I have an addiction. And it’s not to chocolate, or Netflix, or to coffee, but it’s to old ladies. You know, those little old ladies that carry humongous purses and who wear strong perfume and whose homes smell funny. They walk very slowly in their Alfred Dunner outfits and they buy their shoes from the SAS store. I love them.
I grew up watching my mother love old ladies. Honestly, as a teenager, I thought it was a waste of time. She would take me to their homes and I would be bored to tears. Her first old lady was sweet Gwendolyn – she lived alone in the bad part of town and she was strongly independent. The next old lady was Catherine, who was a genteel Southern lady who loved to make crafts. And then there was Sybil, an avid gardener whose daylilies continue to grow in my yard.
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