TOMORROW I’LL GAIN a year, becoming just one short of my seventies. Almost too much on the schedule for me to think about it, except for birthday wishes popping in from likely and unlikely places. It has got me to thinking about the kinds of euphemisms we employ to discuss such matters. I am already into the “years young” category, as well as having become “a woman of a certain age.” Those sound slightly elegant, slightly pandering, and I wonder if we could just settle it once and for all by being brutally honest. Not as brutal as “over the hill” or “one foot in the grave,” perhaps. But maybe “coming into her fogey-hood,” or “she’s one round short of a geezer.” I know. How about “That Sisco, she’s a coot.” I know. Sounds kinda disrespectful. But I think I could assume the mantle. I’ll start by dubbing this little farmette out on the edge of the West Plains in celebration. How does “Coot’s Edge” grab you. Maybe I’ll get into that cranky blog I keep threatening to start. Maybe tomorrow. Or not. We coots don’t have to keep a schedule, y’know. I think I could get into this. Stay tuned.