Maybe it’s the upcoming birthday that’s got me thinking. Actually, it’s not so much the fact that I’m having one as it is the number that’s attached.
Some folks would say it’s no coincidence that this nut was shaken from the family tree the same month that we celebrate our nation’s independence. With (you know this) boomers and sparklers and razzmatazz. Only on rare occasions when the moon is full and the wind is blowing from a certain direction will I admit to any such tendencies. Then I only go so far as a, “Yup, there’s some red in my hair,” and, “So I’m a little excitable a couple of times a year. Who isn’t?”
If I were hung up on numbers, this one would go down sideways. Let’s say I head for those eternal hills at the age of 92. This would be the halfway mark here. However, if I check out at, say, 75, then I blew past halfway some years back, and I’d better get a-crackin’. There’s a jolt of reality to go with your morning coffee. Need some sugar?
Anyway, with all this rolling around in my fertile brain, I realize there’s a lot I know now that I didn’t know when I was a young sprout. Back when I was a girl in braids playing Kick the Can with cousins, I thought kids had it tough. Teachers and parents lived on Easy Street. That’s what I thought.
With one parental edict, they could make you scrub the toilets. Sweep the floor. Make your bed. Clean your room. Weed the garden. Shoot, your mother could even send you down into the dungeon (i.e., the basement) and make you iron shirts. That’s what one mom I know did to her kid.