It will rain today.

I can say this with authority because I made a deal with God six years ago today. I asked him if it had to rain, could it just rain everywhere but at our venue, and then it was free to rain every year on our anniversary, as long as it didn’t rain on us today?

And it didn’t. And it has. So it will rain today, I can guarantee you.

Indeed it rained all around us on our wedding day: it rained on my carriage driver and horse on the way in, they had to pull over and tarp the carriage. It rained at my house. It rained within a half of mile of us all afternoon. But not a drop fell from the sky at the Historic Ramsey Plantation. Sweat drops and tear drops were in abundance, I will say.

Wednesday, I had the pleasure of leaving the office and visiting a farm of one of my old Co-op customers. He happens to be one that I bought a quarter of a cow from a few years ago. He has a gorgeous place; his house sets on top of the hill, overlooking his spread. We met with him and his wife on the front porch, and settled ourselves on the cushioned swings. There was enough breeze to keep me from sweating a drop, even with my hair down. It was the perfect day to be on a call.

I knew his wife had been having some trouble with her health, but reports are kinda vague when it comes to older people’s ailments. But it didn’t take me long to discern what was wrong with her after we sat down to discuss the land tracts we could help with.
Her mind is gone. Always a good hostess, she offered me something to drink no less than fifty times. She wanted to know what we were doing, if we we’re buying the farm. This concerned her. She also didn’t like that we were with the government, so I would lead with how much money they would be getting every year to improve some of their property. That settled her. She was sure proud of the work they had done over the years, and pleased with her life on the whole.
I don’t even know how to write this to make y’all understand.
She knew she was eighty, when in fact she’s eighty-two. She gazed wonderingly when she pondered that she’d made it that long. Her parents died long before they’d seen their 80th birthday. But she didn’t partake in the type of lifestyle they led. She remembered she had two sisters, and she knew her husband’s brother’s name. She thought she might have had a brother at one time, “who was Bud??” But couldn’t place him and waved her hand away, dismissing the thought with, “I’m 80, it’s hard to remember.” And she’d giggle light-heartedly. What’s important to her now is being on the farm. She told me again and again how it was wonderful being away from everyone and raising your kids where they had room to roam. Their driveway is a literal country mile and she walked it every day to get the mail. Not anymore, of course. And did I mention their house is on a hill? She didn’t know how long she’d been there, forty years at least (46). She didn’t know how long they’d been married. She didn’t know how her husband got his nickname. She knew what schools she’d gone to, she knew her daughter was the oldest and her name, but she didn’t know how old she was or what she did for a living.
She thought her sons lived in Sevierville, but she wasn’t sure. In fact, one is in Mexico. We ran through the same conversation over and over, but surprisingly, it didn’t bother me a bit. I was content to sit there and answer the same questions and enjoy the view and the breeze. Not bad for government work, if you can get it.

I went to learn more about our programs, and what paperwork is involved, and see first hand what improvements can be made through my office’s assistance. Instead, I re-learned how to be patient and how to relieve someone from a caregiver position, if only for a few hours. I’m reassured I’m where I’m supposed to be, every minute of my workday. I wasn’t a stranger to this couple, even though I was a stranger to her that morning. The husband was comfortable leaving her in my care for a bit as he and Amber toured the farm discussing options and rested his mind from his new daily worries.

I’ll tell you what else I learned- when your mind slips, you still know what’s important. To her, where she lived was important. Making a home is important. Having friends to go and do is fine, but your life should be at home, with your husband and children, if you have them. “Lucky you!” she said again and again when I told her I had no children. She felt bad that I was an only child, but agreed that it was probably best that I’d never had any little ones (I couldn’t agree more wholeheartedly, this is something reinforced in my mind daily). It’s important to go to church, but not be a Holy Roller. It’s important to be proud of what you’ve accomplished. The less family and neighbors you have close by, the better. They tend to interfere and stir up undue drama, and there will be enough problems to deal with in your own household. Don’t go borrowing trouble. Being married six years still made us newlyweds in her mind, as she exclaimed with sparkling eyes each time I told her. When you’ve been married over fifty, I’m sure it seems that way. So we rocked the morning away, discussing life on her hill, and how to make a good life wherever you are. I learned a lot from a woman most would think didn’t have that much left to share. She was happy, that was obvious. She was thankful.

What will I remember when I get that old? Like her, I would be amazed to make it that long. What will be important enough for me to retain through -heaven forbid- the loss of my mind?

Happy six years to my husband. And if we make it to sixty four, I hope it feels like just four.