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Messy House Guests

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If you’ve ever wondered what mice, squirrels, spiders and a long Canadian winter can do to a cabin, I can assure you they aren’t worrying about making a good impression on the next guests.

Despite what some people think, the Awanabatch cabins don’t stay clean all winter, and they certainly don’t clean themselves. Thurston and I have been the first ones up the last couple of years, which means we spend the first day or two sweeping, dusting, and cleaning up the remnants our furry winter tenants left behind.

Particularly before we re-did the shower house.  With no interior wall coverings, critters moved in for the winter, and it was obviously party central. Apparently, none of them saw any reason to use the outdoor outhouse either. After needing a hazmat suit to clean up that spring, we spent a few days that fall making sure that didn’t happen again.   

To complicate matters even further, it seems we all have a different idea of what cleanliness is.   You might not mind living in a flurry of dog hair but most of us only like wearing our own dogs’ hair. It’s everyone else’s that seems to be the problem. When we had a dog, we wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving him behind. He loved being there as much as we did. Yet now that he’s gone, we no longer enjoy dealing with dog hair.

I know I keep a clean house, yet I still panic when I leave. Not because I’m worried about what I’ll find when I come back but more about what the next family will think when they arrive.  I’m convinced someone will report that the toilet seat was left up or that they found dust on the windowsill.  I haven’t dusted at home in years but feel the need to dust and wash windows on every trip to Awanabatch. Just so no one says anything bad about how we left the cabin.

We’ve discussed having a cleaning person on call to clean the cabins each time someone leaves.  However, when it comes right down to it, being cheap rates even higher on the scale for all of us.   

We’ve also learned that what one family leaves behind in the refrigerator is rarely appreciated by the next.  Now we leave the refrigerator totally bare. There’s even politics in the condiments.  Some insist on Heinz ketchup.  Others can’t agree on mayonnaise versus Miracle Whip.

Cleaning out the refrigerator becomes a gut-wrenching exercise for those of us raised not to waste. Before Thurston and I toss anything, I review the border rules, calculate cooler space and deliver whatever we can’t take home to our friends who have no problem eating our leftovers or mayonnaise.  God bless them for easing my conscience about throwing away perfectly good food. 

After all these years, I’ve realized mice are the least of our cleaning problems. The real challenge isn’t keeping a cabin clean – it’s remembering that every family arrives with different habits, different expectations, and different definitions of “clean.” Somewhere between the dog hair, the ketchup debates, and the refrigerator politics, we’ve learned that a little grace is every bit as important as a good broom. 

Girl on Fire

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Friends come in all shapes and sizes. Some have been with us forever, while others arrive exactly when we need them. Today I’m celebrating one special friend’s birthday from afar as she enjoys the adventure of a lifetime in Australia.

Nearly twenty years ago, we met at a conference for Michigan farm wives. Those gatherings gave women living a unique lifestyle a chance to connect, and at a time when I needed someone who understood, one conversation in a hotel pool became the beginning of one of the most treasured friendships of my life.

Soon afterward she invited me to a concert where her son was opening for the Zac Brown Band. That invitation also introduced me to a group of women who had been friends since their high school swim team days. Somehow, they welcomed me into their circle as though I’d always belonged. That kind of acceptance isn’t something you forget.

Every year since, we’ve gathered at her cottage to solve the world’s problems, laugh until our stomachs hurt, and create another story we’ll be telling for years. Some memories belong only to the two of us, including one favorite photograph of myself that reminds me how much her friendship meant during a particularly difficult season of my life.

As birthdays rolled by, we were always looking for our next adventure. One year she bought a speed boat from one of my friends. It already had a name: Girl on Fire.

The name wasn’t chosen for her. Its first owner had bought the boat after her divorce – the first thing she ever purchased just for herself. It was her declaration of independence, her fresh start, and Girl on Fire fit her perfectly.

Sometimes, though, a name has enough room for more than one story.

Starting with that first test run, it was clear that the name fit its second owner just as well. Not because she was loud or reckless, (well, maybe that day) but because she throws herself into life with contagious enthusiasm, generous friendship, and a laugh that has a way of making everyone around her feel lighter.

Thurston and I rode up to the lake to deliver the boat.  After sealing the deal, it was decided we needed one more ride before supper.  The paperwork and life jackets stayed on shore while our common sense apparently did the same.

She hit the throttle, laughing as we bounced across the water. At one point I was thrown completely out of my seat. We were still laughing when she slowed down—only to discover two conservation officers floating beside us with a cheerful, “Good afternoon, ladies.”

Let’s just say we were fortunate to leave with nothing more than a ticket and a story that still makes us laugh.

But somewhere between being tossed across that boat and watching her grin from ear to ear, inspiration struck. This was exactly how I wanted to remember us – not worrying about growing older but celebrating every chance we had to feel young.

For her next birthday, we all ordered bright red Baywatch-style swimsuits, hired a photographer, and spent the day on the water. We posed in oversized sunglasses, bright red lipstick, beads, and floppy hats. We laughed until we cried, then finished by holding hands and jumping into the lake together.

Those photographs have become treasures. Most of them will never be shared publicly, but every time I see them, I’m reminded that the best part of aging isn’t pretending we’re young. It’s finding friends who remind us that joy never has to grow old.

Happy Birthday, my friend. I hope Australia has been everything you imagined.

The first Girl on Fire marked a fresh start. The second reminds me that strength doesn’t always make a lot of noise. Sometimes it looks like the friend who checks on everyone else, asks for nothing in return, quietly carries her own struggles, and still finds a way to fill a boat—and a room—with laughter.

I have been blessed to know them both.

We’re all aging. Let’s do it out loud.

Nora

Still Exploring

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Thurston and I just returned home after 10 days in Alaska.  Every breathtaking view reminded us that we already have a place that stirs the same sense of wonder.  Awanabatch isn’t ours alone, but every visit lets us unplug from the rest of the world.  It feels like returning to a place that’s become part of who we are.    

In Alaska we were two of more than 4,700 people on a cruise ship. At Awanabatch, we can spend an afternoon without seeing another soul. Somewhere between the first verse of Gordon Lightfoot’s The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald and the last, I’m no longer riding in a pontoon. I’m a weary fur trader crossing these same waters, wondering what waits beyond the next point.   

One of the best things about Awanabatch is that it sits at the doorstep of adventure. From the dock, we can head in any direction.  Up the river or across Lake Superior; but for reasons none of us can explain, the family has always spent most of its time exploring the north side of Batchawana Island.

Looking to expand my explorer fantasy, I convinced Thurston to take a walk on the wild  side – of the Island.  It was time to see what was around the next point.   

It was there that we were welcomed by a pair of eagles perched high up in the trees.  Then a unique rock formation on the island’s edge that teased us by looking like a bear.  It wasn’t, but it drew us in even closer to get a better look.  From there, we could see a tiny waterfall trickling into the Lake. 

We soon found ourselves in very shallow water.  Beneath us, large boulders as large as cars began to show through the cool, clear blue water. Creating what appears to look like a long-lost road to a land now covered by water.  Of course, that all might just be my imagination, but that’s what comes to mind when you see it.

Carefully making our way through the shallow area, we started to see the rock formations changing to a variegated floor of red and white sand stones.  Huge slabs of colorful rock.  I climbed out just so I could run my hand across what looked like giant pieces of pumice.  Even more, I couldn’t wait to share this incredible spot with my fellow rock-hound friends. Apparently, I’ve turned into a rock nerd.

Anyone listening to me ramble about the sandstone colors and layers would’ve assumed I’d recently discovered something besides rocks…perhaps a dispensary.  

People who knew Thurston before we met often joke that he’d probably still be on the farm if it weren’t for me. They might be onto something. We’ve wandered through Europe, cruised Alaska and now spend our summers wondering what’s around the next point on Batchawana Island. The funny thing is, after all these adventures, I still get the biggest smile when he says, “Let’s see what’s over there.” 

That’s why we love Awanabatch so much. It still gives us permission to wander.   To imagine.  To believe there’s always something waiting just around the next bend.  We’re still willing to turn the boat toward the unknown instead of heading back to the dock. It makes us feel young. 

Turns out I never needed to be a fur trader to satisfy my urge to explore. I just needed to marry someone willing to drive the boat toward the next bend with me.   Willing to be adventurous. 

Eagle sightings are a regular thing at Awanabatch

One More Hour

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This Fourth of July, America celebrates its 250th birthday. That’s a remarkable milestone for a country that has survived generations of hardship, disagreement, celebration and change.

For me, Independence Day doesn’t begin with history books. It begins with an hour-long drive to my great-uncle’s cottage that, as a child, felt more like a cross-country expedition.

My memories of the 4th of July remain almost magical. Large gatherings at the family cottage owned by my grandfather’s brother. His siblings and their families all gathered at the old cottage and put on a spread fit for a king. We played with cousins and second cousins we only saw once a year. Whatever wonderful creations that made it to the table, the best of all was always the watermelon. I think my grandfather was the watermelon seed spitting champion. 

I’d wake up and drive my mother crazy, asking every ten minutes, “Is it time to leave yet?” She’d be busy packing the cooler with freshly made potato salad, brownies and sun tea while dad loaded the car with enough pool toys, towels and swimsuits to outfit a small beach. 

Once the feeding frenzy ended, there was yet another hurdle to overcome. Some of you know exactly what I’m talking about – that hour wait before we could go swimming. Grandmother was a stickler for that one. Back then, I was convinced that hour was an eternity.

Once we were finally allowed in the water, the day disappeared in a blur of paddleboats, floating rafts, catching minnows, searching for shells and snails. Staying in the water until our lips turned blue. Fireworks over the lake were the perfect ending to a perfect day. It’s funny how the waiting hours crawl by, while the ones you wish could last forever vanish in an instant. 

As with all good things, this all came to an end. The older generation passed away. The cottage was passed on and eventually sold. Leaving the rest of us with nothing but memories that somehow grow more valuable with each passing Fourth of July. It’s been years since and I’m still missing those days. Now, not so secretly longing to recreate those days with my children and grandchildren. 

Every Independence Day, while fireworks light the sky, I still find myself wishing I could spend one more afternoon spitting watermelon seeds with Grandpa and waiting an hour after lunch before Grandma would finally let us swim. 

We’re all aging.
Let’s do it out loud.

Nora

*As published in The County Journal on July 4, 2026

Friend or Foe?

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The living room where unsuspecting guests are often greeted by mice.

Mice have always been part of life at Awanabatch.  The difference is they live there year-round; while we only get to visit.  Over the years they’ve sampled our food, nested in the furniture and even raised families inside George the moose.  Unfortunately, they don’t clean up after themselves.  They’ve left enough “historical evidence” to convince me that they should start paying property taxes. 

One of three sections of the bench emptied out.

A couple of summers ago we removed a twelve-foot storage bench that had become prime mouse real estate. It was packed with old magazines, comic books, toys…and enough droppings to form archaeological layers. Nearly every paper item was soaked in mouse urine and had to be burned. Two antique bottles on the top shelf above it each contained a mummified mouse. I’m sure I inhaled enough dust that day to put me at risk for some lung disease I can’t pronounce.

Thurston’s favorite mouse story involves George, our stuffed moose. A family of mice moved into George’s head. During one family vacation, his former mother-in-law was sitting beneath George when a baby mouse suddenly fell out of George’s ear…and landed in her hair.

Every summer the kids competed to see who could catch the most mice. Their names were proudly recorded on the wall like Olympic champions. Brother Steve still holds the title.

Even removal of pesky rodents in the cabin can be a source of disagreement.  Thurston and I are all for elimination. Not everyone is in favor of poison, finding it inhumane and fearing that their pets could be poisoned as well.  Some don’t think we have a mouse problem.  I happen to disagree. 

The master bedroom in the new cabin is the prime spot with the sliding glass door providing a view of the Lake Superior shoreline.  We’ve spent time hanging the ceiling fan and new curtains; making it all cozy.  Thurston and I settle into bed, each of us with a good book. It isn’t long before the quiet of the cabin signals time for the critters to start moving about.

We can’t seem to eliminate them, but plastic does help keep the mice off the beds while we are away.

Sleeping on the right side of the bed puts me nearest the corner of the room.  The exterior walls are made of rough sawn logs.  Where the slightly uneven logs meet the straight interior walls, tiny gaps create the perfect mouse highway. 

I’m trying to read my book, but my eyes keep going back to that corner where I occasionally see big beady eyes giving me the once over.  Only to run back in when I wave the fly swatter at them.  Thurston, of course, is unfazed.  He finishes the next chapter and decides it’s lights out for him. 

I finished my chapter.  I had just turned out my light when I heard scratching.  Then footsteps.  Then something racing across the headboard.   Then…bonk.  Something lands between us.  I panic and immediately fan the bedspread into the air.  Yup – thump…goes the mouse onto the floor.

After slipping on my sandals – afraid I might step on him barefoot – I head for the kitchen.  Armed with a flashlight, fly swatter and rolls of aluminum foil, I return; determined to seal them out for the night.  I wad up sections of foil and fill all the corner cracks – ceiling to floor.  Naturally, Thurston slept through the whole thing.   

I spent the next day with expanding spray foam and caulk, hoping to permanently defend my territory.

In case you were wondering, the old wives’ tale that claims mice hate aluminum foil is wrong. Or perhaps the mice at Awanabatch never got that memo. The spray foam and caulk, however, sent a much clearer message.  Since then, I’ve slept much better. Thurston still just smiles; giving me the impression he thinks I overreacted. I’ve learned over the years that every marriage needs both personalities.  One person who sleeps through the mice…and the other armed with spray foam. 

One of my favorite shots of us together at Awanabatch

Retirement Time

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Little did I know that agreeing on a schedule with another retiree could require the same level of negotiation as balancing the national budget.

Ask anyone over sixty. Sleep is more elusive than ever, and men and women seem to operate on completely different time zones.

We just returned from a trip to the family property in Canada. While there, we were trying to coordinate a visit with friends.

“We could stop over for coffee in the morning,” Thurston suggested.

“Any time after six,” our friend replied.

His wife gave me a deer-in-the-headlights look and countered with, “What about ten?”

I’m with her. Even if I’m awake by then, why would I want to be dressed and socializing at six o’clock in the morning?

Maybe after lunch would be better? Then we had to compare nap schedules.

Retirement doesn’t eliminate scheduling conflicts. It just replaces meetings, school events and soccer practices with morning coffee, meals and naps.

Half the time, I feel like I’ve just gotten to sleep when Thurston flips on the hall light for his first bathroom call. Mine isn’t until around 4 a.m. Just as I drift back to sleep, Thurston gets a text from his brother — another up-before-dawn and asleep-by-eight kind of guy.

The Do Not Disturb feature is now permanently enabled on Thurston’s phone.

On days when you can’t get back to sleep, you tend to want an early start on your to-do list. The other morning, Thurston was frustrated because his call went straight to voicemail.

“Why aren’t they answering their phone?”

I gently reminded him that while it was a weekday, the business didn’t open for another two hours.

It’s nothing for Thurston to be ready for bed before 9 p.m.The problem is when it’s not even dark yet.  Last night I convinced him to stay up until 10 p.m., which in retirement time is apparently the equivalent of pulling an all-nighter. It wasn’t a text message that woke me up at 5:30 the next morning. It was a pesky mosquito. I fought off getting up until 6:30.

I like to give Thurston plenty of time to get the coffee ready.

After all, everyone likes to have purpose. Some of us just prefer to discover ours after sunrise.

We’re all aging.
Let’s do it out loud.

— Nora

*As published in The County Journal on June 20, 2026

Drive Down Memory Lane

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Thurston and I are famous for turning a six-hour drive into a nine-hour adventure.

Although it never changes, I always feel the need to take another picture of the Mighty Mac.

We stop for coffee, lunch, building supplies, groceries and whatever else catches our attention along the way. By the time we reach Canada, we are exhausted from a trip that previous generations would have considered remarkably easy.

Every drive to Awanabatch eventually becomes a trip down memory lane.

As we cruise north in an air-conditioned pickup truck, it’s impossible not to think about Thurston’s grandfather making the 400-mile journey in his car. Was it a Buick? A Packard Eight, or a Ford pickup? A successful attorney from Rochester, Michigan, born in 1878, he traveled north in search of relief from severe allergies and discovered a place that would become part of our family’s story.

Imagine…in the 1930s they weren’t stopping at Weinerlicious or Clyde’s for lunch on the way up. The Mackinac Bridge didn’t open for business until November of 1957. The International Bridge opened on October 31, 1962. The road ended just past the Batchawana River back then as well, so there weren’t a lot of people on Highway 17 if you found yourself in need of fuel or roadside assistance. What feels like a long drive to us would have been a genuine expedition for him – yet somehow, he made the trip that started a legacy that still brings us across the border nearly a century later.

Coffee and muffins are a staple when visiting our friends, this time it was a birthday butter tart.

After purchasing the former logging camp, Grandfather needed the help of locals to clear trees, move buildings and construct the original cabin. The son of one of those helpers remains part of the story. He and his wife became lifelong friends of Thurston’s parents, and no visit is complete without spending time with them. Always sending us home with our favorite – butter tarts.

Grandmother and Goldie, the family’s live-in assistant, would bring young Bonnie (Thurston’s mother) and Henry junior north after school let out and return just before it started again. Their father often stayed until after the first frost. Even then, when the trip could take a day or more depending on ferry schedules, friends would make the trek to join in the fishing, dancing, and summer festivities.

Fast forward a generation to Bonnie bringing up her own family. Heaps of luggage and no car seats. Somehow Thurston’s parents managed to pack five children, a babysitter, the family dog, and everything needed for the vacation into a station wagon. Eventually replacing the luggage roof rack for a trailer for the migration north. Riders in the back seat traveling backwards, inhaling a little car exhaust and other bodily fumes. Brother Steve, always seeming to threaten car sickness to get a ride in the front seat. Dad, never needing to say much when things got out of hand, simply reached into the back seat and placed his hand just above your kneecap—a move we called his “hawker grip.” It was his way of letting you know he’d had enough.

Now we stop at Meijer for gas, groceries, and spirits before crossing the border. After crossing, we stop for fishing licenses and latest lure that promises to catch fish bigger than ever before. Back then, they stopped at Duty Free for their spirits. Planning for cocktails with friends on the deck overlooking the river was a thing even then.

After crossing the border, they filed into Canadian Tire, where the kids all got new shoes for the summer. Followed by a stop at Ontario’s Rone’s Market for groceries, including peameal bacon.

With the driveway just past the mouth of the river, you hope to be greeted by cabin guests waiting on the dock. After a quick honk and wave, you signal your turn into the private drive.

For nearly a century, family and friends have been making that same final turn. The vehicles have changed. The roads have changed. The trip itself has become easier with every generation.

What hasn’t changed is the feeling that comes when the river comes into view and you know you have arrived.

Likewise, saying goodbye never gets easier. After group photos, hugs and promises to see each other again soon, departing guests wave sadly from their cars to those lucky enough to be staying a little longer.

The drive has always been part of the experience. The anticipation on the way up. The stories that are born in route. The reluctance to leave when it’s over.

Some trips simply take you somewhere. This one brings us to our home away from home.

Becoming our Parents

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Progressive Insurance commercials about turning into your parents are pretty darn funny — until one day you realize you’re living inside one.     

We had barely stepped out of our cabin on a Rhine River cruise when it began. A fellow passenger emerged from two doors down, made eye contact, and proceeded down the hallway at a snail’s pace; kept upright with the use of his walking sticks. Leaving us stuck behind him like a slow-moving vehicle during planting season.

Our fellow travelers were mostly of the “mature” variety, and it never failed — every time we turned a corner, it was another version of the infamous commercials.    

There were helpful repeaters. The ones who loudly restated every instruction as if the rest of us hadn’t heard it the first time. And, of course, the occasional passenger who felt it necessary to critique the entire experience out loud for everyone within earshot.

On one walking tour in Germany, one particularly vocal traveler pushed things a little too far. After several failed attempts by others to quiet her, my husband — the least confrontational person I know — finally spoke up. Not “please be quiet.” But “please shut up.” I was both shocked… and proud.

With five days of rain, we had no shortage of weather conversations. Traveling with a group of older people also means a lot of noise – grunts, groans and unsolicited commentary.

The funny thing is that it’s easy to spot these habits in other people. The harder part is recognizing them in ourselves.  Because if I’m being honest, the signs are already there.

It starts with desiring a routine.  We typically plan dinner around Wheel of Fortune. Then we switch channels to The Big Bang Theory. Slightly neurotic, the characters seem like they would be fun to hang out with; unlike the brainiacs on Jeopardy.  Oddly, I feel like enjoying Jeopardy would be a step on a very slippery slope.

Thurston might be up before the sun but after considering the time spent napping in his recliner, our days end up even.  We all know that if someone is bragging about how early they get up, they also are sure to be the ones taking naps and falling asleep before 8 p.m.  

For years, I swore we’d never become those people.

Turns out, it’s not something you decide.

It just… happens.

We’re all aging.
Let’s do it out loud.

— Nora

Naps are the best at Awanabatch

As published in The County Journal on June 6, 2026

Awanabatch

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When people imagine a writer retreating to a cabin on the shore of Lake Superior, they probably picture something far more glamorous than reality.

Case in point, I am not the thirty-something blonde in a string bikini we both picture in our daydreams. Instead, I’m sixty-two, wearing leggings, a flannel shirt and reading glasses, waiting for my morning coffee to do its job.

The view of Lake Superior, however, is exactly as advertised.

Purchased by Thurston’s grandfather in 1932 – or 1935, depending on who you ask – the property has breathtaking views and nearly a century of family memories. The second cabin on the property was Uncle Henry’s dream, and I think he would be pleased with what is finally nearing completion.    

Along with the work on the “new” cabin, we’ve been working on preserving the history of the original cabin.  We completed a half-baked attempt at a kitchen remodel a couple years ago but even with its inconvenient features and worn-out amenities, it’s still the preferred meal spot.  The walls are decorated with childhood artwork from Thurston’s generation; recently preserved by laminating.  The dining room table can sit about 14 uncomfortably.  Sit down suppers are tradition here, regardless of how little elbow room you have.  Family dogs find themselves under the table, anxiously awaiting table scraps.   

The first addition to the original cabin was built to accommodate guests.  Thurston’s mom remembers her parents having dances in that room when it was first built.  Now that room has been relocated and serves as the laundry and bath house.  Replaced by a bigger and better version in the nineties, it now doubles as another bedroom or a place for board games or cards. George, the stuffed moose, guards the original living room.  From the cathedral ceiling, model airplanes hang.  A favorite rainy-day past-time of years gone by.  There are shelves and shelves of books and with our family, it’s nothing to see everyone in the main room with the fireplace roaring and everyone with their noses buried in a book with a steaming cup of coffee next to them. 

We have a no television policy here.  Occasionally we have radio service but sometimes we just break out the old CD’s or records and fire up the record player.  Days begin with coffee and bacon and Batchawana fries.  Like his dad before him, Thurston loves making breakfast for the family. You never know what you will find in the scrambled eggs! Staples are housed in the tin lined closet.  A place where paper products and perishable food items are safe from sampling.  Mice and bats have been known to try and join the party.  

Kids anxiously await permission to play on the rope swing.  Those that dare can swing out from the roof of the dilapidated old boat house.  Fishing from the shore of the river has been very successful in the last few years.  It’s nothing to pull in an eighteen-inch, five-pound bass right from the dock.  There are pontoon rides to the party spot where the river narrows to a point that boats can’t pass through.  It’s a great place for fishing or treasure hunting for fellow rockhounds. 

Nearly a century after one man purchased a stretch of shoreline and started a family tradition, the cabins are full of stories.  And I’ve only scratched the surface. 

This cove is about 15
minutes away – a rock lover’s dream.

Cancer

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By Nora Fields

Last time, I was poking fun at my leisurely retirement routine. Three years ago, I would have given anything to be that bored.

Until cancer hits your home — or you work in the field of medicine — you probably don’t know much about it. You’re busy with life. So were we.

When Thurston got sick, I added caregiver and nurse to my résumé overnight. I’ve never been known for sympathy. I’m more of a “suck it up, buttercup” kind of woman. Many a broken bones have healed themselves because of my “they won’t do anything about it anyway” approach to medicine.  But the pain he was experiencing was unlike anything I had ever seen. My tough-as-nails farmer was crumbling, and all I could do was watch.

I did what I could control. I researched. I tracked bloodwork in spreadsheets. I monitored symptoms. I tried to stay one step ahead of something that refused to be predictable. They call it “practicing” medicine for a reason. Even the experts can’t always see what’s coming.

After months of escalating pain and unanswered questions, we made the decision to travel to Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. The Friday before we left, I landed on a likely diagnosis. A week later, doctors confirmed it: myelofibrosis — a rare bone marrow cancer.  This was March.

We left Mayo with news no one is prepared to hear — a three-year life expectancy.  Maybe a bone marrow transplant in the future. Yet as strange as it may sound, we were relieved to have a number. And now we knew what we were fighting.  Three years were much longer than we were expecting at that point.  We had a plan.

It only took a week for that plan to change.  What was “maybe a transplant in the future” became “we need to start looking for a donor now and plan for a transplant this summer”.  It felt like the rug had been pulled out from under our feet; three years suddenly shrank to three months. 

It’s moments like that that split your life into Before and After. The little things lose their urgency. The important things come into sharp focus.

So, when I complain about the television being on volume 16 or joke about retirement being exhausting; understand this –  I don’t take a single one of those ordinary mornings for granted.

The boredom?
It’s a gift.

We’re all aging.
Let’s do it out loud.

Nora

As printed in The County Journal on May 23, 2026.