It was the third call of the morning.

We were still in bed.

My sister on the line, trying hard to hold herself together. She used words like "cannot survive without life support" and "living will". And finally...

"You'd better come down."

And soon I'm staring at the suitcase, a pile of shirts still on their hangers laying on top.

How many days am I packing for? Which ones will I need? What will we do with the heelers? Can the boys make the trip?

And the worst... am I also packing for a funeral?

And the memory came back, oddly, amongst all the others that have flooded through since the first call.

An article in a Reader's Digest. From decades ago. Written by a woman who found herself staring vacantly at a suitcase, needing to pack for a funeral, and children to prepare, and so many things to do. And no way to even start.

And there was a knock at her door. A neighbor.

"I came to polish your shoes," he said.

She stared dumbstruck.

"You're going to a funeral. You'll need your shoes polished."

"Where are the children's shoes?"

And the neighbor sat down in her home, and began polishing shoes.

One step at a time. Do what must be done, one step at a time.

And the young mother prepared her family for their funeral trip.

One step at a time.

As did we.

The suitcase packed, I remembered my dress boots. Every Westerner has his stomping around boots, and his dress boots someplace else, waiting.

Mine were covered with dust and heeler hair. And I knew just what to do. I reached into the drawer in the headboard, and took out the shoe brush.

And started polishing my boots.