Someone compared me to a little old lady the other day.
I was talking to a new friend named Judy, who we met while on vacation in St. George, UT. She’s in her mid-70s and nimble as a bighorn sheep, spending her time hiking, playing pickleball and exploring the alien landscape around her, this New Englander in the desert, this widow to a husband of so many years now walking the world alone. She’s a storyteller, a raconteur in orthopedic shoes, and she makes the most delightful offhand comments.
We visited her house while on vacation a couple weeks ago. She sat down at the kitchen table and rifled through several guidebooks and pamphlets, suggesting various places we should visit while there.
“There’s a really good hiking trail in Beaver Dam,” she said, reading from a beige brochure, then looking at us over its pages with marked skepticism. “Well, I’ve never seen any beavers there.”