where the writers are
Stars

If I weren't sixty-three years old my story might not be unusual. However, last Monday morning I romped in the fields at my ranch, photographing and exploring while big, fluffy handfuls of snow fell. I was stunned, as usual, by nature's incredible beauty. I was also wearing out my bad back but didn't care because I had one client to see in late afternoon and then I'd get in my car and go back to Benicia to work in that office for the next three days. At four, my client couldn't get in and the snow continued to fall. At five I decided to move my car to the top of the road. By eleven pm I had to admit to myself that, if my car went anywhere, it was going to slide backwards into the river. I called for help from the Bay Area and they couldn't get to the main road for for another three hours. So, at two-thirty am, I, a sixty-three year old, single, self-employed grandma, was hiking two and a half miles through snow, with a gun to protect myself from mountain lions, as one had been killed on my road just the week before, and I especially didn't want my maltipoo to be a lion's breakfast, to the first, cleared road where I could be picked up. Halfway through the journey I looked up and was dazzled by the brilliance of the patterned star sky and was grateful that I have the good health to allow such a trek. My back was killing me but I lectured myself about having no choice and told myself to put one foot in front of the other, just like I did in the sixth grade when walking home from school. That's exactly what I did. I lifted one rubber boot in front of the other, through the snow, until I reached the main road and my ride. I arrived in Benicia at six am and was case consulting with the Benicia Unified School District at one pm as if nothing unusual had happened to me.  I was thrilled that I'd made it out and hadn't had to figure out how to shoot the darned gun to keep the mountain lion from taking Charlie and me home for breakfast.