I cut two roses for a bud vase that went atop the red tablecloth in the dining room.
Sitting then on the terraza in the cool morning air of 65 degrees, I took a deep breath. I am still alive on this first day of my 69th year which makes me, of course, 68.
All parts are still working though some accelerate less rapidly than they once did. That they accelerate at any speed is a source of joy and contentment.
My high school graduating class in Jacksonville, Florida, recently started a website, and a 50th reunion nears. I will not be attending, but the website is an interesting read.
Of just over 300 graduates in 1962, 43 are dead, an unsettling quantity.
And yet I soldier on — here on a Sierra mountaintop way south of the Rio Bravo with no job, no measurable worries and a child bride.
No wonder I’m not dead.