Feeling sad about aging? Why? You’ve never been this age before.

We all have our time. I used to be a one-year-old. Not anymore. Now, it’s my granddaughter’s turn to experience that year.

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At her birthday party, I had a wonderful conversation with a friend I rarely get to see. First, we talked about her aging mother. Then we talked about our kids. Her’s are 13 and 11. Mine are 23 and 27.

Kristin’s already missing her aging and ill mother. She talks about what will happen when her growing boys leave the nest. Her eyes puddle with tears.

And then I told her what I tell myself when I feel like so much of my life is formed of memories, of cycles of life that have concluded.

“I have been a one-year-old,” I say. “Now it’s my granddaughter’s turn. I have been a two-year-old. Now it’s my grandson’s turn. I have been a mother of young children, fortunate to have watched them grow and thrive. Now, it is my children’s turn to experience parenthood. But, I have never been sixty before. This, too, is a new cycle. And who knows what will happen.”

We all have our time.

 

 

 

The truth about my blogging “friends”

I blogged many years back and stopped. Maybe I didn’t understand it or maybe I just didn’t care. But I came back into “your” fold this past August because  I was on a mission. I had a goal and I haven’t done such a good job achieving it.

But, as I like to say, “there goes that universes again” — because blogging has taught me things I didn’t expect.

I have to tell you. A few people in my life, including an attorney friend of mine, worries that “exposing” myself to the cyber world could be unsafe. That “many of those bloggers are not true to who they really are.”

If that’s the case with any of you, back up, Jack, and hit the unfollow button.

(But I think I “know” you.)

Unless I’m traveling, my world is a bit of a bubble. You know, routines and such. Not that I’m complaining. For the most part, I like my sac of familiar air.

But now I have cyber friends like you, who come from all over the world, who tell me through words or photographs about their life, and interests. Many of you share the same thoughts and ideals as me. And the ones who differ, teach me.

You are writers, strugglers, rebels, photographers, dancers, chefs, visionaries, travelers, poets, doctors, animal lovers, readers, humorists. You are mothers, fathers, new adults, aging adults, “in-between” adults.

And, here is the common thread: You are all thinkers who ponder and share the world as you know it.

So what’s not to like?

It’s not you. It’s me. I’m not so good at promoting my novels to make a “difference” in sales while sitting at this particular table.

But I like this wooden table. There is plenty of room for everyone.

And it’s round. 

 

 

(And yes, it’s an electronic cigarette)

 

 

Truth be told, I Knew a Man …

… and the man grew up in poverty during the depression. He protected his mother and little sister from his father’s outbursts.

I knew a man.

In the late 1930’s and early 40’s, he had two role models, two men he looked up to.

One was William H. Govan, the “water boy” for a small town football team. The “Negro” man, who served in WWI, showed compassion for the young kids, gave them doses of support and kindness, showed them how to stand up for themselves, and when they grew old enough to fight in WWII, he wrote to each and every one of them.

I knew a man. And he told me, “H. Govan was one of the best men I ever met.”

The second person he looked up to was his grandfather, a true Texas cowboy who could roll and light a cigarette with one hand while leading a string of 18 horses into town. Because of his grandfather’s teaching, this man learned to be a cowboy. So I painted his grandfather’s picture from a photo and gave it to him.

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When the man joined the Army in 1942, he became a boxer. I painted this from a photograph.

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Then, he met a woman, the love of his life. They had two children.

The four of them lived, loved and grew. Then, many years and anniversaries later, his wife died.

On this man’s death bed, I painted him another picture. I hung it on the wall next to where he lay, eagerly waiting to join his wife in the hereafter.

The man I knew said, smiling, “That’s me riding off in the sunset, ain’t it?”

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“Yes, Daddy,” I told him.

“You gonna publish that book about me, No Hill For a Stepper,?” he said.

He’d read the draft and kept it next to his recliner in the family room for visitor viewing.

“Who do you think will play me in the movie?” He’d said it so seriously it made me smile and ponder at the same time.

Two years after he died, No Hill For a Stepper was officially published in 2011.

I knew a man. That man was my father. He wasn’t flawless. None of us are. But he told me stories, taught me how to throw a football, and when I was faced with a challenge, he said, “Hell, Carolyn. That ain’t no hill for a stepper.”

This man, Cono Dennis, is still one of the best men I’ve ever met.

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