Sixty-three Year Old Widow Refused to Hide Her Gray Hair at Work

the soil over the last bulb and pressed it down with the palm of my hand to keep the squirrels from digging it up before the first snow came. The dirt clung to my skin, dry and gray under my fingernails, but it was an honest kind of dirt that washed away with plain soap and warm water.

My neighbor Mrs. Gable walked past the picket gate, her little terrier continue reading …