Emily Filmore left her house well before sunrise, traveled more than 100 miles and waited for four hours before she finally got the COVID-19 vaccine she had been seeking for weeks.

Filmore, 44, had scoured the websites of every health department in Missouri after signing up on multiple lists locally. She has an uncontrolled autoimmune disease and several other health conditions, and takes medicine that suppresses her immune system. In St. Louis County, where she lives, her conditions didn’t qualify her as a priority for the vaccine. She wrote many emails to the state and county health departments, pointing out that doctors say people like her face a great risk from the virus, but to no avail.

People in rural areas in Missouri have had greater supply and easier access to the vaccine than suburban and urban areas, so Filmore, like many others who have been languishing on local lists, headed for the country. She learned that there would be a walk-in vaccination clinic in Hannibal, Missouri, and checked in advance to find out if she would qualify. They said she did.

Filmore set out on her pre-dawn road trip with a couple of friends and a Travel John -- urinating in a bag due to a lack of restrooms while she waited in line for hours in her car. Once they arrived at the Hannibal exit, they waited on the shoulder of the highway with hundreds of others before the parking lot to the site opened.

Eventually -- finally -- it was Filmore’s turn.

“I was in tears getting the shot because I was so relieved,” Filmore said. Her 14-year-old daughter called shortly after, and started crying and shouting for joy that her mom was finally vaccinated.

Filmore said she can’t understand the disparity between the vaccine supplies in her home city and county versus the far less populated rural areas. Could it be because Gov. Mike Parson, a pro-Trump Republican who refused repeated calls for a mask mandate, wanted to reward those areas that supported him?

“I don’t know why he would punish the other citizens in the state,” Filmore said. She struggled with her own decision to seek the potentially lifesaving vaccine: She could afford to spend days researching the options and then traveling to receive the shot. What about those who need it just as desperately, but can’t do that?

Kandi Karger, 39, of Ellisville, Missouri, has rheumatic heart disease and has five young children at home. Her doctor told her to get on every list she possibly could. She spent days constantly refreshing the websites of health departments to see if an appointment might become available. The minute a time slot opened up in Rolla, she grabbed it.

Rolla was about 80 miles away, but Karger had been looking at places hundreds of miles farther.

“When you’ve spent the last year of life living like you are in a bubble, you’ll drive anywhere,” she said. She also wondered why the vaccine distribution has been so inequitable in Missouri.

“When you take a public oath, you have to look out for the whole state, and in my opinion, Parson isn’t doing that,” she said.

Missouri’s vaccine rollout has consistently ranked among the worst in the country. When Dr. Alex Garza, the head of the St. Louis Metropolitan Pandemic Task Force, pointed out recently that the region was receiving less than half of the vaccine allotment it should be, based on population, Parson accused him of lying.

That’s not too convincing for working moms like Amy Ridling, 36, who lives in St. Charles. She works in public education in a school that is holding in-person classes. Frontline educators in next-door Illinois are eligible to get the vaccine now, but in Missouri, they are not.

In the middle of a severe winter storm, Ridling secured an appointment across the state line in O’Fallon, Illinois. The entire trip took five hours, including the time she had to pull over because the roads were so terrible and visibility so limited from the storm.

She was able to get the shot at a Walgreens there.

“You’re going to tell teachers that you have to be in front of all these kids or lose your job, but then, you’re not going to give them access to the vaccine,” she said. “I think it’s a real clear message from our state leadership about what they value.”

When Mary Lesyna said “good morning” to Mark Robben at the coffee machine at St. Louis’ Forest Park Community College, she knew exactly who he was.

“He was the most beautiful boy in the college,” she said. For her, it was love at first sight.

Mark, then 21, was also struck by the blond 18-year-old who approached him.

“I don’t know if you can print this, but it was lust at first sight,” Mark said.

That was on Oct. 24, 1968.

“I remember that date, believe me,” Mark said. He asked one of his fraternity brothers to find out Mary’s phone number. Both born and raised in the St. Louis area, they began dating immediately. Ten months later, Mark got drafted in the Vietnam War. He didn’t want to risk Mary becoming a teenage widow, so they didn’t get married before he shipped out. But he did propose.

He made it back home after more than a year, and they got married a month later -- Jan. 29, 1971.

They ended up buying a home in St. Louis and raising two kids, Allyson and Eric. Mark worked in construction for a dozen years, then drove a truck and worked on loading docks. Neither of them finished college, so they pushed education as the top priority for their kids. Mark took an extra job delivering pizzas at night to put them through private schools. Mary worked in a doctor’s office, and also helped Mark deliver phone books for extra money.

Both of their children graduated from college, continued with additional schooling, got married and had children of their own.

Mark and Mary’s long marriage hasn’t been without some hardship and tragedy. The death of their daughter 5 1/2 years ago is still too painful to talk about. And the pandemic put a stop to travels and get-togethers.

“The trash goes out more than we do,” Mark joked. But, he added, “the bottom line is, we made it 50 years.”

In normal times, they might have taken a trip with the entire family or thrown a big party. This year, their son, Eric Robben, who lives in Wheaton, Illinois, sent them flowers and had dinner delivered.

He also had another surprise.

Eric heard a story about a woman who bought gifts for all the guests at her 80th birthday party, thanking them for enriching her life. He was inspired by that spirit of generosity.

He did the math and decided to mail 50 of his parents’ closest friends an invitation and a check for $50. They could donate the money to any charity of their choosing. He only asked that they send an email to an account he created, Happy50thMarkandMary, sharing the name of where they donated the money and their good wishes for the couple’s milestone anniversary.

“I thought seeing all those points of light, those little bits of joy, would be meaningful,” he said.

It took some detective work to create the list and hunt down all the addresses. He hand-wrote each check, and sent the stack out in early January.

By Mark and Mary’s anniversary on Jan. 29, there were already dozens of emails in the account. Eric joked that the hardest part of pulling off the surprise was walking his parents through logging into the new email account over the phone.

The responses overwhelmed Mark and Mary. Their friends and family shared memories, loving words, old photos and funny stories. Most of them matched the $50 donations.

“I cried half the day reading it all,” Mary said.

They had planned on going to Cancun to celebrate their 50th, but canceled it because of the pandemic.

“This was actually better,” Mark said. “We can go on a trip anytime.”

Their pride in their son is evident when they talk about how accomplished and kind he and his wife are. Eric graduated from Notre Dame and earned his law degree from Washington University, Mark told me. (He added that his kids got their smarts from their mom.)

In his email to his parents, Eric wrote that he remembers his dad leaving for work before they woke up and coming home from delivering pizzas after they were in bed.

“They always talk about how smart I am, and how proud they are of me, but I’m 100% sure none of that would have been possible without their love and example,” he said.

The way he decided to honor his parents reminded me of that old adage about parenting:

Apple, meet Tree.

My face-to-face conversations with friends now take place in the woods.

I started walking outside at the start of the pandemic. Eventually, it replaced every other social activity. I usually try to recruit one or two friends to join me, but most often, it’s just me and my 14-pound ball of white fluff, Frankie. We’ve hiked in more than 30 parks around Missouri in well over a hundred visits, I’d guess.

I tend to go all-in on my pursuits -- some might say overboard.

It turns out hiking helps keep anxiety in check. And I hadn’t realized how stunning the scenery is around St. Louis.

The forest became my refuge.

This past weekend, it was in the low 30s, and I was trekking through a rocky trail. A native Texan, I was wearing several layers, heated gloves, heavy insulated boots and a large furry hat. I would not have recognized myself a year ago.

I was walking with a friend I hadn’t seen in months. Both of us will be empty nesters in a couple of years, and the conversation came around to where we might end up when no longer tied to our kids’ schools.

My husband and I have toyed with the idea of moving out of the suburbs and into the city, I said, but reports of rising crime have given me pause lately. Who wants to deal with nuisances like petty theft, or worry about more serious threats?

The next day, Frankie and I headed out for our afternoon stroll in Castlewood State Park. Last year, I fell on one of the more challenging trails here, and have since switched to a flat path along the river. But on this particular day, that path was flooded, so we ended up walking on a deserted, paved road that cuts through the park.

I noticed how quiet it was, and how utterly alone we were. I wondered what Frankie would do if a wild animal or unruly human encroached on our space. I’ve seen him get scared by a large suitcase, so I would probably have to do any protecting required.

We got back to the car about a half-hour later, and I noticed a pile of something green and sparkly on the passenger side. Then I noticed the window was missing.

Oh, and my backpack that I use as a purse -- with my wallet in it -- was gone, too.

Well, this was awkward.

I flagged down a nearby patrol car. I held Frankie to calm him down, since he had started shivering while the police officer filled out the report. Frankie’s not the smartest or most courageous dog, but he is pretty intuitive. He may have sensed that our safe outing no longer felt so safe.

On the way home, I tried to avoid thinking of several recent conversations, the first one being the one with my friend about the dangers of city living. I also tried to block out the number of times over the past two decades my husband has warned me about leaving a purse visible inside a car. God love him, he refrained from rubbing it in when I told him what happened. My dad, however, did call later to say this is why he has always told me not to walk outside alone. My husband smiled to himself when he heard me on that call.

The thieves went on a shopping spree with a few credit cards before I canceled them. I spent a couple of days getting a new driver’s license, alerting bank accounts, calling the insurance company to get the car fixed and thinking about the sentimental mementos in my purse I’d never see again.

I wondered if the universe was trying to give me a sign: First I broke my hand hiking, now this. Maybe I needed to stop trying to make Outdoorsy Aisha happen.

Then, a tweet appeared on my feed from the St. Charles County police: “Numerous vehicles broken into at hotels across the county ... Suspects smashed windows.”

It seems the same trouble hit another suburban county -- and in a hotel parking lot, not a deserted state park.

Maybe hiking wasn’t the problem, after all. Our perception of safety may have something to do with our own awareness, preparation and luck.

I’m willing to give the park another chance.

This time, I’ll leave my purse in the trunk.