Birthdays can be blissful, or birthdays can be forgotten. When I was approaching 50, I decided to go backwards. So instead of 50, I celebrated my 49th birthday. Reaching 40 never phased me, but I was dreading that half a century mark for some reason. Now I’ve reached the brink; an age that is still too young for Medicare, too old for Twitter (though I do love Instagram) and just right for becoming a Grandmother. I am now the same age as Bob, our birthdays are about a month apart so I can stay younger for exactly 35 days. Because my generation thought we had to make dinner every night, I’m still feeding him.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qyv3PJs-KBw
When we moved to the Piedmonts of Virginia from the Suburbs of the Jersey Shore, I only had two conditions. We would build our house, a not-so-big house with a view, and we would learn to tango. It wasn’t easy. Our realtor said that she showed us every single thing there was for sale in the county over the course of a year, when I found the right piece of land online. Our dance instructor told me that Bob had to lead, so you can imagine how that worked out. But tango we did and here I sit, in my aviary typing away, watching the mountains turn from dark charcoal and lilac lines into a citrine and burgundy masterpiece every day.
And although the book I want to write about the Flapper is still in pieces on my desk, I do have something else, besides the Love Bug to celebrate this year. A woman I met through a serendipitous route – let’s see, it started with knitting and ended with a new friend who was becoming a grandmother on exactly the same date – has edited a group of essays by bloggers…and asked me to contribute. So when dearest Aunt Bert asked, “Where does your blog go?” I can now answer her, “Why, into a book of course!” And it’s titled, “Tangerine Tango.” I’m thrilled, and hope you like it.
MountainMornings 