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I froze halfway up the loading ramp at the feed store last Tuesday with a 50 pound bag of range cubes on my hip. Not a dramatic freeze. Not a fall. Just a stop. My right knee would not take the last step. I stood there with the bag against my ribs and the smell of alfalfa and diesel in my nose and I could not make the joint bend the way it needed to bend to get me up onto the flatbed of my own pickup. Behind me a kid in a Carhartt hoodie was waiting to load his own truck. Nice kid. Did not say a word. Just stood there holding a sack of Purina and looking at his boots because he could see what was happening and he was trying to give me the dignity of not seeing it. I'm 63 years old. I've been loading feed onto that same GMC since 1987. Wade bought me that truck the year we got married. I have thrown 50 pound bags of range cubes onto that flatbed in the rain, in the snow, at 5 in the morning in January with my hands so cold I could not feel the twine. And I could not take one more step. The kid finally said, real quiet, "Ma'am, can I get that for you?" I let him. I let a boy who could have been my grandson take the feed off my hip and set it in my own truck because my body would not do it anymore. And I walked around to the driver's side and sat down and I did not cry, because I have not cried since Wade's funeral, but I sat there for a full minute with my hands on the steering wheel just looking at the front of the store. That was the moment. Let me back up. My name is Deloris. I run 42 head of mama cows and their calves on 180 acres outside Vinita, Oklahoma, about 8 miles north of town off Route 60. My husband Wade and I bought the place in 1984 with a note we finished paying off two years before he died. He had a heart attack in the kitchen on a Wednesday morning in February 2021 with a piece of toast in his hand. He was 66. Our daughter Kaylene called me that afternoon from Tulsa and asked me what I was going to do with the cows. I told her I was going to keep them. She did not argue with me. She knew better. My brother-in-law Curtis, Wade's older brother, drives up from Pryor on Saturdays and Sundays to help me with anything I cannot do alone. Fence work. Vet visits. Hauling calves. Curtis is 68 and has a bad shoulder and a wife named JoAnn who thinks he is doing me a favor and doesn't know he needs the excuse to be on a place with cows on it. Wade and Curtis grew up on their daddy's place outside Chelsea. Some men are born needing to be around cattle. Curtis is one of them. So am I. So was Wade. I say all this so you understand what it means for me to stop on that loading ramp. That truck. That feed store. That bag of cubes. That is not just my job. That is who I am. My mother was a rancher's wife. My daddy ran a small commercial herd outside Adair. I have been around cows my whole life. I was pulling calves in a rubber suit in a barn at 22 years old. I loaded my first hay wagon at 14. My hands know cattle the way some women's hands know a piano. And my body was quitting on me. It did not happen overnight. That's the cruel part. It happened so slow I lied to myself about it for years. It started with the mornings. I used to be up at 5 with the coffee on by 5:15 and out the door by 6. That was the pattern for 35 years. Wade would still be pulling his boots on and I would already be halfway to the barn. Somewhere around 2019 I started needing 10 minutes on the edge of the bed before I could stand up. Both knees. Both hips. My right ankle, the one I broke stepping in a prairie dog hole in 1998, would burn like it was still healing. I would sit there and roll my ankles in small circles and press my palms against the mattress and count to 60 and then try to stand. I told Wade I was just getting older. He kissed the top of my head and said, "You are the toughest woman I know." He said that a lot. He said it because he could see it starting and he did not know what else to say. By 2021, the year we lost him, I could not get through morning feed without stopping to lean against the corral panel by the loafing shed. I would drop a scoop of cubes into the trough and rest my forearms on the top rail and just breathe. The cows would look at me. Cows know things. Curtis has said that to me a hundred times. Cows know when something is wrong with the person feeding them. My old cow, Number 17, the black baldy I have had for 11 years, would come up and put her nose against my elbow and stand there. Like she was checking on me. I know how that sounds. But if you have ever run cattle, you know I'm not making it up. The doctor at the clinic in Vinita told me it was osteoarthritis. He told me most women my age have it. He told me to take Tylenol and lose 15 pounds and consider a walking program. Then he refilled my blood pressure medicine and sent me home. I bought a bottle of Tylenol. I bought a bottle of glucosamine. I bought a bottle of turmeric off the counter at the Homeland grocery in town because Kaylene told me she saw something on Facebook. I bought a bottle of MSM from a lady who was set up in the parking lot of the tractor supply. I bought a copper bracelet from a woman at the swap meet in Grove. None of it worked. Or if it worked, it worked so little I could not tell the difference from a good night's sleep. I stopped riding out to check pastures on the four wheeler because getting off it hurt more than getting on it. I started asking Curtis to check the back 40 for me. I told him it was because he liked the drive. It was not. I stopped kneeling in the garden. I have grown tomatoes in the same 12 by 20 patch behind the house for 34 years. In 2022, I planted 4 tomatoes. In 2023, I planted 2. In 2024, I did not plant any and told myself I would do it next spring. I stopped taking my granddaughter Emmalyn out to see the calves when she came over. Emmalyn is 6. She is Kaylene's youngest. She loves the calves. She would run out to the loafing shed by herself and I would sit on the porch and watch her from a rocking chair. Wade used to walk out there with her. He would let her name every calf. There is a heifer in my herd right now named Sprinkles. That was Wade and Emmalyn. I told myself I was being safe. Letting her go out there alone. Watching from the porch. But I knew what I was doing. I was saving my knees for the parts of the day I could not skip. And then the feed store happened. I sat in that truck for a full minute and I looked at the front of the Vinita Farm and Ranch Supply and I said out loud to nobody, "You are 63 years old and you just let a boy load your truck for you." And I put it in drive and I went home. I fed the cows that evening with my ankle burning and my right knee catching every 4 steps and I went in the house and sat down at the kitchen table and I did not turn on any lights. I just sat there. And the thought that came into my head was not "I need a new doctor." It was not "I need surgery." It was, "I'm going to have to sell the cows." That thought hit me harder than anything since the day I found Wade on the kitchen floor. Because if I sell the cows, then what am I? I'm a widow in a house on 180 acres of empty grass. I'm not a rancher anymore. I'm a woman waiting to die on her husband's land. I did not sleep that night. The next morning I went into town for my regular Wednesday run. Post office, bank, feed store. I did not need feed. I went into the feed store anyway because the woman who runs the counter, Reba, is one of the closest friends I have and I needed to hear a human voice. Reba is 61. She has run the counter at Vinita Farm and Ranch for 22 years. Her husband Sonny was a farrier for 40 years. Shoed horses from Chelsea to Grove to Miami. Sonny is 69 now, retired 4 years, and every time I saw him at church back in 2022 and 2023 he was walking with a cane and holding his coffee cup with two hands because his fingers would not close all the way anymore. I told Reba what happened on the ramp. I told her about my knee. I told her about the four wheeler. I told her about Emmalyn and the calves. I did not tell her about selling the cows. I could not get that word out. Reba listened the way Reba listens. She did not interrupt. She wiped the counter with a rag that had "Purina" printed on it in faded blue letters. When I was done she said, "Deloris, how long has Sonny been walking without that cane?" I had to think about it. I said, "I saw him at Easter without it." She nodded. "Since November. He shod a colt for our nephew last month. First horse he's put shoes on in 4 years." I stared at her. Reba said, "You remember I told you at the Christmas cantata that his hands were so bad he could not open a jar of pickles?" I remembered. She reached under the counter and pulled out a small brown bottle. Not a prescription bottle. A supplement bottle. She set it on the counter between us. She said, "Our niece April is a nurse in Springfield. She sent this to Sonny in September. He didn't want to take it. I made him. It's not what I thought it was. Read the label." I picked it up. The name on the bottle was Alevia. Underneath it said Amla. That was all it said. Amla. I did not know that word. I had never heard it in my life. Reba said, "It's a berry. From India. I know how that sounds. I told Sonny the same thing. But April is not a woo-woo person. April worked in the ICU in Tulsa for 11 years before she moved to Missouri. And she told me the reason Sonny's hands were locking up was not really his hands. It was his cells. Something about the little engines inside them running out of gas." I said, "Reba." She said, "I know. Just let me finish. She told me the joints hurt because the cells inside them need energy to keep the cartilage healthy and to manage the swelling, and the little engines in those cells, the things that make the energy, are what wear out with age. Not the joints themselves. The engines behind them. And she said this berry, this Amla thing, it helps switch those engines back on. Something called AMPK. It's a pathway your body already has. This just wakes it up." I was still holding the bottle. Reba said, "I know how it sounds coming out of my mouth. I told Sonny it sounded like the copper bracelet lady at the swap meet. But it's been 4 months. He's putting shoes on horses again, Deloris. He rebuilt the front steps last weekend. I have not seen him move like this since 2018." I turned the bottle in my hands. The label was clean. It looked like a real product from a real company. It said made in USA. It said 90 day money back guarantee. It said 60 capsules. Two a day. Reba said, "April told me something that stuck with me. She said the reason nothing else worked for Sonny was that everything else was working on the joint. And the joint is not really the problem. The problem is upstream. She said you would not deliver lumber to a job site with no power and expect them to build a house. You would turn the power back on first." I stood there in the feed store holding a bottle of ground up berry from India that a nurse in Springfield sent to a retired farrier in Vinita. And I thought about Wade. Wade did not believe in supplements. Wade believed in aspirin and bourbon and hard work. If Wade had been alive I would have set that bottle back down on the counter and gone home. But Wade was not alive. And I was sitting on the edge of the bed for 10 minutes every morning trying to make my body work. And a boy at the feed store had loaded my truck for me the day before. And I was about to sell 42 head of cattle Wade and I had spent 37 years building. I said, "Reba, where did April order this from?" She wrote the address down on the back of a feed receipt. She said, "Deloris, it's not magic. Sonny didn't feel anything for the first couple weeks. But around week 3 he told me his hands warmed up. Like they had been cold on the inside for years and something turned the heat back on. He didn't even mean it as a metaphor. That's just what he said." I drove home with that receipt in my pocket. That night I ordered a bottle. It was $49. Free shipping. It came 4 days later in a small box on the porch next to a bag of chicken feed I had forgotten I ordered. I started taking it that Friday morning. 2 capsules with my coffee. That is the whole regimen. 2 capsules. 30 servings in a bottle. Whole thing takes 10 seconds. Here is what I want to be honest about, because if you are reading this and thinking it sounds too easy, I thought the same thing. Week 1, nothing. I felt exactly the same. I sat on the edge of the bed for 10 minutes. My ankle burned. My knee caught. I fed cows leaning on the corral panel. I almost called Kaylene and told her I was thinking about selling. Week 2, still nothing. I was starting to feel foolish. I told Reba at church on Sunday. She said, "Give it to 4 weeks. Sonny didn't feel it until week 3." Week 3 was when I noticed. It was a Tuesday morning. I sat up on the edge of the bed and I put my feet on the floor and I stood up. That was the whole thing. I stood up. I did not count to 60. I did not roll my ankles. I did not press my palms on the mattress. I just stood up and walked to the bathroom. I stopped in the hallway and I turned around and looked back at the bed like it had done something to me. I made coffee. I went out to the barn. My knee did not catch on the first step off the porch. It did not catch on the second step either. I walked to the loafing shed and I fed 42 head of cattle and I did not lean on the corral panel one time. Number 17 came up and put her nose on my elbow. She always does that. But this time I put my hand on her forehead and I said out loud, "Something is different, girl." Week 4, I got on the four wheeler and drove out to the back 40 by myself. Curtis was going to drive up from Pryor that Saturday and I called him and told him not to bother. He asked me why. I said, "Because I already checked the fence." He was quiet on the phone. Then he said, "Deloris, are you okay?" I said, "I am, Curtis. I really am." Week 6 was when Emmalyn came over. Kaylene dropped her off on a Saturday afternoon. Emmalyn ran straight for the loafing shed like she always does. And I got up off the porch and I walked out there with her. I did not sit and watch. I walked out there. And I climbed through the fence and I stood in the pen with her and I lifted her up so she could pet a 4 month old heifer named Butterbean. Emmalyn said, "Grandma, why are you out here with me?" I said, "Because I can be, sweet pea." She said okay and went back to the calf. Kids do not need explanations. But I stood in that pen and I watched my granddaughter with her hand on a calf's forehead and I thought about Wade. And I thought about how close I had come to selling that calf and every other calf in that pen. And I thought, this is what he would have wanted. Week 8, I hauled a bag of range cubes out of the truck by myself at the feed store. Same ramp. Same bag. Same GMC. The kid in the Carhartt hoodie was not there this time. It was a different kid. He offered anyway. I said, "I got it, hun." I lifted it off the flatbed and I carried it to the pallet. I set it down slow, because I am 63 and I am not stupid, but I set it down myself. Reba was watching from the counter through the front window. When I came back inside she just smiled and shook her head and did not say a word. I have been on Alevia's Amla for 5 months now. I am not going to sit here and tell you every joint in my body is perfect. I have a bad ankle from 1998 that is never going to be 22 years old again. I still take my time on the porch steps in the mornings when it is cold. I still know better than to jump off the flatbed. But I feed 42 head of cattle every morning without stopping. I check my own back 40. I planted 6 tomato plants last month. I get down on the ground to pet my dog. I climb through fences. I load feed. I do the things Wade and I built this place to do. And Sprinkles, the heifer Wade and Emmalyn named together, had her first calf last week. I pulled it myself. I did not think I would ever pull another calf. I really did not. Here is what April, Sonny's niece up in Springfield, told Reba when Reba called her to ask her to explain it one more time so I could understand it. Reba wrote it down on a piece of feed store receipt paper and gave it to me at church. The cells in your joints need energy to keep the cartilage healthy, to stay lubricated, and to manage the swelling that comes with wear and tear. That energy is made by little parts inside your cells called mitochondria. Think of them as tiny engines. As you age, and with everything modern life throws at you, those little engines get worn down. They do not make as much energy as they used to. And when your joint cells do not have enough energy, they cannot keep up with the maintenance work they need to do. That is why nothing you have tried has worked. Glucosamine, turmeric, the copper bracelet, the topical creams. All of it works on the joint. None of it works on the engines behind the joint. You have been delivering lumber to a job site with no power. Amla is different. It supports a pathway in your body called AMPK, and AMPK is one of the switches your body uses to help those little engines run better. When AMPK is active, your mitochondria can make more energy, the way they did when you were younger. That energy can flow back to the cells in your joints. And when those cells have what they need, they can go back to doing the maintenance work on the cartilage, on the inflammation, on the mobility. Amla is also one of the highest antioxidant foods that has ever been measured. So on top of helping the little engines turn back on, it helps protect them from the wear and tear that wore them down in the first place. Modern life is hard on those engines. Processed food. Stress. Pollution. Time. Amla is like giving them shade. I did not understand any of that when Reba first told me at the counter. I understood it after 3 weeks in my own body. If you are reading this and you are a woman in her 50s or 60s and you have been sitting on the edge of the bed in the morning counting to 60 before you can stand up. If you have been having your husband or your brother-in-law or a boy at the feed store do things you used to do without thinking. If you have been quietly making your world smaller because your body will not let you stay in it the way you used to. I want you to know something. That is not just aging. That is your cells running out of gas. And you can do something about the gas. Alevia's Amla is $49 for a 30 day bottle. 2 capsules a day. Made in USA. Free shipping to your door. And they give you 90 days to try it. If it does not do what it did for me, you send them the empty bottle and you get every penny back. Nobody at the clinic in Vinita ever offered me my money back on Tylenol. Nobody at the swap meet offered me my money back on the copper bracelet. Nobody at Homeland offered me my money back on the turmeric. The people who sell you the things that do not work never offer you your money back. Because they know. Alevia does. If you want to try it, this is where I ordered mine. Reba wrote it on the back of a feed receipt for me. I am going to save you the trip. 👉 https://alevia.com/amla/33 P.S. Curtis came up last Saturday and I met him at the front gate on the four wheeler. He got out of his truck and looked at me and said, "Deloris, you're moving like your mama used to move." My mama ran cattle until she was 74. That was the highest compliment Curtis has ever given me. He drove home that afternoon without doing a single thing I had asked him to come do because I had already done all of it. I sent him home with a package of round steak and a jar of my tomato jam. He called me from Pryor that night and asked me what I was on. I told him the whole story. He ordered a bottle for his shoulder before he hung up. P.P.S. About that 90 day guarantee. I want you to really hear this. You buy the bottle. You take 2 capsules a day. If in 90 days you are not feeling different, you send it back and you get your money back. That is the whole deal. There is no catch. Compare that to anything else you have been sold for your joints in the last 20 years. Compare it to the copay on your last doctor visit. Compare it to the shelf full of bottles in your bathroom cabinet that did not do a thing. Nobody who sells you something that works is afraid to give you your money back. That guarantee is not a marketing line. It is the company telling you they know what this does. P.P.P.S. I want to say something to the women reading this whose husbands have already passed. Wade has been gone almost 5 years. I know what it is to walk through a house that has an empty chair in it. I know what it is to feed cows in the dark and not have anybody to eat breakfast with. And I know how easy it is, when your body starts giving out, to just quietly let go of the things you and he built. To sell the cows. To let the garden go. To stop going to the pasture. To become a widow instead of a woman. Please do not do that. Not because your body cannot come back. It can. Mine did. I got 5 months of proof under my belt. I am asking you, one widow to another, to give yourself the same chance Reba gave me at that counter. Wade would want me on those cows. Your husband would want you doing the thing you two loved. Alevia is not going to bring him back. But it might give you back the version of yourself he fell in love with. P.P.P.P.S. Reba told me last week that Alevia is a small company and they have run out of stock before. I keep 2 bottles in my kitchen cabinet now. One I am using, one waiting behind it. I am not going back to that ramp. If you are ready to try it, do it today. Not next week. There is a heifer named Sprinkles who has a calf on the ground this morning because I decided in Reba's feed store that I was not selling. 👉 https://alevia.com/amla/33