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It’s been a long time since I’ve written about our lives. Turns out, when your health goes downhill, you spend an astonishing amount of time trying to keep all your assorted body parts functioning and precious little time doing anything else. And when things get really serious, you may find yourself uprooting your entire life, abandoning a dream you’ve spent years building, and heading off into the sunset with a broken heart. Whether you want to or not.
Broken heart. Huh. That’s pretty much what brought us to this point.
My post-Covid lungs, combined with severe allergies, apparently decided they’d done quite enough work for one lifetime and began delegating their responsibilities to my heart. My heart, having received no advance notice of this arrangement, was decidedly unenthusiastic. The result was some rather serious medical intervention and a collection of doctors who all delivered variations of the same advice:
“Go west, young man old lady!”
So we did. We packed up our lives, said goodbye to our beautiful North Carolina hilltop, and sold the home we’d spent years dreaming about, planning, and making our own. That was the hard part. That house wasn’t simply where we lived. It was where we intended to stay. We’d finally reached that wonderful stage of life when the kids were grown, the work was mostly behind us, and we could spend our days doing exactly what we pleased.
Apparently, somebody forgot to tell the universe that we were finished making major life changes. Now, the West wasn’t exactly unfamiliar territory. We’d spent more than a decade in Colorado years ago and loved it. But after so many years in North Carolina, I’d become quite comfortable with my Southern identity.
In fact, I’d gotten downright good at it. I’d learned to appreciate Southern hospitality, Southern traditions, and that uniquely Southern talent for saying something absolutely dreadful about another human being while making it sound like an expression of deep Christian concern. I learned to say “y’all” with conviction, developed a healthy appreciation for Southern charm, and became quite adept at delivering a perfectly respectable verbal smackdown without ever raising my voice.
“Well, bless her heart. She just doesn’t know any better.” It’s practically an art form.
I had also become rather fond of the lush green landscape, the winding country roads, and the old houses with their long porches and stories to tell. There was something deeply comforting about the South, and I embraced it wholeheartedly. But here’s the thing. I’ve always been a cowgirl.
Long before I became a sassy Southern woman, I was the girl who loved horses, cowboys, Western movies, and just about anything that involved a saddle or a pair of boots. While other little girls were dreaming of princes and castles, I was far more interested in the fellow who rode into town on a horse, tipped his hat, and had the good sense to say very little. I loved the old Westerns, the ranches, the mountains, and the wide-open spaces. I loved the romance of the Old West, even if the reality probably involved considerably more dust, hard work, and questionable personal hygiene than Hollywood ever let on.
And I never really outgrew it. Colorado only made matters worse. Those years gave me mountains, ranch country, and the kind of Western scenery that makes you want to pull over, climb out of the car, and just stand there grinning like an idiot.
Then life took us east, and somewhere along the way, I traded my cowgirl boots for a little Southern polish. Well, perhaps polish is overstating things, but I was genuinely happy. That’s the part I don’t want to lose in the telling. I loved our Southern life. I loved the home we built and the years we spent there. Leaving wasn’t some grand adventure we’d been secretly longing to begin. It was a painful decision made because staying was becoming impossible.
At our age, starting over wasn’t exactly on the bucket list. We’d already done the big moves, raised the family, chased the dreams, and survived enough adventures to fill several books. I was perfectly content to sit on my hilltop and enjoy the fruits of all that labor. But life, apparently, had other ideas. And now, as I find myself back in the West, I’m discovering that the cowgirl never really went anywhere. She was just temporarily distracted by magnolias, Southern manners, and a really lovely house on a hill.
I don’t know quite what this next chapter will look like. I’m still adjusting to the idea that there even is another chapter. I thought we’d already written the ending, tied it up with a pretty bow, and settled in to enjoy the epilogue. But maybe that’s the trouble with thinking you’ve got life all figured out. Just when you get comfortable, somebody opens the gate.
And the old mare, who was perfectly happy standing in the pasture minding her own business, suddenly finds herself headed down a completely different trail.
Well, shoot. I guess I’d better find my boots.