One More Detour on the Writing Road

I will be 55 tomorrow.

Have yet to adjust to the 50s. The 40s still felt, if not young, at least pre-middle ages. But 50s butt up against the 60s, which is Social Security/Medicare territory and no I’m not ready. I know, I still have 5 years left to kid myself that 50 is the new 30 so that means that 55 is the new 37.3 or some such. But I know how quickly time passes now–events from 5 years past still replay in my brain as if they happened yesterday. One of my fave t-shirts is a navy blue trad cut with a Santa Barbara crest that I bought for my Dad 20 years ago at my first writers conference ever. 1993 was 20 years ago. I still remember walking along the beach and listening to the lectures and surviving the workshops and receiving validation in the speculative fiction workshop that yes, I could actually write.

20 years.

It doesn’t matter that to some folks, I may not look my age. I’m not sure what that means. This is what 55 looks like. There are lines that weren’t there a few years ago. Skin no longer as taut. There’s more gray hair. Stuff hurts. I’m at the age where Doctors test All The Things. The body, it has changed, in most ways not for the better. I am, knock wood so hard it splinters, blessed with decent health, and to be honest, fuck the skin and hair, that’s all I want. If I have that, I can push/pull/adjust/survive anything else. This, I tell myself. That’s my bargain with whatever inevitable is out there. Just grant me this one thing.

I understand, though, that shit happens. Seen it up close over the last 10 years.

I understand that I am blessed with resource. I am a child of the First World, and though I made countless bad choices over the years, I ended up okay.

I understand that unless there is some startling medical breakthrough in the next few years, I’m on the downward slope.

If nothing else, this understanding is driving me to take some chances, so that I can spend as much time as possible doing what I really want to do. Last year at this time, I wasn’t at this point.

Not much else to say. Wondering where I’ll be a year from now. Lots to do between now and then.

Mirrored from Kristine Smith.

Eight years ago today, my dad was home, in hospice care. He had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer six weeks before. The decline was swift. He could still sit up for short periods, and he wasn’t in pain. But his body was breaking down, and there were times when he was someone else. His appetite was non-existent, and as the days went on, he slept more and more.

That December 14th marked my parents’ 47th anniversary. Dad managed to sit up for a bit. He talked. He even took a few puffs of a cigarette. He made it through the day on sheer willpower, I believe, then slipped away. He passed away the afternoon of the 16th. A frigid day. Snow on the ground.

We’re in the midst of an unseasonably warm jolt now–50s, with rain–so this day isn’t like that day. Dad would have been happy that he didn’t have to shovel snow.

Mirrored from Kristine Smith.

My Tricks or Treating years fell around the time that people first started worrying about candy tampering. You’d read the occasional newspaper story about kids finding needles or razor blades in apples, but the move toward well-sealed store-bought treats had only just started. My friends and I still got apples. Homemade popcorn balls and cookies. And every so often, coins. Pennies, mostly–I lived in a small town with a store that sold penny candies, so we didn’t turn up our noses at the things. But sometimes you were given a nickel or dime, which got you an entire candy bar or box. Necco wafers–those things were weird. Zero bars, with polar bears on the wrappers. At least, I think there were polar bears.

I loved Bit O’Honey. Those wacky wrappety-wrapped pieces. I still like it, but the stuff seems softer now. Between Bit O’Honey and Bonomo Turkish Taffy, I’m lucky I still have teeth.

Mirrored from Kristine Smith.