I stopped to talk to a 95-year-old man last night who lives around the corner from me, on a hill with paddocks and horses nearby. I’d wondered if my granddaughter might one day ride one of them.
The horses aren’t his, but he invited me inside. The stories he shared were living history — a lifetime of work, service, love, and loss, spoken quietly and without fuss.
His wife passed away last year. He still lives in the home they shared.
As I left, a small horse came up to the fence. He said he’d ask the neighbours if my granddaughter could ride one.
I walked away knowing this wasn’t just a chat — it was a privilege.
The Lady in the Back Row 