I was 22 years old when I first visited Ms. Beck. I finished work at 5pm and started the 45 miles drive out of the city in my green Volkswagen hatchback. By sundown I was driving along winding roads scattered with vineyards and dairy farms. Ms. Beck’s farm was situated on over 20 acres of rolling hills. I accidentally drove past the dirt road leading to her house, and had to double back before finding it. I parked next to a black & white painted mailbox in the shape of a cow. My hands were cold and trembling as I straightened my tie and jacket, locked my car, and walked up the heavy wooden steps to her front door.

I knocked on Ms. Beck’s door, and waited for a few minutes.

“Hi, hun,” her voice startled me from behind.

I turned and saw the 58 year old woman, dressed in a thick red flannel shirt and jeans. She was the splitting image of Betty White. She was carrying a large metal bucket filled with animal feed in each hand. I started down the steps to help her.

“Fiddlesticks,” she mumbled, brushing me aside, “I’ve been doing this for over 50 years, I think I’ll manage.”

“Yes Ma’am,” I replied, stepping aside as she carried the buckets up the stairs and placed them on the porch.

“Well,” she said, brushing her hands off and stamping her feet on the doormat, “Come inside. Wipe your feet first.”

I followed Ms. Beck inside. Hers was a two-story house built in the century prior. Inside was cozy, with knitted throws and knick-knacks as far as the eye could see. Ms. Beck invited me to sit on the soft couch in her living room.

“Would you like some cocoa?” She asked, removing her tan work boots.

“No thank you, Ma’am,” I replied.

“All right,” she said, “Be a dear and hand me my slippers, would you?”

She pointed next to me, and I picked her house slippers up from the floor. I held them out to her, and she sat back in her chair.

“Why don’t you put them on for me?” She asked, lifting her feet from the floor.

With a tight throat, I nodded and knelt on the floor. Gently I placed the slippers on Ms. Beck’s feet.

“Thank you,” she nodded, withdrawing her feet back to the floor.

“Now then,” Ms. Beck said, standing up. “It’s getting late and I still need to make supper after I tend to you. So get undressed now. I need to go check my messages for a moment.”

“Yes Ma’am,” I replied.

She went into the den while I removed all of my clothing and put them aside. I heard Ms. Beck typing on her keyboard for several minutes before returning.

“How old are you?” She asked, sitting back down in her old-fashioned recliner.

I told her my age.