When the Lights Come Up

Kathy Boardman • June 17, 2023

“She lights up when you come in the room.”

It didn’t matter that she thought I was Mom. My formerly gruff & undemonstrative grandmother was in her early 90’s and living in a skilled nursing facility with progressing Alzheimer’s. In the beginning of her residence there, Nora was still spry, and fascinated with wheelchairs and a particular male resident. When I could wrap my brain around accepting her new reality, I could see the humor and even joy in the behavior.


Soon enough I noticed she had a habit of sitting and rubbing the hem of her blouse. Mom said,


“Hmmm, she’s ironing.” Remembering Gomma’s gifts of dolls to preschool me, I wondered if she would enjoy having a doll to take care of. The next time I made the monthly four hour drive to visit, there was a well-rumpled, curly haired toddler doll on her bed. Mom smiled when she told me the doll turned out to be a great idea. Atta girl.


She hadn’t been verbal for a couple years when I came home one Christmas. The habit then was to come in at dinner time. I’d chat a little, feed her if she needed help, and then give her a hug and kiss goodbye before a CNA took her back to her room. 


On this particular day, I leaned over and breathed into her hair, “I love you, Gomma.” And very clearly she responded,“I love you, too.” 


Astounded, I waited a moment, looked at her face, and knew that was all. Yet it was enough. More than enough. The best Christmas present ever. I lit up as I left the room.


It never gets old to see the “lights come up” at a Gathering, especially when there are first time visitors. Self-described homebodies and introverts enjoy themselves. Joy bubbles up through atta-girls. Newcomers discover neighbors. Seekers find answers from women with experience. Reliance, cooperation and shared abundance make the room bright.

Kathy Boardman has always lived in the southern piedmont, listening to the nighttime cry of the Eastern Screech Owl. She is the Education Coordinator for the Wilkes County GA Chapter.


Reinventing herself once again, she camps off grid out of her custom-built cargo van, is learning to find wild food and medicine, and dreams of living cooperatively and aging well with other solo people in her beloved woods.

Other Articles

Winter's Symphony

By Connie Casey • December 29, 2025
Soft sprinkles make no sound on their own until they accumulate on the roof and land in an adagio drip. Once combined, they make a muffled thump as they hit the snow piled high under the eave, after sliding off the roof and trickling along the icicles gripping the rain gutter. The wind is a constant companion here on the prairie, and it whisks leaves from their hiding place under the deck. Wet and decomposed, they whirl about at an andante measure. Branches against the barn are the percussion brushes for the unorganized music. Toys half-buried in snow, buckets, hay under a tarp, and puddles created from the melting snow all respond to the rain with a different sound. As I trudge to the barn, the melody of the rain on the tin roof of the coop is a beautiful song by itself, but marries well with the colorful splashes of barnyard noises like a rooster’s crow, bleating goats, and horses. The cleats of my boots bite into the ice-crusted snow, crushing the once soft blanket of white that lies beneath, and the freezing rain pricks my face like needles. I rush through chores to get back to the house to a hot pot of coffee and watch the storm from the window. The grandfather clock I stand near while watching this show echoes in my head like a metronome. The symphony of instruments outside isn't keeping time. The shower is falling with an urgency now, unloading the water-laden clouds with a moderato gusto, allegro, then the maestro gives the command and PRESTO! The deluge is a deafening roar like an audience on its feet at the end of a piece performed by Mozart himself. The recently plowed driveway is now turning to a thick slush. It is suddenly silent, and I see water seeping in under the dining room door.
Car tire stuck in deep snow. Silver wheel and black tire.

Stuck In The Snow

By Miranda Johnson • December 8, 2025
That’s what I think of when I think of NLHG. We don’t just show up for the good stuff. We show up when it’s hard, when it's cold and snowy. When someone needs a hand. We’re not afraid to shovel, push, or stay a little longer.
Close-up of a horse's muzzle with a green halter. Brown coat and dark, soft muzzle.

Pony Kisses

By Connie Casey • November 21, 2025
I can press my face anywhere against Chip’s soft velvety muzzle while he relaxes in the crisp morning sun, or a windy evening, or a snowy afternoon.
Show More