner during her spa bath. Hence the shine.

Her legs stop swinging. She holds the Meer up and looks at me through it. “Ah na na,” she says. “I love you, too, Punkin.”

“Pretty” she signs, as she looks at her hair. “Yes, your hair is beautiful.”

A giant yawn nearly makes her face disappear and she lies back. I sideways kiss the dip above the bridge of her nose between her eyebrows, & tell her goodnight. I’m humbled. I’m thankful. Those small things that we take for granted, that we do without thinking, my sweet girl can’t do for herself. But I can for her.

And so I do.

You can read more about Britni here.

Waiting Room Observances

I had taken my father-in-law to his doctor’s appointment in Roanoke that day. Would have been so easy to see the event as just another day, and as many times as I’ve sat in the waiting area of a physician’s office, this day should have been no different.

But it was.

I observed couples filing in. And singles. And some entire families. One man walked stooped and with what looked like a broomstick fashioned into walking stick. What a mission he was on. Another lady who appeared to be maybe 5 feet tall (which included her perfectly permed hair) and every bit of 90 years old plopped into the chair at the check-in desk and proclaimed, “I hope the exam room isn’t too far away. I’ve already walked 2 miles!”

The volunteer quickly appeared with a wheelchair and offered her a ride to Waiting Area B.

“I don’t need that! What do I look like? An old person?” She snapped.

I chuckled to myself at her quick wit.

And then there they were. A woman of about 60 guided a tall, slender man who by appearance could have been her age or 20 years her senior—I wasn’t sure. He shuffled his feet as he walked, uncertain of his steps, and his gaze was somewhere….somewhere else. The lady companion spoke in kind and assuring words. “We’ll go over here.” “Come this way.” “Let’s take this over here.”

He followed.

As they approached, I noticed his pants were “high-waters” as we said when we were kids—then I noticed why.

The white ankle-band stood out like a neon sign outside of an all-night diner. The GPS tracking system was attached to his body, a sort of security in case he was lost. I choked back tears as I watched the two of them—her guiding, him following—and I wondered, “Is she his wife? His caregiver? His daughter? Who was the person who wants to make sure that while they’re losing their loved one, they won’t lose their loved one?”

My heart felt heavy and the lump in my throat grew. God bless this woman. God bless this man. We all are going about daily life, eating breakfast, jumping in the car, pulling tickets before we enter parking garages so those gates will lift and let us in, signing in, signing out, eating lunch, laughing about memories of birthdays past and planning for Christmases coming.

And here are these precious two—one guiding, one following. One remembering, one forgetting. Both loved.

I saw my father-in-law come through the doors and walk to the check-out window. I walked toward him as I heard him making his next appointment. He turned and smiled, and kind of half-jokingly said, “Well, if you like, you can bring me to the next appointment, too.”

I wouldn’t have it any other way…..