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.
I like “Coot’s Edge”. And, FYI, my just-turned-85 year old mom has proclaimed for many years that as we get older, we also should celebrate our natal days for a longer period. You, Ms Coot, get about a month of celebrating, getting used to finishing one decade and preparing to enter the next, and just generally raising a ruckus (as only you can!) … So, make it good!! 🙂
Happy Birthday you young kid! (said by a 70 year old). Hope I see you next week when I am in town for NATF.
How’s ‘beloved elder’ strike you?
In my Spiritual Path, Elders are revered and a woman undergoes her “Croning”, usually between 55-60. The Crone holds knowledge, understanding, compassion. I am proud to be a crone, but understand it has a negative connotation in many Western ‘cultures’.
Desert winds blow desert sands
Around a gnarled old tree.
Although the air is stifling hot,
It blooms as all can see.
How can this ancient withered thing
Have leaves on twig and bough?
And how can it somehow survive
Where nothing should grow now?
I know that if a thing’s unseen
Does not mean it’s not there.
And many things may come to pass
To those who trust and dare.
Beneath the sand is water sweet
But none above can know,
This water kisses thirsty roots
Which causes sap to flow.
How like that tree can be a Crone –
Her life was shaped by care,
Inside still beats a youthful heart –
Take time to look – it’s there.
Her hair is grey, her face is lined
Her step has slowed its pace,
But ancient wisdom fills her now
She blooms with love and grace.
Blessings on your birthday, dear friend.
What a lovely poem!
Thank you. Are you or do you know the author?
It’s mine, from my e-book, THE SACRED WHEEL, which is on Amazon. I’m glad you like it. Did you want to quote it somewhere? If so, it’s fine with me, as long as you credit the source. If you just wanted to know whodunnit, that’s OK too!
You once called your garden house in Springfield Sisco’s folly…how about that?
Happy birthday to you. I just had one myself, and once I stop thinking about the number, it’s not half bad.
Happy Birthday. Thank you for sharing part of your life via your wonderful blog.
All the best, always,
I agree with Constance….Coot’s-a-Hoot !!!! And Many More Coots to you…………Cheers, Bebe
Happy Birthdy to you….from an almost 74 year old and plan many more..eb
Thanks,eb. You’re an inspiration.