I have the most wonderful housekeeper ever. I give her most of the credit for the beautiful life I have and not because she cleans my house. She sucks at cleaning. I just like her a lot. She's mountain folk through and through. She and Johnny Ray were high school sweethearts and have been married forever. My housekeeper is my age, so they've been married a long time.

She actually hasn't cleaned my home in a long while. Before my second hip replacement, she was indispensible. After my three pulmonary embolisms she was a lifesaver. These days, she helps me when there's a change in tenancy with the two studio apartments I have on my property. As protection of my investment, I also build housekeeping once a month into the rent.

Johnny Ray helps with my property - the lightweight stuff that's heavyweight for me. (Mr. Campbell does the heavy stuff I can no longer do or never did. Mr. Campbell is a little *slow* I think. It's hard to tell. Though he talks slow, I think he thinks quick. He's the hardest working man I've ever, ever met. He preaches at a church that's located far and deep on the Cumberland Plateau. I don't know why, but I adore him. I call him Mr. Campbell and would safely wager that I'm the only one to extend that courtesy. Actually, I do know why I adore him. It's his honesty and humility and utmost kindness.) And that's why I'm also wild about my housekeeper and her Johnny Ray.

I've always paid my housekeeper a fair wage and then some. I also pay her vacation pay, which she usually uses for serious medical checkups every so often. Several weeks after she started working for me I blurted out, "I don't mean to be nosy, but what are the scars all about?" My housekeeper has had heart surgery and continues to smoke like a chimney. *sigh*

I know you might have trouble believing me, but I am over the moon about these people.

Every year, Joan (that's her name, finally) spends waaaaay too much money on my birthday gift. She goes to a pricey local florist and gets a big honkin' Christmas arrangement constructed with artificial flowers. This happens every year. I know photos here give the illusion that my home is large. It isn't. Every year I put my best creative energies into motion to try to find a place for her gift arrangement, which she spends waaaaay too much money on and it breaks my heart, but it also sates my heart - all at the same time with amazing grace and gratitude.

So, as I festoon my home for the holidays, I cast a loving glance to this year's arrangement with all its faux gold and flourish and stuffs... and I pause and give thanks and always, always smile, and my heart trills for the good fortune to have such good people in my life, and to know and reaffirm that I'm one lucky woman.

P.S. Just in case you're wondering, Joan is the one with the scar peeking above her shirt.