I unearthed my Tinkerbell Book today, and found this in it:
"As I drove down Main Street today, a little old woman walked out in front of me. I didn't have to hit my brakes-- not quite. The car next to me, bewildered, slowed down as well.
She was white-haired, dressed in a pantsuit the colour of blueberry ice cream. White earrings, large as a child's clumsy buttons, hung from her worn earlobes. She trudged doggedly along the crosswalk, not even glancing up at us. Her cottony head bobbed up and down, neck craned to peer at her destination, all the way across the four-lane street.
She didn't even glance up at us. Perhaps she didn't know we were there, or perhaps she just didn't care. Maybe she felt that she had been in the world long enough that it should bend for her. A ton of steel and metal slowed for a frail little woman. Maybe she found that amusing.
But I really think she didn't know we were there.
I exchanged looks of disbelief with the other car's young driver (as if I'm so old) and drove home, chuckling to myself, trying not to think about what would happen to her if she kept doing things like that without nice young people to slow down for her. A burly truck driver might mow her down.
I hate burly truck drivers sometimes."