My grandkids call me “Mema.” They’re so cute when they say it. I even admit to having three great grandkids. That’s okay. I married very young.
My husband calls me “Beverly.” Mm. That’s my name.
I refer to myself as a children’s author.
Some people consider me a senior citizen. I know, because at restaurants they automatically give me a senior discount. Now, I have a problem with that.
Perhaps Robert Browning said it best in his poem:
RABBI BEN EZRA
Youth ended, I shall try
My gain or loss thereby;
Leave the fire ashes,
What survives is gold;
And I shall weigh the same,
Give life its praise or blame;
Young, all lay in dispute;
I shall know, being old.
I like to think of me as living in my golden years: “The last of life, for which the first was made,” according to Browning. When I was younger, I would not have believed him. But he was on to something. Now, I understand what he meant.
Consider me a recycled teenager worrying about a date for Saturday night, or that algebra test on Friday, or puzzled because my best friend has another bests friend.
Consider me an adventuresome ten-year-old who still believes in magic and fairy tales, and who loves horses and fishing and decorating a Christmas tree.
Consider me an inquisitive toddler watching a butterfly on a flower, a raindrop racing down the windowpane, or cuddling in my mom’s or dad’s lap while they open new worlds to me through an enchanting book.
Yes, I treasure each memory of growing older. I enjoy every hour of every day God gives me. Which reminds me: Gotta run. My skateboard awaits, along with my character who is teaching me the basics of an Ollie. What’s that, you say? I’m too old!
And that, my friends, is what writing is all about. Looking at the details of life. Letting our characters live, not only in our imaginations but in the world of our readers too.