I always looked forward to the several times a year that Berta— my friend for ten years and counting—made the four hour trip from the Boston area to visit me in Saratoga Springs, New York. Berta had red curly hair that she sometimes spruced up with a purple tint and loved horses. She was twelve years older than me, but we seldom noticed the age difference. I celebrated her visits because I was granted a reprieve from my primary responsibility, which was to keep my two young children—Tyler and Brynn—alive. Berta enjoyed the break from her routine and was about as laid back a houseguest as a person could be. She had only one requirement—we needed to visit the farmer’s market before she left town on Saturday morning.