At 62

In the past decade, I have cared for and lost my husband of 20 years…watched my daughter graduate from college…started and continued to run my consulting business…vacationed in three European countries…gained and lost loved pets…traveled all over the US…married the love of my life…moved from Houston back to Arkansas after 42 years…learned all manner of new life skills…remodeled homes in three states…and lost the love of my life to cancer. And those were just some of the high points.

We think our younger years are the crazy ones. They are the turbulent years, the years of personal growth, the years we search for ourselves.

So why have these ten years – the ones that spanned my early 50s to my early 60s – proven to be some of the most life-changing for me?

Looking around, I think they are for others, too. I have friends who are suddenly small ranchers, who have adopted children, changed careers, entered early retirement with travel goals that assure they will rarely see their own front door again. My friends are caregivers – to all ages. This generation isn’t going quietly into that good night of our senior years. We are trying to cram our unfinished dreams into the life that remains. That’s healthy, I think. It’s also quite the challenge.

And many of my friends are facing the same challenge I am – figuring out how to live our lives on our own. It’s the change we never wanted. Learning how to cope after we are suddenly solo at a time when we were looking forward to the rest of our lives as part of a couple can be crippling. It is also terrifying, invigorating, and sometimes wretchedly lonely. But we learn, we survive, and we function – even mostly enjoying life on our own after awhile.

But it’s so easy to get stuck following the death of our other half.

I keep remembering how Michael blasted me out of my grief following Al’s death. “Are you getting on with the business of living, or the business of dying?” He gave me the push to clean out Al’s closet, to get rid of “stuff”, to finally just move on wholeheartedly with my life. Mike also gave me the courage to do the physical, outdoor things that I’d always wanted to do, and I knew he would keep me safe while doing them. I stretched myself in every possible way with Mike, and I’d never been happier in my life.

One of my friends told me, “I didn’t even have to ask if you‘d met a boy. I’d never, ever seen that look on your face.” I sparkled and glowed. And Mike did the same. He relaxed and opened up and laughed freely. We were both excited for the first time in so very long, and our future was packed with plans. As Mike told me, “If this cancer hadn’t happened, we would be having the time of our lives!”

But it did – and so here I am, at the end of these ten years, inconceivably, impossibly, coping with that alone place once again. It’s both easier and more difficult than it was the first time around. I broke out of my box of grief, and allowed myself to hope and dream as a couple again – and now, that door is slammed shut, and it’s just me. I’m working on creating an expanded family of friends, and eventually, looking forward to the Golden Girl years.

As this century turns, I must force myself to just keep moving. To get up each day and complete my lists, to put my plans into action. It sounds so simple, but some days it’s a huge challenge. Depression sucks the life out of a person. There are a lot of hours spent in memories, looking at photos, sometimes weeping, other times railing at fate. I’d say it’s a waste of time, but it’s not. It’s part of the process, part of the place I never again wanted to go.

There’s a tipping point to grief. You can either get sucked down into it forever, or you can claw your way out of it and survive. You don’t just climb out once. You hit levels and plateaus and ladders. But to survive it, you keep climbing up, towards the light, away from that soul-sucking darkness.

I don’t have a list of resolutions for this new year. No string of bad habits that bug me enough to fix – except working on better time management and the necessity of losing weight. There are a lot of things I still want to do in my life. Most of them are way out of my comfort zone, but I’m going to figure them out. I’m not done yet.

I would say my resolution is just that – resolution. The resolve to keep moving forward, to keep healing, to keep learning. The holidays threw me into an overload of 62 years of memories and sent me spiraling down into unexpected grief, but those firsts are now over. It’s a new year, a new decade, a whole new opportunity for surprises and adventures.

Walking into it wrapped in love…at 62.

It’s the 20th of December. Catlin is coming for the holidays. I’m peaceful and warm in a (finally!) decorated house, baking pies, listening to my friend Ken’s Christmas CD and wishing I was in Magnolia hearing him sing live tonight. These carols are his own, not traditional favorites, and they’ve become some of my most favorite holiday songs. They are about small-town Southern Christmases, and just like Mike did, they bring me full circle.

Christmas visions always show families gathered together – crackling fireplaces, grandparents, parents, little ones, warm, cozy and perfect – generations passing traditions on down to the next generation. Yet there are so many of us tonight who aren’t with the ones we love, who are finding our own happiness and peace in ways that we never planned.

Holidays bring memories. And at 62, time has dulled my bad ones and added sparkle to my good ones. I never feel alone at Christmas. The love that has flowed to and from me over my life washes over me with each decoration I place. Gifts from friends, from co-workers, conjure up their faces, their voices, and the laughter we shared.

And then there’s family. Or in my case, the lack of it. My childhood ended way too soon. Mama and Daddy left this world when I was in college. For the rest of my life, I was destined to create my own family. I’ve been blessed with three wonderful husbands, all now gone from this earth. I never expected that. I always thought that I would be with one man until I died. But God had other plans, and my life has been fuller and happier with each new love added to my heart.

Jim gave me Catlin, along with half a lifetime of love and friendship. I look at our trees, and I see flashes of my early 20’s and 30’s in Houston. There are our nicknamed ornaments of Kermit and Miss Piggy, the start of the Hallmark collection, the frosted blown glass balls and hearts from the Original Christmas store. Jim started our tradition of wiring the Christmas tree to the wall after the year it slowly and gracefully tipped to the floor. I sift through memories of Catlin’s childhood, her Nana and cousins, all the holiday celebrations with kids running everywhere. Nana’s cornbread dressing, Mama’s fudge – the grandmothers continue to bless our table.

Al was Jewish. He plopped his menorah in the center of the table and said, “There. I’m decorated.” Yet, he semi-patiently helped me set up all the Christmas trees in their stands, and created the annual “chunk-Catlin’s-tree-out-of-her-upstairs-window-into-the-front-yard” tradition. His mama’s rhinestone brooch is the first ornament on our antique tree. We thought that good Jewish lady would enjoy that, and we always felt blessed when we placed it. Now, Al’s prism and star from the nursing home join it as the second and third ornaments in line.

So many traditions came from the 20 years that Al was part of our lives. The annual English Christmas cards, the Revels Houston performances, our menorahs, Christmas crackers, gifts under two trees, Kentucky Derby pies, the cheesy corn recipe from our neighbor, our Christmas lunch menu…the list of memories is long. Al loved to give gifts, and he put so much thought into the selection of them. He gave me things I never knew I wanted, and I continue to love them today.

I still shake my head and laugh when I think of Michael’s reaction to our celebrations and rituals that first Christmas we spent together. He gamely participated, but it was totally foreign to him. We talked a lot about it, about our childhood holidays, the respective holidays over our married years, and where we were now, starting a new life together in the fall of our lives.

Mike surprised me. He actually wanted the full-out sparkle, the love and the traditions. He had no problem with my menorahs. And being Mike, he quickly added some touches of his own. Our menus changed. Boiled eggs appeared in Nana’s dressing. And in the beginning, he told me to just go get what I’d like for a gift. Nope, I told him. You need to figure out what I’d like. A gift is from love. And so they were, carefully chosen gifts that made me smile, made me laugh and made me cry.

And now he, too, is gone. But I swear, I was walking through the dining room earlier this week. I’d been cooking, getting ready for friends to come to dinner. I heard in my head, as clearly as if he was standing there, Mike’s voice. “If I was there, we wouldn’t be having a damn chicken casserole. I’d be grilling STEAKS!” And laughing through my tears, I realized that I’d never wanted anything so badly in my life as to see Michael Farrell Powell in front of me, just loving me and making me laugh.

Holidays are hard. First holidays after a loved one dies are supposed to be the hardest. At 62, I’ve lost so many. My parents. Catlin’s Nana. Al’s dad. Friends’ parents. Relatives. Jim. Al. And now unbelievably, Mike, the husband who was supposed to be with me for the rest of my life.

We have choices, here at the holidays. We can mourn our loves and remain sad and depressed, or we can be happy and thankful that we had them. We can choose to keep them alive through our stories about them, through our memories of them, through our everlasting love. We can celebrate the guardian angels who are all around us, and thank them for their vigilance and care of us. We can realize that our tears are cleansing, shed from love. And that’s why, sitting here alone in our living room, listening to Ken sing, I’m not alone at all. I’m surrounded by love, a love that stretches back all the way to my birth and beyond.

And I am blessed beyond measure…at 62.

When we bought our home in Dover, Mike begged me to decorate with as little clutter as possible. Keep the walls bare. He needed a totally different look than he’d had in the past. But when it came to the holidays, he urged me to pull out every single bauble and ball, every bit of crystal and tinsel. Mike loved my vintage holiday decorations – and the fact that every one of them had a story.

Michael had never celebrated Christmas like we did, with annual traditions and rituals. He was a surprisingly eager participant – even to wearing flashing lightbulb necklaces and Santa Claus head boppers! We added some new traditions of our own, along with a large number of happy memories and funny stories.

When Mike died, Catlin looked at me and said – “I guess we go back to sad Christmases again.” And I stared at her in shock, and vowed that wouldn’t happen. So this year, I’ve opened boxes. And boxes and boxes and boxes. With each box has come a kind of healing, a reminder that I’m never alone. Our saints and guardian angels are closer than we realize, especially at Christmas.

Christmas memories are unique to each family. Our Christmas ornaments are among the top items that we say we would most hate to lose. These little pieces of glass and plastic cement us to those no longer with us…to our children long grown…and to places and times that now exist only in memory. Christmas ornaments capture our past in ways that few other objects can do.

In our family, they date back to the late 1800s. They survived from WWII, and many come from the 1930s – 50s. I started avidly collecting in 1979, and have amassed easily over a thousand ornaments on my own.

As I’ve opened boxes, I’ve found the Lord and Taylor box where I stashed the Victorian feather tree. My grandmother fished it out of a neighbor’s trash can back when the calendar had just changed to the 1900s. Mama kept that little sucker going for decades on our mantle. It now lives with Grandmama’s lead tinsel, countless figural lights and antique ornaments in this treasure box of Christmases past.

Daddy had his first heart attack when I was five. Two things I remember – one, for several days, until Daddy’s paycheck came in, a Sara Lee chocolate cake that someone brought us was the only food in our house. Mama and I took very small bites. And two, we made a little Christmas tree for Daddy’s hospital room that we decorated with salt dough ornaments. Mama dyed the dough with food coloring. We cut out green trees and pink bells, sinking sequins into them. They grace her cut glass dish in my china cabinet today.

Catlin’s handmade gifts from elementary school sit on the secretary beside the little match holder I made at Mrs. Mitchell’s kindergarten. A couple of Mama’s childhood toys with advertising slogans on them rest easy on the bookshelf.

Mama’s hands were so crippled from RA that she could barely open them. Yet she made the most fragile ornaments out of cut-up paper doilies and tiny magazine pictures. Catlin made me another set for what would be Al’s last Christmas. They had a Beatrix Potter theme, decorated with antique buttons – from “the Janes”. It was one of the most meaningful gifts I’ve ever received. Mama also made tiny wrapping paper hobby horses and tin foil puffs. And Daddy gave me the moon and the stars when I was born – small gold-foil-covered cutouts he’d made of a full and a quarter moon, and two stars. They are always the last thing placed on the tree.

Our crèche figures came from Sterling’s Five and Dime on the Magnolia square. I found their twins in Arezzo, Italy, decades later. Daddy crafted the crèche out of wood, branches and grasses he’d cut from our yard. The floor is shredded grass and the roof is made from dried reeds. It’s at least 50 years old now.

My felt and sequin stocking is tiny compared to today’s kits. Mama made it, and I treasure it. Catlin has two stockings – one felt and sequin that I made – with a train on it as a nod to mine, and the second a beautiful one that Mama’s best friend knit for her at birth. It arrived with a simple note – “Your mother loved Christmas.” And I will hang Mike’s stocking – the sequin and felt woodland cabin with bears that I made him just last year. He was so proud and happy that, at 62, he finally had a stocking made just for him.

The list goes on and on – and we all have that list. Even if it’s just one precious item…even if they are duplicates for which we’ve searched to replace items long lost to time…a huge part of our Christmas memories revolves around these small bits that we see only once a year.

And I believe that makes them even more precious. We never tire of them, since we see them for such a very short while. From the moment the Macy’s parade Santa comes into view until we pass through Epiphany, their time with us is brief. Yet we keep their memory in our hearts throughout the year.

Each Christmas as we age, we treasure these old friends more. We make sure their stories are passed down to the next makers of holiday magic, knowing that one day we, too, will be part of the fabric of Christmas lore and blessings.

But this year, we are still here. We joyfully continue to make holiday magic for ourselves and those we love, both present and unseen…at 62.

Fall is my favorite time of year. The colors – gold, rust, cranberry, orange, red – nature shows her best, most flamboyant self at the very end of life. Winter’s coming – brown and bare – but right now, there’s a show going on outside!

Fall is also my favorite time to take a drive. There’s a new color around every corner. Pumpkins. Sheaves of wheat and bales of hay. Gourds. And even through Christmas is knocking on the door – Mother Nature is keeping a firm grip on her November finery.

Gus and I took a three hour spin around our neck of the woods today. Found a tiny craft show. Had lunch at a great Mom and Pop restaurant. Gus always gets lunch leftovers – but I found out he’s not a catfish fan. Last week’s BBQ was much better received! It was a great mountain drive before heading home to do chores.

Driving back to Dover, snapping fall leaf pictures all the way, I had the radio cranked up to our favorite country station. I’m rolling along and thinking. Enjoying the sun and the colors. Remembering happy Mike memories and grinning. Having a few wry thoughts about standing in the fall of my own life, at 62. Feeling kind of like these leaves, wanting to put on as much life and color as possible before winter arrives, but having a hard time getting into it these days.

Just as I turned onto our mountain, a Toby Keith song came on the radio. It was a song that Mike and I laughed through again and again – “As Good As I Once Was”. It was our most favorite “best buddy-OMG-remember when” song. And as I listened, they all came flooding back – a lifetime of memories – the ones I lived and the ones Mike told me – about the times when we were, indeed, bulletproof.

I drove up the mountain laughing. I’ve listened to this crazy song for the last half hour. I see Sherry and me in our most audacious 20s, young and carefree. I see Jim and me, wondering how we survived some of those years – as we liked to shake our heads and say, “It was a good 80s…!” I see Catlin and me as a new mom. I see all the chances I took in my life – all the times I just jumped off that roof and prayed my cape would land me safely on terra firma.

And I see Mike. That slow grin and those dancing eyes, having a blast telling me of his exploits – some stories he’d told dozens of times, and some just to me. I see him and Scotty, brothers to the bone, and a lifetime of catching each other’s back. I see him and Joe, laughing that special laugh that only lifelong buddies share. I see his full-out go-for-it daily attitude that caused him to kick cancer to the curb for eighteen months – while renovating our cabin, setting up our world in Dover, driving 6000 miles to Alaska, and laughing most of the way.

And now, sitting here in the last amber rays of this glorious fall day, I’m not nearly as melancholy about 62 as I’ve recently been. Even with the new aches and pains, the realization that I can’t do physical things as easily as when I was 30, and this loneliness I never thought I would again have to endure – it’s still not yet winter for me. And I think I will keep playing this crazy song just to remind myself of that.

I promised Mike a lot more adventures and a lot more laughter lived through me. And I won’t break that promise. The initial crush of grief is past. My mind is sifting through possibilities, working on plans for what’s next. I’m not 30 – but I’m still here. God willing, there will be plenty more chances to say it –

Stand back and hold my beer…at 62.

All my life, I wanted twin recliners in the den. Instead, I always had some form of couch and/or loveseat combination. Then I found that Mike loved recliners. Score!

When we moved into our home in Dover, we had two old ones. They sat side by side. Both had good views of the TV, the windows, etc. But the one on the right had access to two tables and two lights. It was directly in front of the TV set. I dubbed it Command Central.

When we started merging homes, Mike moved his things to Dover first. He claimed his spot. He left for Alaska, and I finished moving the rest of my things up from Houston. I started in the other chair, then decided what the heck? I’m here. I get Command Central.

I settled in. Had my paperwork center, all my notes, my magazines, etc. close at hand. The recliner functioned as my desk and phone center as I got our utilities straightened out, dealt with the movers, etc.

When Mike came home, he graciously took the other chair. Said he was just fine there. Then one day, he “forgot” and sat in my new chair. It didn’t take long before he’d slid right back into his place as the lord and master of Command Central. He took a lot of teasing from me over it, but his rump remained firmly planted directly in front of the TV!

We celebrated that fall with new den furniture. We replaced the old recliners and bought two new big cushy, comfy ones. We often wished we had the nice long couch we took to the cabin, but we enjoyed our own separate space and place, too.

For the past six months, Command Central has remained empty. After Mike died, I cleaned up his TV tray, but I left his tables alone. I’ve been sitting in the other chair. It’s not exactly just as Mike left it, but it’s pretty close. It was comforting at first, but no longer.

After Al died, for five years, it was like he’d simply gone to the store. Everything was pretty much where he’d left it. It wasn’t good for me, but I couldn’t bring myself to move his things. Mike helped me move forward, and I promised him I would never do that to myself again.

So as I clean the house from a summer’s absence, it’s also time to clean up Command Central. This time, I realize I’m not making Mike disappear. I’ve just decided it’s time to use the space. He’d be quite pissed at the thought of a BarcaLounger shrine in the den.

I look at all that’s left on his table. Scattered pens, little bottles of hand lotion, a couple of unopened energy drinks, hand sanitizer, a scattering of screwdrivers, zip ties, pill bottles, a bag of Kit Kats and so much more. It’s a combo of Mike in full energy mode and Mike fighting cancer.

So. Tonight, I finally did it. I moved back into Mike’s chair. I cleaned up his space, put some things away, boxed some memories and tossed what was no longer needed. I once again have direct line of sight to the TV, the use of two tables and two lamps. I’m sitting here as I write this, and it feels good. I’m cozy in our corner. It feels like a very large hug.

Every day, I feel Mike pushing me to find my own energy again, to move through my own days in full-out mode, and to reclaim our house to reflect our dreams, not his illness.

Mike will never be gone from our home. Our possessions are mingled, our memories are strong. We talked a lot about this. I promised to live for both of us. That’s the one thing he pushed me to do after he died. To live fully – and don’t dare freeze in place.

Settling back into Command Central…at 62.

I learned something new this weekend. I always knew that a man walks on the outside of the woman as the couple strolls down the street. He protects her from danger and from splashy puddles.

But did you know there’s a protective side of the bed? Half my Southern friends seem to know this – the other half are as mystified as I. Come to find out, the man is supposed to sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door. That way, when shooting at an intruder, he doesn’t have to shoot over his wife to eliminate the threat.

This started me thinking, and I’d say that theory depends completely on how the bedroom is set up! But yes, that seems to be the pattern. For most of my life, I’ve been guarded by a silent protection that I never knew was happening.

I’m an extremely independent woman. I’ve always had a career, usually brought in an equal (or larger) income, shared household and childcare duties, could shoot my own intruder, and my positions required out of town travel and attendance at evening events. About the only thing I looked for protection from was large bugs!

But there is an interdependence in a committed relationship. We take care of and protect each other – we have someone to shop with, a listening ear, a built-in dinner companion, someone to fetch Kleenex when we’re sick, and financial support to help pay the bills. We teach each other life skills. In short, we have each other’s backs.

When Mike came into my life, I was protected in ways I not only didn’t ask for – but in ways I didn’t fully realize until I stopped to think about them. He just naturally took the alpha role, which took me a minute to get used to, but I found I enjoyed it. He loved and praised my independence, but he also enjoyed standing between me and the world.

In 2017, we moved two homes into one. We spent months packing, sorting, selling, lifting and moving truckloads of stuff. Mike left for Alaska after his final load, leaving me to drive my big Penske moving van on my own. I was not pleased.

But we both knew I could do it, and do it I did. When I got to Dover, I just looked around and laughed. As much as he could with what was there, Mike had set up the house for my arrival.

The bed was made and the curtains hung. The shower was set up with my shampoo, soap and shower puff. I’m deathly allergic to wasps, and there were no fewer than three brand-new cans of Raid beside each door and along every porch railing. And on and on – I found little kindnesses all summer long. He might not have been there to meet me – but he was protecting me all the way from Alaska.

Those unexpected smiles and silent hugs made that long, hot summer of unpacking and setting up our home much easier to enjoy. Those are the sweet things I miss now that I’m alone. I find it more than ironic that the woman who had such a hard time letting herself be cared for – and who winded up enjoying it wholeheartedly – is now, once again, forging ahead on her own.

I guess the bottom line is that we take care of ourselves in this life. Having a partner eases out the bumps in the road, and just flat makes life a whole lot more fun. Sometimes, life makes other choices for us, and we have to find that fun all by ourselves. Whether single or together, there are all kinds of protection that we give each other along life’s journey. Just checking on a friend is a blessing – for both of us.

Enjoying the acts of protection I both give and receive…at 62.

As I write this, there are exuberant, racing footsteps dancing above my head on the second floor. I’m alone here, and for a second, I freeze. Then I relax, realizing it’s just Gabriel, feeling the oats of a crisp fall morning, as he moves into his fourth year of life.

Houses creak. One of our windows regularly gives off a gunshot sound, startling all who are near. There’s never a crack, never a nick, nothing has hit it. It just randomly enjoys making us jump. The first time it happened, Mike was instantly outside, looking for damage to the glass. As time went on, we just shrugged and kept on about our business. Houses creak.

I remember one of Michael’s early texts to me. He was in a happy place, thinking of his mama, and feeling her close by as he did chores that morning. It was a blessing, a benediction, knowing he was doing exactly what he needed to be doing, in a brief moment when all was right with the world.

My daddy was a woodworker by hobby. He created the most beautiful inlaid boxes, wooden albums, and a table I cherish. I used to watch him by the hour. Years after Daddy passed, but before the time of Google, I decided to refinish our dining room chairs. I’d never done it, and I honestly had no clue. From nowhere, the knowledge of what to use came to me. The type of stripper, the type of oil, even how to cover the seats – suddenly, I felt Daddy’s hands on mine as I worked. The peace and the satisfaction he found from reclaiming the wood poured into my hands. All these years later, I can still feel that sunny afternoon on the deck and the wood under my fingers.

Halloween candy beckons me from the store shelves. For me, that’s always been my favorite night of the year. I still remember the first Halloween when Catlin figured it all out – those magical three words opened doors and yummy treats spilled into her basket. That year, I’d spent hours re-making a black satin witch costume that Mama made for me when I was tiny. I added big golden sequin stars and sequin swirls to the cape and hat, and made a fluffy black tulle skirt to go over the original. I helped Mama made her grandbaby a costume, even though she was no longer here to do it. I still see the golden flashes of sequins I sewed into that voluminous skirt as she seemed to float above the grass as she ran. Mama Magic.

Fall is my favorite season. It’s a time of riotous color, of apple cider and cherished recipes. It’s a time of beginnings, a time of change, and a time of closure. It’s a time of family and friends. It’s a time of memories. It’s a time of ghosts.

And as we add more years to our tallies, those ghosts – both real and of memory – grow more numerous. It’s our task to keep adding to our family treasure chest, creating traditions and passing along skills – all while celebrating and embracing our years well-lived. Someday, those skills will bless our loved ones well into the future, as our hands invisibly cover theirs to do what we no longer can.

Loving the ghosts who continue to bless me…at 62.

I came to Houston, Texas in 1975, one week out of high school. I’d grown up in Magnolia, Arkansas – a town of about 11,000 people on a good day when all the cows were home.

It was a marvelous place to grow up. We got wonderful educations, had a firm religious foundation, and were fed and molded by a group of talented Southern women and men. Magnolia was a sturdy launching pad. We had everything we needed to thrive.

When I left for Houston, Daddy cautioned me not to sunburn the roof of my mouth. I didn’t understand him. He said that I’d be standing in the middle of the road, mouth open, head back, staring up at the tallest buildings I’d ever seen. He actually wasn’t far wrong.

I took to Houston like a duck to water. Loved being able to see, do, experience anything one might imagine – all on a 24/7 basis. I shopped for groceries at 2am many times. Walmart was open all night when Catlin had a school project she’d forgotten. And I loved the anonymity of it. You could tell your entire life story to anyone – confident you’d never meet them again! Houston was like one big amusement park, and I loved it.

I spent 42 years here. I traveled all over the country. We often vacationed as a family in cities – Chicago, Los Angeles, Seattle, Montreal, Ottawa, Quebec, and many more.

But as the years went by, I found myself planning more and more vacations in small towns, mountain retreats – places to stop and breathe. Just breathe and look at anything other than concrete. We moved to the suburbs, to a place where I could see open fields. The constant busyness started to be just too much “too much” for me.

Mike never thought I could happily leave this city – the 4th largest city in America – and follow him to two of the smallest towns in the US. But I did, and I never looked back. It was actually an easy adjustment.

Driving into Houston today for the first time in two years, I found myself in a bubble. I negotiated eight lanes of traffic by rote; didn’t even have to think about it. I enjoyed looking at everything, thinking about places I’d like to see with Catlin during my quick trip. Gus was in shock looking out the window – he’d never seen that many cars in his life.

And I realized I was counting the days until I saw my Arkansas mountains again – and wishing I was in Alaska on the C-Dory, listening to the whales blow.

Mike lived his whole life away from a city. In 2016, he headed for Houston to live with me. That lasted about two weeks – he realized very quickly there was no way he could do it. I would have to come home with him.

I wish I could tell him that now, I understand his decision. And I wish I could tell him that I never appreciated how much love it took to offer to leave his outdoor life behind to come and live in my world – and when that didn’t work, how much love it took to offer me the smoothest transition possible between our two very different worlds.

I did tell him – over and over – how grateful I was that he brought me to Alaska and to Arkansas. How blessed I was that he gave me our two beautiful worlds – and that he taught me the new skills I needed to live in each one.

But i never got to tell him the biggest lesson I’ve remembered from our growing-up years. The lesson that Mike knew well, because he’d lived it. The race in life isn’t about possessions. It’s not the car you drive, the clothes you wear or the house you live in that makes you who you are. It’s the community you support, the people who have your back – and those who you support in return. It’s the neighbors you watch out for, the kindnesses given and those received. That’s what truly matters in this world.

And yes, there is some of that in the city. My friends, neighbors and bunco gals were always right there for me, and I loved them for it. But there’s much, much more of that grace in the country.

And that’s where I find I choose to remain…at 62.

Home is where our loved ones are. Until they aren’t.

Home was 503 Olive in Magnolia, Arkansas for my first 18 years of life. Once Mama and Daddy died, it was just a house that I was eager to be rid of – even the memories seemed to be gone. They’d moved on – into my heart, and into their things that were now in my adult home.

People tried to blast me out of Houston, Texas for 42 years. Job offers, relationship offers, interesting places to live – nothing enticed me from my adopted home.

Until Michael Farrell Powell held out his hand and said, “C’mon, darlin – life’s too short. Come with me. Doesn’t matter where we are, as long as we’re together.”

And that’s all it took. A friend of mine once said about her husband – “I’d follow that man anywhere.” I never understood that – until Mike came back into my life. Wherever Mike was, that was home.

When I walked into our home in Coffman Cove this summer, my knees literally buckled in grief. It was just as we’d left it in October. Mike was everywhere – he took my breath away. But as the summer went on, it became our home again, in a very different way. And it was good. Mike watched over me all summer. And the community of friends who I love so much helped me start my healing process.

Now I’m back home in Dover. I got rid of all the medical stuff and anything related to Mike’s cancer before I left in June. But Mike is still everywhere here, in every corner. I left for the summer in a hurry, and it shows. The house needs to be set up again. The suitcases unpacked. Every single place I look needs cleaning, picking up, redoing. It will take time. It will take tears. It will take love.

Because now it’s my time to take Mike’s and my world – the world that we made home – and adjust it. To keep Mike’s memory in our home. To continue making the improvements we were working on. To keep putting it together and building on it. To keep unpacking, for heaven’s sake. We only had six weeks here before cancer hit and put everything on hold. The to-do list is long, and both Mike’s and my tasks are on it.

Home is where our loved ones are. And if they are no longer physically present, they live rich, full lives right here in our hearts.

And in the end, home is where WE ourselves are, all on our own…at 62.

Mike and I planned to be in Coffman Cove, AK every year from roughly May 1 until sometime in October. Our plans were to be residents in two homes – with one foot in both of our Arkansas/Alaska communities that we loved. With Mike’s death in mid-April and the Canadian ferry service ending 10/1, this year in Coffman was cut way too short.

Mike never thought that I could make it alone in Coffman after he passed. I proved this summer that I can. What neither of us fully realized is that I wouldn’t be alone. Not really. Not for a single day.

This was the summer of the grandmothers at Powell’s Place. Our dear friends, the Holtmans, had two moms to house. So Kate’s mom, Ann, had the lower cabin for about six weeks. Josh’s mom, Cindy, had the upper cabin for about five months. And I had our home for almost three months. We were all close to the same age, and there was a lot of laughter, cooking, a few karaoke nights, and a couple of great bonfires involved. There was the blessing of new friendships – one of the main reasons Mike and I wanted to run rental cabins. We both simply like and get along with most people, and we’ve kept up with many of the folks we’ve rented to over the years.

The community that I’m so blessed to be a part of just flat rallied around me this summer. It was an amazing – and unexpected – gift. We all take care of each other in our small world. I was determined to learn as much as I could this summer, and vowed not to depend on anyone for help on things I could do myself. I was so grateful for every single lesson, helping hand, and cheering section comment from our neighbors. And I was most grateful for the tasks done – paid and unpaid – that I could not do (either yet or ever)!

This was also the summer of deepening friendships. This was our fourth year in Coffman Cove. Every day this summer, I learned more about our friends here. We shared meals, shopping trips, crafting days, fishing trips and expeditions. I was offered ready shoulders to cry on and reveled in many hours of happy laughter and stories. I heard so many newly-told tales of Mike, some that made me laugh, some that made me cry, and some that reminded me again and again how much he loved me and how blessed we were together.

This was my summer to work on healing. My summer to spend trying to get used to being on my own again without Mike. Due to circumstances beyond my control – or Mike’s – that was more challenging than it needed to be. Mike always told me that my easy trust in people needed to be laced with a good dose of skepticism. I always pushed back against that notion, but I’m beginning to think he was right. I’ve done a lot of praying about it, and I know that God will lead me to the answer, just as He has so many times before.

So. I’m sitting at the front of the ferry, watching Canadian islands stream past. The wind is whistling through the windows, so strong that it’s pretty much impossible to walk along the outside railing. Prince Rupert is in view. That’s the start of our vacation home.

It’s time to pop the summer bubble. Time to go home and see my daughter who I’ve missed so much. Time to see old friends and make new ones. Time to get back to work for real. Time to deal with new challenges. Time to learn more country girl lessons on our place in Dover. And time to make ready for next summer in Coffman Cove.

Time. Because after the not-so-very lazy days of summer, there’s really no point in wasting a second of it…at 62.