I took the Lady Hazel for a walk around the park yesterday. It’s the first time she had been outdoors for any length of time in a while. I think she enjoyed it even though, anymore, she can’t express such feelings easily.

We now have a “quiet home” in the city of Lonoke, Arkansas, a particularly pretty town on the edge of the Arkansas Delta. It offers a much different view of life than does our downtown condo in Little Rock. Back there they call me “hey.” Small town folks call me “Mr. Jim.” Like the character in my favorite film, I hardly know where I am until I hear someone call me.

There is a park in the center of Lonoke, and that’s where we took our stroll. I gave her my veteran’s cap to wear so her hair wouldn’t blow. She has her own, as does Brenda. I’ll bring it for her to wear next time. Theirs represent the 313^th Regiment of the 79^th Infantry Division, given the descriptor of “a fighting unit” in WWII, and in which the late husband/father, Julius Cole, served. One of the few things Hazel can still communicate his how much she misses him.

It was a beautiful day, yesterday, in our postage-stamp corner of small town America. It was one of those days, perhaps a tad chilly to her, when it was much better to be outdoors in the sunshine than indoors watching the news. Much better.

We strolled along, and by, streets that she once knew like the back of her hand. We weren’t far from the former office of the local doctor where she had worked for over thirty years. At one time, there was hardly a soul in the city, maybe the whole county, who didn’t know “Miss Hazel.” When we could still take her to gatherings, folks would line up in front of her to hug and say hello. She was as close to royalty as the town has ever known, in my opinion.

A few blocks north of the park still stands the building where she, barely out of her teens and laden with an unborn, had climbed the stairs to the then-doctor’s office to give birth to her only child. Her husband was late for having stopped to watch a truck burning in a field somewhere along the way. You won’t be able to understand such things if you aren’t from the rural South.

Yesterday, Hazel couldn’t have climbed those stairs at all, but she could still wave at folks in the park as I pushed her wheelchair around the encircling track. She complained a bit about bumps, but otherwise took it in stride. I’m sure she once knew the occupants of every house in view, their names, occupations, and family trees. Not many of the old acquaintances remain. They left, along with her memories of them. But the park was filled with young children, many of whom waved back at her. Life goes on.

It was just a short walk, but I enjoyed it and will go to my grave hoping she did.

A precious lady on a precious day.