This is the year I have dreaded, or subconsciously prayed for, this blessed miracle of turning seventy-years-old. They say it's a milestone birthday, I like to think of it as a conspiratorial wink to that younger self, my constant faithful companion. Every so often she winks back, a personal high-five, a signal giving me permission to reflect, to appreciate and celebrate this absolutely crazy one life we are given. Gratitude, kindness to self and others are grape Kool-Aid for nourishing the soul, and we've done this together.
I love the ocean. The soothing sound of the rolling waves, how they still the soul, the various seashells resting on the shoreline, waiting to be inspected, tucked into a coat pocket, seagulls telling us how it really is. And the left-over granules of sand that follow you home, how they sift out of the shoe at unsuspecting times, dust the floor, the carpet with tender memories. In my teen years, we lazed on a beach blanket for hours at a time, Baby Oil slathered all over our innocent bodies, flipping through a Seventeen magazine, gazing at Twiggy, at her hair-do, at the body we sighed over but now we'd rather wear elastic waistbands. The salty breeze fanned our sun-burned young bodies, unaware we were then of the importance of sunscreen. If the soul was on our minds at all, we thought it was on the bottom of our Capezio flats.
Turning seventy was not in the forefront of our thoughts. Motherhood yes, meeting The Fonz, possibly. And Grandparents? Since becoming a grandmother, I have a deep respect for the generations of grandparents who've travelled this road before. For all the women who wore those knee-high nylon stockings, the ones that left red rings just under the knee cap, and dressed their hair all up in tight silver perms. Fashions and hair styles ebb and flow like the ocean tides, I had a perm in my thirties.
