Native Lover Nation

Y'all I have to brag on my husband big time! He made me Soo proud. As we were sitting in our seats waiting for the rodeo to start I noticed an elderly lady (pictured below) her grown daughter and 2 young granddaughters trying to come down the stairs. The elderly lady was having a rough time. I pointed them out to Thomas Harwell and said they may need help. Not only did he help get her to her seat, but she did not have the strength to come back up the stairs. So, he carried her!
Credit: Shayla Harwell

A 98 year old mother moved into a care home to be with her 80-year-old son.
They now live in the same place.
They spend their days playing games and watching TV together.
Each night, she goes to his room to say goodnight.
In the morning, she comes back to say hello.
They stay close, making sure neither of them is alone.

We met online.We " talked " by email after a few messages on the dating site for four months. I traveled over 1000 miles to visit, and the day we met in person was the first time we heard each other's voices. I was divorced from a marriage I started at 51. He was widowed from a relationship that started when he was 16. He's 5 years younger than me.
I stayed at an Airbnb and we spent the day I turned 57 in Sept and four other days that week together . Then I drove back home. Two weeks later, he flew me back, and we spent a week seeing more of western Montana, and I stayed in a different Airbnb. We met in the "middle" the end of December. We both cried on our way to our homes. A few more times meeting in the middle and once he came to me. Then, I moved to him in June. The following June we had our wedding. This past weekend we celebrated our fifth anniversary in Waterton Lakes National Park in Canada.
I truly believe I am the luckiest woman in the history of the universe.
Three days after we took the snowmobiling photo in February, I called an ambulance. The first responders didn't think the machine showed he was having a heart attack. The emergency room doctor was confused said, it looks like something with his heart but not a stemi (100 percent blockage). A petite woman walked in, looked at him, patted his arm and said to the nurse, "don't give him anything else. The pain won't stop until we open up that artery." She leaned over him and said "this is a terrible thing to happen on Valentine's Day." I began crying. She said she would send her team to get him. Without any pain deadening, she went thru the artery in his right wrist, found the blockage and said, "give me ten seconds." He said the pain was the worst he ever felt. He walked out of the hospital the next day. She knew from one look what no one else did. And she solved the problem so fast, he had no heart muscle damage.
The dull part is the lack of conflict. The lack of raised voices. The trust. The love.
Size 9-9.5. We've been eating more bananas and a lot of other healthier choices since the heart attack.
Edit: I want to thank everyone for all the wonderful things you said. I'm feeling the love and acceptance from the entire world.
I got lots of compliments on the dress. I went shopping soon after we decided on a date. We were at our cabin timeshare near West glacier, and I went shopping in Kalispell. I went alone and was looking for an empire waist. I pulled the sample for this dress out because it was in a size I could get into. My response when I saw myself in the mirror was "oh, my". When the dress came in, I mentioned I wanted sleeves. The women in the store said they would find out if they could order the mesh and lace. I looked over my shoulder and said "I don't want a train, cut it off and make the sleeves". The alterations were done by the alternative seamstress for the shop. She added the sleeves and put on some of the lace she cut out. The mesh went to my wrist, but I decided it looked like loose skin so I trimmed it off to 3/4 length and added more of the lace. Oh and the shoes were ordered on clearance from Coach website .

"Today hurt. We went to a new church because our oldest son was speaking about his camp experience. The church dismissed for children's church and I walked my three youngest back to the meeting room for children. As we walked in the room, there were four tables set up filled with kids. The minute we walked inside, the room became silent and every child stared or pointed at my son, Joel. Joel was born with a cranio-facial impairment. He is missing an ear and some bone structure. I know he looks different, but today hurt.
I stood at the door and watched every child look with eyes wide and mouths open at my child. I stepped in and was about to address the entire class about differences; but then I stopped. I stopped and looked to the back of the room where my son had fled to hide. He had buried his head in his arms because you cannot hide in plain sight. My heart sank and the room remained silent as I walked back to Joel. I touched his shoulder and he raised eyes shiny with tears and a face red with shame. I knelt down and asked, 'do you want to leave?' 'Yes', he whispered, and he stood and ran from the room.
I held him in my arms during church and he drew 'Joel loves Mom' on my palm. Tears welled in my throat. My beautiful and loving son deserves so much more than stares and pointing. And I thought about what I didn't do in that room today. In the past, I have always stepped into the role of teacher to educate kids. This has happened before, and I would step in and talk about differences, but today I did not. Today, I did not teach someone else's kid because I was too busy holding my broken-hearted son.
So I ask all parents this, teach your children. Teach your children that many people look different. Show them pictures of people who look different. And then explain that it is not okay to stare at someone that looks different, it's not okay to point. Teach them that my boy is the same on the inside as your child is. He loves Dodge Ram trucks, and Minecraft, and digging in the dirt. He loves ketchup, but does not love broccoli. And mostly, he does not like people staring or pointing out that he looks different. I don't think he needs this pointed out, it's something he lives with everyday.
I am not angry. I do not think these were bad, mean children. I think no one has ever taught them. And so this post is asking you to take a moment tonight and talk about what to do when you see someone that looks different. Show them pictures of people with different colored skin, different eyes, different abilities to talk, walkers to walk, wheelchairs to roll. Show them children with no hair, without an ear, without an arm. Take a moment and share all kinds of different. Now teach your child that a beautiful person is found with the heart; not the eyes."

They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie, as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people were really friendly. I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.
But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn't hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news. The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant. They must've thought I did.
But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes and a sealed letter from his previous owner.
See, Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust, too.
Maybe we were too much alike.
I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that. "Okay, Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice."
____________ _________ _________ _________
To Whomever Gets My Dog:
Well, I can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie's new owner. I'm not even happy writing it. He knew something was different.
So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you.
First, he loves tennis balls. The more the merrier. Sometimes I think he's part squirrel, the way he hoards them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn't done it yet. Doesn't
matter where you throw them, he'll bound after them, so be careful. Don't do it by any roads.
Next, commands. Reggie knows the obvious ones ---"sit," "stay," "come," "heel."
He knows hand signals, too: He knows "ball" and "food" and "bone" and "treat" like nobody's business.
Feeding schedule: twice a day, regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.
He's up on his shots. Be forewarned: Reggie hates the vet. Good luck getting him in the car. I don't know how he knows when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows.
Finally, give him some time. It's only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He's gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn't bark or complain. He just loves to be around people, and me most especially.
And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you...His name's not Reggie. He's a smart dog, he'll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt. But I just couldn't bear to give them his real name. But if someone is reading this ... well it means that his new owner should know his real name. His real name is "Tank." Because, that is what I drive.
I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. You see, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could've left Tank with .. and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq, that they make one phone call to the shelter ... in the "event" ... to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my CO is a dog guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he'd do it personally. And if you're reading this, then he made good on his word.
Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family. And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family, too, and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way he
loved me.
If I have to give up Tank to keep those terrible people from coming to the US I am glad to have done so. He is my example of service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.
All right, that's enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter. Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.
Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home, and give him an extra kiss goodnight - every night - from me.
Thank you,
Paul Mallory
____________ _________ _________ _______
I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure, I had heard of Paul Mallory, everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver
Star when he gave his life to save three buddies. Flags had been at half-mast all summer.
I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog.
"Hey, Tank," I said quietly.
The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright.
"C'mere boy."
He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months. "Tank," I whispered.
His tail swished.
I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my
face into his scruff and hugged him.
"It's me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me." Tank reached up and licked my cheek.
"So what daya say we play some ball?" His ears perked again.
"Yeah? Ball? You like that? Ball?"
Tank tore from my hands and disappeared into the next room. And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.

"I was home with my infant, observing my 5-year-old at the bus stop through the window. Unexpectedly, a dark, wolf-like dog showed up there.
Instinctively, I slipped on my boots and ran down the street, calling the dog to approach me. She appeared menacing—skinny, unkempt, and somewhat feral—but as she came closer, her tail wagging, I understood she wasn't dangerous, only in need.
She was extremely hungry and thirsty, and had no collar or identification. I contacted animal control to report her and agreed to keep her until her owner was located.
The following day, someone reported her missing. In our close-knit community, dogs rarely disappear, so I was suspicious. Upon arriving at the owner's house, I found her outside—and to my astonishment, she showed little reaction to seeing her returned dog.
I inquired about Mocha’s health, and the woman dismissed it, stating she was a "nuisance" and frequently escaped. Then, without any feeling, she confessed they disliked the dog.
I said nothing further. I turned and walked away, with Mocha following me back home.
That was a decade ago. She has never attempted to leave our side. She adores us, and we adore her. She’s now around 13, and our veterinarian assures us she has plenty of healthy years remaining.
We hadn’t intended to adopt her—but ultimately, she saved us as much as we saved her."

The other day, I was out grocery shopping at my local supermarket around 6:30 pm when an older man turned a corner into the pasta aisle and put his hands on my shoulder. I jumped up. My first instinct was to get angry and ask him to please not touch me. Then I noticed something. The man was crying. He looked distraught and confused.
Suddenly, he asked, ‘Do you know where my wife is? I’ve been looking for her.’ I told him I didn’t know and suggested maybe he ask the store front for help finding her. I was thinking maybe he lost her in the aisles. Hasn’t everyone lost someone this way? I was wrong.
He proceeded to ask, ‘Where is my wife? She was right here.’ Tears welled up in his eyes. I told him once again that I was not sure and gestured to walk with him to the customer service counter where they could use the overhead speaker service to make an announcement for her. He obliged.
There, the woman asked for a name. He looked to me in confusion, as if I had the answer for him. The woman half rolled her eyes and turned to me. ‘Miss. Do you have THE NAME?’ I explained he was a stranger and I had no other information than she did. ‘Is this a joke?’ she asked. By then, it became really clear to me that this man was very confused. Not just regular confused, but Alzheimer's confused. Having had a grandpa with this condition, I knew it all too well.
I took him to the food court and we sat down. He was now shaking and crying softly. ‘Where is my love?’ I held his hands and I asked him if he had a cell phone. My heart was breaking for him. He said he wasn’t sure, so I asked if I could search his pockets. He obliged. I was careful. In it, I found a small flippy phone. I searched through his contacts and found one that read ‘Daughter Krissy.’ I immediately called her. She answers in seconds.
Hello?’ she said, her voice already sounding frantic. I explained that I was with an older man who I assumed was her father. That we were at the supermarket on Lane St and he was very distraught and upset.
‘On my way, ‘she said. ‘Can you make sure he doesn’t wander off?’ She continued, ‘Thank you, thank you. I’m coming.’
For 20-something minutes, I sat with a crying stranger. I held his hands. I wiped his tears. When he shivered, I layed my jacket down in his lap. I gave him answers he needed to hear in the moment. I kept him from trailing off. Because that’s the least I could have done.
Suddenly, in walks this tall young woman who looked about 28 or 29. Long black hair and green eyes. We locked eyes and she came rushing over. ‘Thank you. THANK YOU,’ she said. ‘I had to leave for just an hour, and this happens. I knew I shouldn’t have left him. I’m SO sorry.’ She explained that he sometimes runs off and looks for his wife. That he lost her 13 years ago, but he never stops trying.
She proceeded to help him out of his chair and thanked me once again. On their way out, I heard him say once more, ‘Where is my wife?’ My heart hurt, but I was so happy to see him with his family again. I share this not only because this man touched my heart, but to say this:
The majority of this world are strangers to you. I know that. But never forget that we all share this world together, and in it we can share kindness. That is the only thing that can keep us going. If you see something, do something. You never know how big your impact can be on someone else’s life.
I don’t care that the shopping cart I accidentally left in the pasta aisle during the frenzy of this situation was unloaded and put away. That I had to re-find everything. I don’t care that I ate dinner a little later that night. That I went home and cried my eyes out in the kitchen for this sweet, poor man. Kindness costs nothing.

Those born between 1930 and 1946 are part of an exceptionally small group; only 1% of their age cohort survives today. Ranging from 77 to 93 years old, this generation represents a distinctive and irreplaceable period in human experience.
Here's why:
Your beginnings were marked by difficulty. You emerged from the economic devastation of the Great Depression and witnessed a global conflict. You experienced rationing, collected scrap metal, and practiced extreme resourcefulness, where nothing was discarded.
You recall the era of milk delivery, where fresh milk arrived at your doorstep. Life was less complex, focused on essential needs. Discipline was enforced by both parents and educators, with no tolerance for justifications.
Your imagination served as your primary source of entertainment. Lacking television, you engaged in outdoor play and constructed elaborate imaginary worlds from radio broadcasts. Families gathered around the radio for news and entertainment.
Technology was in its early stages. Telephones were shared, calculations were performed manually, and newspapers were the main information source. Typewriters, not computers, captured thoughts.
Your youth was characterized by safety. The post-World War II period ushered in a hopeful future—free from terrorism, the internet, and discussions about climate change. It was a period of great hope, innovation, and expansion.
You represent the final generation to have lived through a time when:
* Black-and-white television was considered advanced.
* Highways were not yet freeways.
* Shopping involved visits to city center stores.
* Polio was a dreaded illness.
While your parents dedicated themselves to rebuilding their lives, you grew up in a world brimming with potential. You flourished during an era of peace, advancement, and security that may never be replicated.
If you are over 77, take pride in having navigated these remarkable times. You are among the fortunate 1% who can declare, "I experienced the most favorable period of time."

Born between 1930 and 1946 places you in an exceptionally small group – just 1% of your generation remains today. Ranging in age from 77 to 93, your lifetime represents a singular period in human history.
Consider this:
You entered a world of difficulty. Your generation emerged from the Great Depression and witnessed a global war. You experienced rationing, collected scrap metal, and practiced resourcefulness – waste was avoided.
You recall home delivery of fresh milk. Life was less complex, focused on essential needs. Discipline was a consistent element from both parents and educators, with little tolerance for justifications.
Your imagination served as your entertainment. Without television, you engaged in outdoor play and constructed elaborate mental worlds based on radio broadcasts. Families gathered to listen to news and programs together.
Technology was rudimentary. Telephones were shared, calculations were manual, and newspapers were the main source of information. Thoughts were recorded on typewriters, not computers.
Your early years were stable. The post-WWII period ushered in a hopeful future – absent of terrorism, the internet, and discussions about global warming. It was a prosperous time marked by optimism, progress, and security.
You are the final generation to have lived when:
Black-and-white television was advanced technology.
Major roads were not yet freeways.
Shopping involved visits to central business districts.
Polio was a significant health threat.
While your parents dedicated themselves to rebuilding after the war, you matured in an environment of abundant opportunities. You flourished during an era of peace, advancement, and safety that the world may never again experience.
If you are beyond 77 years old, feel a sense of pride in having navigated these remarkable times. You are among the fortunate 1% who can truthfully say, "I lived through the best of times."

We moved into our new house this past weekend and have been working non stop. Today our neighbor appeared with this feast for us and the friends that were helping! I almost cried. I think we hit the jackpot with great neighbors. Mind u she is 82! Apparently she was a pastry chef for many years. She brought pecan cake, chocolate pie, homemade biscuits, BBQ chicken, potato salad, cabbage, buttered corn on the cob and baked ham. And told me that since I work full time to just call her if I needed her to make dinner for us! I don't think I'll ever move😭❤️