I know lots of women who have battled more adversity than I've yet to experience, but let me tell you about another kind of heroine.
A professional woman, a widow, mother, a grandmother, and a cancer survivor, she retired last year. What makes her a heroine? She sold her house, bought a huge truck(one of those with the electric side mirrors extending past the camper housed on the back), outfitted a camper with a plasma tv, placed the Wheaties box with her husband's picture in a camper-place of honor, included a case of almond milk(which is to drink and not, as I guessed, to use as a hand lotion) and headed out for her first volunteer job with the national parks.
If you're like me, you close your eyes (someone else is driving, of course) when you go around curves, even on interstates, and hate those concrete barriers erected for highway improvement, and are very, very afraid to look over the edge of a road high in the mountains.
She plastered a bumper sticker on that monster truck: "This isn't my boyfriend's truck!" and crossed the country by herself. Heart-stopping mountain passes, wind tunnels, and miles of construction later, she arrived in one of the southwestern states at her first assignment: helping tourists, yes, but also shoveling manure from the horse/cow whatever barn, and winding two hours back down the mountain for a latte. Now, that's a heroine!
Try to top that.
A professional woman, a widow, mother, a grandmother, and a cancer survivor, she retired last year. What makes her a heroine? She sold her house, bought a huge truck(one of those with the electric side mirrors extending past the camper housed on the back), outfitted a camper with a plasma tv, placed the Wheaties box with her husband's picture in a camper-place of honor, included a case of almond milk(which is to drink and not, as I guessed, to use as a hand lotion) and headed out for her first volunteer job with the national parks.
If you're like me, you close your eyes (someone else is driving, of course) when you go around curves, even on interstates, and hate those concrete barriers erected for highway improvement, and are very, very afraid to look over the edge of a road high in the mountains.
She plastered a bumper sticker on that monster truck: "This isn't my boyfriend's truck!" and crossed the country by herself. Heart-stopping mountain passes, wind tunnels, and miles of construction later, she arrived in one of the southwestern states at her first assignment: helping tourists, yes, but also shoveling manure from the horse/cow whatever barn, and winding two hours back down the mountain for a latte. Now, that's a heroine!
Try to top that.
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