Well, a friend and fellow class of 1962 graduate of CK High school, wants to know why I'm not posting in my blog or blogging in my post or whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing on this page. I gave him all kinds of excuses--writing for my writer's group, answering emails, posting and reading Facebook, reading the newspaper--I didn't talk about the floors, the laundry, the garden and all the stuff a person does in their week. He actually excused me and said, "I guess you need to wait for inspiration." But that's not true. No matter how much there is to do, no matter what seems to take precedence to writing, the fact is that a person who calls herself a writer must write every day. If she waits for inspiration she will rarely write. This is what I've learned from reading many writer's words of advice about writing. It's simple: write every day.
So in that spirit, I will write something here.
We had a lovely alumni lunch today at a diner in Bremerton that used to be Pat's Cookie Jar. Now it's got car posters on the walls and motorcycle models in the case that used to hold yummy baked things. Lots more of us geezers showed up than have come to the last few lunches. Maybe we were all fed up with the gray skies and cold temperatures and wanted to see some sunny faces to warm us up. What ever the reasons, it was a big, jolly group. I saw other people in the diner looking over at our long table of laughing people, probably wondering what we all had in common besides our white hair. Well, we know what we have in common--it's age and common experience in life and that's a marvelous, consoling commonness. I love the fact that we know each other better and we talk about our current lives now, rather than about our former, high school lives, though we still go down memory lane sometimes, too.
Another friend asked me last week if I think about age all the time. She says she thinks about it all day, every day. She is one year younger than me. I don't think about it much at all. Not even when I look in the mirror. My husband still thinks I'm pretty nice to look at, which helps. I don't feel terribly achey or unsteady. I seem to have quite a bit of energy. I don't take any medicine, which means I am fortunate to have good genes. But it's more than outward appearance that keeps me from thinking about it. It's my innards, my brain, my philosophy or my outlook, something like that, that allows me to forget about it. I have to admit to noticing my memory is crappy and getting crappier. Usually, I can blame that on having too much on my mind, but other times it's obviously that age thing. I hope I can keep from worrying about age until the day I die.
I'm so sad about Boston, but encouraged by the way people there reacted, helping, aiding, being positive. And by the speed at which the law enforcement people are finding clues--that's impressive. Terrorism is a fact, but the way we react to it is our choice.
That's all, Dean. Better than nothing, huh?
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