I shared a brief conversation with Dolly Parton at a Nashville music awards show. I was volunteering as a seat filler (thank you, Jennifer DeVault) when Dolly stood next to me at the back of the room. She giggled and chatted with me like a girlfriend about the “army of people” who had to “cram” her into her tight costumes between sets. I was struck by her tiny size and friendly personality. She was as warm and down to earth as I had imagined.

This photo is of my pal Jennifer and me at the Boots & Bling Fundraiser for Dolly’s Imagination Library in Laurel, MS, in January 2025—several years after my brief in-person meeting with the star. I treasure that brief Dolly encounter and the music she created that was and continues to be the soundtrack to my life.

I am inspired to live more fully and with more kindness to honor Dolly. May she rest in peace.

This giant flag flew in her honor this week at a campground in South Dakota.

Sometimes we just know when we have found our people. We will be smiling for a long time about the people we met and reconnected with at last week’s 69th Annual International Airstream Rally where more than 1,100 of our fellow Airstreamers converged on Minot, ND.

“Community” is defined many ways, but the definition of a “feeling of fellowship with others as the result of shared common interests and goals” is the one that best defines the Airstream Community. We come from varied backgrounds, religions, races, and geography, yet we share a bond over our love of adventure, new experiences and travel, while embracing the comfort of our shiny homes on wheels. It’s no accident that the Airstream headquarters in Jackson Center, Ohio is called the “Mothership.”

This year’s rally featured how-to classes on everything from solar installation and Airstream maintenance to crafts and cooking. There was a tongue-in-cheek prom, a tea party, a Pickleball Tourney and vendor, craft and thrift expos. The fun included music with several jam sessions and a wonderful orchestra and choral show followed by an ice cream social. Folks worked out together in the gym, on bicycles, running, doing yoga and line dancing. In between all the fun, attendees donated 181 units of blood, packed thousands of backpacks for students, and donated cash and food to the community of Minot.

Meeting some of our favorite Airstream YouTubers at the rally was fun. They were all friendly and willing to answer questions about their lives on the road and how they make content.

Another highlight for me was meeting several authors at the vendor expo. Of course, I bought books from each author I met—just doing my part to celebrate folks who are getting it done (published!). I have already finished reading two of the books I purchased and am starting on a third from a different author. The two books I finished were cozy mysteries (featuring an Airstream) written by D.W. Maroney. Super fun reads! They inspire me to want to try my hand at a cozy mystery—stay tuned! The third book, which I just started, is by Bev Everly and is the first in a series of “Adventures of the Shiny Hiney” (a third book in the series is to be released next year). I didn’t know what to expect from Everly’s book, but so far, it has me smiling and crying. Good stuff.

I am hoping the authors will do a discussion panel next year at the 70th Annual International Airstream Rally in Rock Springs, WY. Either way, Tony and I are all signed up and making plans to gather with our people next June. In the meantime, I am off to Alaska!

Here is the scoop on four of the rally’s authors:

D.W. Maroney has two cozy mystery books available currently and a third to be released soon. https://dwmaroney.com/

Bev Everly has authored two books about the Adventures of a Shiny Hiney, The Trailer Trash Chronicles. https://beveverlyauthor.com

In the “Perfect Unfolding” Kristy Halvorsen tells the story of her seven (now 9) years of solo Airstream travel. https://kristyhalvorsen.com/author/kristy/

Brian Smith has authored four books about camping, including “Aluminum & Dust: Life Lessons from a Year on the Road.” His books are available on Amazon, as are the books of the other authors.

The Netflix program, “The Game Changers” was literally a game changer for us. The program tracked athletes who used a plant-based diet to increase their performance and even to reverse disease. Bored, we thought, “What the heck? Let’s try it.”

Our initial enthusiasm was high until we realized we didn’t really like many vegetables, didn’t know how to cook them, and even hated some of them. After that reality check, we set out to learn to eat vegetables. We Googled some recipes, but our lack of veggie experience led us to too many iceberg lettuce, cucumber and potato recipes and very little else. Inspiration came in the form of some meal prep delivery services. We ordered vegetarian meal delivery kits from various companies, including Blue Apron, Purple Carrot, Marley Spoon and Hello Fresh.

It might look like beef, but this salad has walnuts made like “beef.”

Some recipes were quickly tossed, but others became regular menu options at the Fish house. By following the recipe cards, we learned how to season food that has very little fat and no white sugar. We used extra lemon and lime zest, herbs and even some chili pepper flakes. To make veggies yummy, we had to train ourselves to add a little more heat in the form of spice to our meals.

Veggie Chili

The meal kits also allowed us to try vegetables we previously thought we hated. There are still a couple of holdouts, but the variety of plants we regularly eat has grown in the six years since becoming vegetarian.

We no longer order the meal kits but saved the recipe cards from the winning meals. Hello Fresh was our favorite company.

Full disclosure, I will eat grilled salmon or shrimp when we dine at some restaurants. I really enjoy grilled shrimp street tacos on corn tortillas with onion and cilantro. My husband does not eat fish. We both eat eggs, but not often and we keep cheese to a minimum, treating it more as a garnish than a food group. We even make our own plant-based “milk.” Tony likes to joke about “milking” the almonds and cashews.

We are surprised at how easy the transition has been. We aren’t vegetarian for ethical or religious reasons, so if we host Thanksgiving and our guests want a turkey, we will prepare one. We just don’t eat it. Luckily most of our guests are intrigued, trying to get healthier themselves or just willing to eat our vegetarian food. Even more impressive is that many friends over these last years have gone out of their way to prepare vegetarian meals for us.

Our health and grocery budget numbers have improved. Our fridge is usually full of a variety of veggies for salads, quinoa, beans of various types, corn tortillas, a wide variety of fruits and herbs and potatoes.

Moving to Mississippi in January 2024, often rated one of the least healthy states, has made dining out challenging. Even the salads are loaded with meat. There were no vegetarian or vegan restaurants in our area. We have learned to order bean tacos at our favorite Mexican place and broccoli and rice at the Chinese place. If we eat out with friends, we just order a baked potato and side salad or veggie sides and enjoy the company. Our change in diet has given me a new perspective on food. I look at it more as fuel now and less like mindless entertainment.

Maybe in a few more years, I will enjoy cauliflower. Then again, maybe not.

Love adding fruit and tossed walnuts to salads.

My Grandson, Theo, & Mimi in 2024 in Florida…Hugging it out!

Hugs. I love them. Love to give them. Love to receive them. Defined by Merriam-Webster’s (Yep, the dictionary still exists!), to hug is “to put your arms around someone especially as a way of showing love or friendship” and “to stay close to (something).”

That explains my love of the hug.

Who doesn’t want to express friendship and stay close to folks we care about? I used to work at a church where hugging was not only allowed but encouraged. Wednesdays were a midweek hug fest because of a wonderful group of huggers, the Wednesday morning prayer warriors. They ranged in age from their mid-60’s to mid-90’s and when I asked if they wanted “a squish,” they responded with some warm hugs. That human connection is so important.

I have said before that I believe social media (despite contrary claims) helps bring us closer to people. We can keep up with grandbabies, graduations, and weight loss. We see vacation photos and exchange words of encouragement or humor. We can even arrange to visit when we learn that a friend is headed in our direction for business or pleasure. But nothing replaces human connection and eye-to-eye contact. That is why I have developed what I call, “The Hug Tour.”

On our travels, I try to cram in as many physical meetings with people I care about, no matter how brief those encounters might be. When we lived in Virginia, I rushed to Reagan National Airport to hug a friend as she climbed out of an airport shuttle before scurrying to catch a plane back to Alabama. We shared some laughs, a few hugs, and of course, a selfie (or two!). When we email, text or Facebook message, the connection seems deeper because we have SEEN each other.

I used to babysit Trish Clarke’s son!

I appreciate the friends who will meet me for a quick lunch near Sacramento Airport in California before I hurry off to see family in Redding. Or Trish Clarke, who volunteered to drive me back to Sacramento two days later, saying that the chat in the car made the more than two-hour journey (each way!) worth the trip. That’s love! Trish is planning a trip to Fishissippi this fall where we will hug and catch up. And then there’s Terri and Mario who always put us up for a night or two in Sacramento before driving us at the “butt crack of dawn” to the airport.

Terri Corona & Me in California, 2026. Pals since high school.

Now that Tony and I are roundtripping in our Airstream some nine months out of each year, our lives are one big Hug Tour. Our recent hugs were in Wisconsin, three different friends from our Fort Campbell, KY military days. One couple we hadn’t seen in 20 years, and for our other friend it had been a decade. With all, it was as if time never passed. We talked nonstop, catching up on all life’s details and reminiscing about shared memories both funny and sad. These connections in our travels feed my soul more than seeing a beautiful new location.

Heather Conroy met us in her home state of Wisconsin in 2026.

When I let folks know that I am on a Hug Tour, it sets the expectation that there is only time for a brief, but important visit. Expectation management is a big component of a happy life.

Several years ago, I got to see a high school friend, who I had not seen in years. Guy Farris messaged me on Facebook that he would be in DC for a few days for business. That week, my life was crazy and it was a stretch, but I left work to hop the Metro and meet him for lunch (and a hug and a selfie!). I am so glad I did. I left our lunch, thinking that I need to spend more time with Guy. We had many fun times as teenagers. He reminded me of the time when with a couple of my girlfriends (who shall remain nameless to protect their reputations), we thought it would be funny to embarrass “poor Guy.” So, when he walked out to my parents’ backyard where we were in the bubbling hot tub, we tossed our bathing suits out at him and said, “Hi, Guy!” We had assumed he would be embarrassed. Wrong. He calmly shut the hot tub bubbles off, leaving us exposed and begging him to return our suits. What is that expression about never assuming?

Friends with long memories can keep us humble. The world is small and life is short and unpredictable, so let’s hug it out!!

Guy & I reunited again in 2026 when we road tripped to California.

My main criterion for cars remains:

1. Does it run reliably?

2. Does it have good air conditioning?

(My teen-age home of Anderson, CA was often at least 100 degrees on summer days and our current home in Mississippi is hot and humid!)

My Mustang was blue. I still identify cars primarily by color. Makes and models are a foreign language to me and frankly, I really don’t care about all that.

When I was in my 40s, some friends were throwing a surprise birthday party for me at a fancy nail spa. One of them worried that the surprise would be ruined when I recognized their cars as I was led into the venue. My friend, Amy Smedley, laughed and assured the worrier that “Judy doesn’t recognize cars at all.” She was correct. Amy led me past the cars of all the guests, and I did not recognize a single car despite seeing most of them many times and even riding in several of them.

Cars don’t impress me. I do enjoy spotting vintage cars and cool paint jobs, but I am terrible at naming what I am seeing.

So, to me, a Mustang II sounded fancy and sporty. I was later assured that my automatic car was neither. Despite that, I was proud of it. Before becoming a car owner, I shared my parents’ old super station wagon with the decal paneling and a V8 engine that caused it to idle at more than 20 MPH. It was a beast to park and to prove that I crashed into a cute VW in the high school parking lot one school morning. The damage to the VW was thankfully minimal and the owner, a fellow classmate, graciously allowed me to offer cash for the repairs. The only damage to “Big Bertha” was that the front driver’s side was a bit rumpled and the wood decal was peeled back, leaving a scar that never healed and so remained evidence of my poor parking. (Side note: I am still not a great parker).

My Mustang gave me freedom to drive my friends to movies, the mall and restaurants. It taught me about car maintenance. The car’s thermostat conked out on the freeway one hot afternoon and I had to flag down help (this was before cellphones). That thermostat and other repairs taught me that purchasing a vehicle is not the only car-related expense. My car needed new tires, oil changes and other maintenance. I even paid $300 for a spiffy new blue paint job—I had my teen-age priorities!

Kathleen Tresser, Me & Guy Farris, circa 1980 something

My pal Guy Farris once taped homemade stickers on my Mustang’s bumper. I drove for days sporting those silly tags “Honk If You Think I’m Sexy” and “Call Me, Judy Baby” with my phone number! Guy taught me the importance of walking around my car before driving off.

Guy’s homemade car “tags.”

This Mustang starred as our “getaway” ride from our wedding on May 20, 1984. My brother Jake and several friends decorated the Mustang with shaving cream and paper. The shaving cream left shadow words that remained until I sold her.

My brother Jake picking birdseed out of my hair.

The newlyweds heading to our getaway car.

Beloved Corning friend & neighbor Sylvia Clark hugging me.

That day came sooner than I had planned. Just a few months after we married, I sold my Ford to our mailman for his son for just $700. I needed the money to buy a one-way ticket to Korea to join my soldier husband. I would worry about how to fund my return flight home another time! Ah, to be young!

The newlyweds in Korea, July 1984.

Grandma wore thick strappy white sandals with reinforced toe pantyhose. She had false teeth and tight grey curls, and I thought she was a fairy princess. We three Jones kids loved our Grandma C or at least that’s the way I remember it. For a couple of summers, we got to spend a week or so at her Sacramento home. There were zoo visits, Fairytale Town visits and trips to Kmart.

Grandma Connelly was not legally our grandma. She had been married to my mom’s dad for a few years when my mom was still young. Grandma left Grandpa MacDonald because he was abusive, but she loved my mom and her older brother, Reggie, and stayed in their lives. She was my favorite Grandma—real or not.

She loved her “great grandchildren” too. While we were living in the Netherlands, I wanted our children, Kelsey and Cory, to have a special quilt to keep with them to remind them of all the people who love them. I sent squares of fabric to friends and relatives. The designs that came back to us were sweet and creative. Grandma Connelly made those squares into two beautiful quilts for Kelsey and Cory. I like to think of those quilts as a group hug.

Grandma C is rocking the cool shades. I am on her lap. My mom, Kelsey, Cory, Jessica and Trevor round out the happy group.

Some of my favorite memories with Grandma involve that iconic store with the bright red logo. We could spend hours in Kmart—chasing blue light specials and eating greasy Kmart tacos—and if we were lucky, popcorn! Blue light specials were fiercely competitive. The store’s loudspeaker would announce, “Attention, Kmart shoppers, there’s a blue light special on aisle 12” and we would be off at a run. Items were marked down only for a few minutes (while the blue light, much like a light on a police car, swirled). Customers would frantically crowd whichever clerk was making the markdowns. If it were an especially great buy, Grandma would tell us to “guard our cart!” while she elbowed her way to the clerk with an armful of merchandise. People were known to occasionally swipe items from other customers’ carts. It was a great marketing tool. We would exit the store reluctantly, worried that we were missing future awesome specials.

Grandma meeting me while her daughter, my Aunt Mary, peeks over her shoulder.

On one visit, I remember our younger brother, Johnny, embarrassed Grandma at the checkout line. Johnny called Grandma “Baba” in those days. While Grandma was writing out her check (the stores still accepted checks!), Johnny proudly and loudly said, “Baba, take your teeth out!” He was so pleased with Grandma’s awesome trick that he wanted to share it with the other Kmart shoppers. Grandma tried to shrug off his request, but Johnny repeated it loudly several times, so she acquiesced and spit her teeth out. Grandma was a good sport.

My grandma was always quick to laugh at herself. She loved telling the story about the time she made her famous fried chicken for her pastor. Grandma worked in her hot kitchen frying the chicken just right. She then made homemade chicken gravy and mashed potatoes; my vegetarian mouth is watering just thinking about Grandma’s fried chicken dinner. After the table was set and her guests were seated, Grandma proudly presented her chicken. After grace was said and as the food was passed, Aunt Mary said, “There is a fly in the gravy.” “Oh, no,” Grandma assured the guests. It’s just a piece of chicken. Aunt Mary, who was 12 at the time, insisted it was a fly. So, Grandma plucked it out and ate it and the meal carried on. Later Grandma confessed that she ate the fly to save the meal!

Thank you, Kmart and Grandma Connelly, for the memories.

My dad and Grandma Connelly in 1964.

My day started in a beautiful way. A phone call from Kelsey woke me up around 7 AM. We chatted for more than an hour while I made my smoothie and got into my bathing suit. I was at the pool as soon as it opened at 9 AM. For one glorious hour, it was just me and my pink noodle bobbling peacefully. As I floated on my back and looked up at the palm trees softly fluttering, my ears only registered sounds muffled by water as I breathed in the scent of orange blossoms and pool chlorine. I felt weightless, happy, grateful.

My mind wandered to this time last year when our planned trip to this very campground in Palm Springs was canceled after an unexpected fourth hip surgery the previous month in Arizona. The blessing of being able to walk to the pool and swim a year later feels miraculous. As I marinated in the warm pool water, counting my many blessings, an eagle soared over the pool—a sign to continue soaring.

Never mind that I waddle extra now; I can walk! I have heard from more than one doctor that a wheelchair could be in my future, so every crooked step is a gift to be cherished. Barefoot on the pool deck, I walk with more of a thumping stumble. Without my built-up shoe, my leg length disparity is pronounced. Sometimes sunbathing campers look alarmed as I stumble to the stairs to go swimming. If I catch their eyes, I often joke, “Don’t worry. I am not drunk, just lopsided.” They usually laugh nervously—most likely uncomfortable laughing at my disability. Laughing with me is always welcome.

On this precious day, no one had to witness my trek around the pool, and I feel graceful in the water. The water is a fabulous equalizer where my leg lengths don’t matter and I float as if I am a beautiful mermaid (a girl can dream, right?).

I alternate between working out by performing every water aerobics exercise I can remember and floating, dreaming, and counting my many blessings. Tony, my partner in all things, tops my list of “Thank you, God.” Our children, their spouses and our wonderful grandsons are next. I will travel in a few days to Israel to help Kelsey and Nimrod welcome two more to their family. I am grateful for our growing family and for being able to travel.

My list of blessings is long and for that I am grateful too. Many of you make my list of gratitude by blessing me with your friendship.

How would your perfect day start? Wishing you many moments worth cherishing.

Xoxo

Judy

PS Thank you to one of my besties, Suzanne Boyer, for taking these photos on an earlier fabulous day.

I am still smiling from all the birthday fun yesterday! My day started with a video from my grandsons in Israel, a sweet call from Kelsey and a mushy card from Tony. Then my long-time friends, Sandy & Suzanne (who had traveled to Palm Springs from Washington and Boise to hang out with me for a few wonderful days), joined me for spa mani/pedis. If you know me, you know we were molting boa feathers and rocking tiaras all day!

Following our pampering, we returned to our new favorite lunch spot, the Cup Café, for a fabulous lunch with Tony. Cory and his adorable fam sang Happy Birthday to me over WhatsApp.

After an afternoon of swimming, Sandy and Suzanne surprised us by taking Tony and me to “The Nest”—a fun piano bar, where we enjoyed a delicious dinner and danced and sang until I became hoarse. I feel spoiled by all the love I received from the many friends, who texted, called, emailed, messaged and posted.

I am deliciously tired with the good kind of muscle fatigue earned from swimming, dancing and walking. The happy tired from catching up for several days with dear friends. The relaxed sleepiness that comes after I have said all the things and laughed until my sides hurt. When I fall asleep tonight, it will be with a smile and a sigh of satisfaction. Thank you, Sandy, Suzanne, Tony and all who messaged or called. You made my birthday one for the books. I am a lucky girl.

For example, when my mom died, I was devastated. I felt remorse for not seeing her more often and sadness that she no longer was just a phone call away. I found gratitude in that her suffering was over. I was grateful for our weekly phone calls and the important role she played in my life. As the years since her death have piled up, so have the many ways that I realize my mom influenced my life. My gratitude for her life and even my understanding about her life continues to grow. She lives on for me.

During my unfortunate incarceration, glued to a bed without a right hip for nearly 10 weeks in a rehab center, I quickly realized that I could literally wallow in despair or intentionally find some reason to smile every day. I started posting what caused me to smile each day and that brought more smiles. My Facebook friends probably thought that if a card, call or visit made me smile, they could do that and they did! Some days a friendly staffer (cue night nurse Margaret and Debbie the housekeeper) made me smile. Flowers delivered to my room made me smile. A baked potato at lunch was smile worthy (the food sucked). Even my nightly TV date with Angela Lansbury on the channel that ran regular marathons of “Murder She Wrote,” made me smile and feel as though I was having a slumber party with a dear friend. Jennifer DeVault showing up with McDonald’s ice teas and chatting for a bit always made me happy. The weekend that Amy Smedley spent hanging out in my rehab center room was a highlight that included laughs, and foot and face masks. Other friends like Laura Stamper, Diane Bonnell and Mayme Hickman made regular visits, bringing food and comfort. Diane blessed me with foot care and Mayme hysterically washed my hair in bed, soaking me, my bed and the floor making the cranky nurse crankier—which I enjoyed immensely. I was supremely grateful for Tony’s arrival every morning and his constant care. In this otherwise depressing time in my life, I was rich with love and blessings, and I had plenty of time to recognize the blessings and savor them.

Thumbs up to the zany bib that a dear friend made. Eating while reclining in bed is no joke, but this sweet gesture was definitely smile worthy!

There are obvious reasons to be grateful (being alive, my fabulous family and loving friends), but it can be helpful to look for the small blessings. A green traffic light when I am in a hurry calls for a quick silent prayer of thanks—or even an out loud prayer when my passenger seat is empty. Finding enough change in the car for my Laurel hometown newspaper or a new season of a favorite television show. Calls from our children, grandchildren and dear friends always make me smile. Time with them makes me ecstatic. I will never regret time spent with those I love.

I like to joke that even attending a boring event or party can be fun. Just think of the funny stories we’ll tell about that experience. The same is true of mildly irritating life events (flat tires, head colds, parking tickets). When something unpleasant happens, I like to start mentally writing the stories that will be told about the event—often over and over again!

I am so grateful for my life that I absolutely refuse to waste a moment of it wallowing in a bad time. Bad times pass quickly when I am focused on all that is wonderful in life.

I joke with Tony that while we are still travelling in our Airstream now, someday we might want to slow down and sit in rockers on our front porch—I call this phase the sit-on-our-porch-and-dust each-other off years. May we be so lucky to live long enough to enjoy that life chapter.

For today, I will just imagine myself young and fun and ignore that I have more life behind me than in front of me.

Wishing you a youthful, gratitude-filled day!

PS. I chose this photo because it shows me happy despite my age spots and grey hair. I especially love that it shows a stray grey hair on my top. Shedding grey hair still surprises me!

Mother and daughter in Morocco celebrating our birthdays.

My eyes start at my oval fingernails, that thankfully are healthy and strong. Despite getting regular manicures, I don’t paint my fingernails. The paint requires more maintenance than I am interested in at 61. Red nails were my signature in my 20’s. My brightly lacquered nails complimented the huge 80’s earrings I wore. Much like the nail polish of my past, I stopped wearing the earrings until I discovered decades later, that I no longer could get an earring through the sealed-up scar on my earlobe. I recently got nostalgic and had my ears pierced again at a tattoo parlor. Are my naked fingertips ready to revisit their colorful past?

My eyes travel down my fingers visually jumping over my swollen arthritic knuckles to the back of my hand now decorated with age freckles, evidence of my more than 60 summers, multiple seasons of cheering on my children’s sporting events and sitting at military ceremonies on bright sunny days as my husband and his fellow soldiers lined up on fields in Kentucky, Kansas and even Germany.

My hands tell stories with bumps, freckles and scars. My mind travels to the joy of holding hands, such an easy act but conveying much. As young children, holding hands meant safety when my parents held my hands to keep me safe from traffic, strangers or other unforeseen dangers. Holding hands signified friendship when as a young girl, I would prance around the school playground, holding hands and swinging arms with my besties. Having another child hold my hand meant belonging and safety for there is safety in numbers.

As a teenager, holding hands became romantic. I remember the thrill of holding hands with a special someone in a dark movie theater or on a walk. The excitement of those first innocent encounters stayed powerful, until the hand holding progressed to kissing and beyond. Hand holding keeps its intimacy but loses some of the breathless thrill once other intimate activities have been sampled. Sweaty palms are a sign I am excited or nervous.

I remember my husband taking my hands in his at our wedding altar. His strong hands held my future in his safe, sexy grip. During our 41 plus years of marriage there have been many times where I reach out for my husband’s hands. Sometimes for comfort. Sometimes because just stroking his fingers or palm sends a shiver up my spine.

I appreciate beautiful hands. My husband’s hands are perfect. Strong fingers. Beautiful skin tone. Cuticles and nails are always neat, but not too fussy. He has strong hands that are callused enough to show he is not afraid of hard work but are not rough.

His beautiful hands held mine as I gave birth to our babies. Then we had two new people and four more sweet little hands to hold. “Hold my hands as we cross the street,” I would say to Kelsey and Cory. “Stay with your sister, please. Hold hands.”

My husband with our newborn son’s foot.

When our children needed comforting, they would want to hold our hands. “Hold you,” our son would say. What I would give now to make their adult worries go away by simply holding their hands.

My father was always a hand holder. I have memories of watching television with him where he held my hand. I saw him more than once holding my then-teenage brother’s hand. He taught us that affection is good, warm and caring.

When we pray, we often hold hands to increase our connection. The same is true when someone is sad, nervous or scared. A squeeze of their hand says “I am here for you. You are not alone.”

When my father was sick during his last days on earth, my siblings and I took turns sitting with him and holding his hand. We wanted to reassure him that he was not alone. His once strong hands had shrunk to thin fingers with soft skin. Dad has been gone five years now. I still yearn for the comfort of holding my dad’s hand.

But life continues and our family has grown. We have four young grandsons who hold our hands and our hearts. Holding those tiny, sticky fingers, sometimes with mud-caked fingernails from playing in the garden is one of life’s sweetest pleasures.

One of our sweet, sticky grandsons, Elior.

An invisible infection monster entered my body last March and began nibbling away at my femur. By the time I found a surgeon to help correct the situation, a portion of my femur had to be removed along with my artificial hip.

The damage was so severe that I spent the next nine weeks flat on my back, bedridden in a rehab center while I was pumped with intravenous antibiotics around the clock. Those weeks were easily the most uncomfortable and frightening weeks of my life. If I allow myself to think about that poor woman (me), I cry.

While I was living through it, I tried not to let “my eyes leak” for fear I would succumb to despair. Instead, I focused every day on finding at least one thing to be happy about. I made a game of posting on Facebook each day, why I smiled that day and what had made me smile.

A wonderful thing happened. As I looked for reasons to be happy, I was given more joyful reasons. I heard from people from all stages of my life. I received phone calls, texts, letters, cards and flowers. Friends traveled for hours to sit with me. People brought food and gifts. Some rubbed my feet.

In looking for joy, I found love. When people told me they were praying for me, I felt physically wrapped in prayer. While most of the staff were either doing the minimum required or not doing their jobs at all, there were a couple of angels. The two-night-a-week supervising nurse still texts me good morning every day and I enjoy a Facebook friendship with the housekeeper, who was always a bright spot in my days.

The biggest sense of peace, joy and love came in the handsome form of my husband who sat with me often 12 hours a day. He also made sure I was fed—no small feat in a rehab center—and took care of my intimate care when the staff failed to do it.

In October 2024, I left the hospital with my second hip of the year (sadly, not my last) and a new appreciation for the small joys in life: like showering, using a toilet and sitting up. So, as I look down and see the chubbier, shorter woman sharing a chair with me, I feel grateful.

This wacky, unbalanced relationship is a gift. I am walking, living and enjoying my life. I have learned to love my lumpy friend. I left the hospital with not only a new hip, but a new appreciation of how fortunate I am to be loved and cared for by so many amazing humans. They will never know how they kept me going with every kindness, no matter how small.

Photo of some of the beautiful gifts when I got home from the hospital in October 2024.

The leg photo shows my right thigh extra swollen. It was dislocated again. Photo is before the surgery in December 2024.