This is true: I am not going to stretch it even the tiniest bit; there is no reason to. I will not share the name because I have not asked permission, but I must tell this story because it is about True Spunk, as in True Grit.

Okay, it’s short, so don’t settle in for a long tale:

I know a lady who is 91 who knows another lady who is 94. Because the 91 year old injured her arm, she cannot drive and the 94 year old ferries her about 15 miles and back and forth to see her husband in a nursing home. Actually, it is a forth and back and forth and back set of trips because the driver lived in the same town as the nursing home, but the man’s wife lived 15 miles away. So she would go pick up her friend, take her to the nursing home, bring her back home and then go home herself.

A couple of days ago – in the middle of the forth and back trips, they went out to have a bite to eat. When they were getting back in the car, the 94 year old fell. The people from the restaurant came out and helped her up . . .  “Oh, I’m fine,” she said. She drove home and then returned to her house.

Later that evening, someone called to ask about her and she told them, “Ah, I’m here in bed all cozy with pillows.” Well, she was not. When her son came up in the morning, he discovered she had spent the night sitting on a kitchen chair with her head resting on her walker . . . because she could not walk.

He called the EMS and told her they would be there in 5 minutes. “Oh,” she said, “That is not long enough for me to get ready.” At the hospital, X-rays showed two cracks and a broken bone. She told her son, “Oh, I’ll just be here a day.”

For some reason I believe her.

I imagine she is asking, “Oh, can’t we just have that surgery as an out-patient?”

I can’t tell her name . . . but here is mine: WIMP.