That is me in the middle, wearing cowboy boots. On the right is my brother, Jack, dead since 1999. That is my birthday cake he's holding. Checking out the cake is a cat, nameless to me now. On the left is my other brother, Houston. Behind us is my father's old Ford (back when Fords were king of the road) and the trailer we lived in.
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I had my 50th birthday this week, on 1/24, causing me to speculate on the meaning of birthdays. These little celebrations that happen in honor of our birth are so precious. Look at the pink-festooned cake, made by my mother in her little girl's honor. Look at me standing there in my "Aw shucks" stance. I remember being a little embarrassed by so much fuss. I still don't like a lot of fuss, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't appreciate acknowledgment.
Birthdays do give us a little window of time to reflect; that's their gift to us. Now everything in life will be filtered through the prism of my being 50 years old.
Since I'm 50, I'm going to adopt a kind of Bette Davis I'm-gonna-do-what-I-want-and-if-you-don't-like-it-then-tough stance. That means I'll be spending long hours at my various desks, writing. I used to feel guilty about the time I spent behind closed doors writing. I don't want to do that anymore. I feel like Thelma did in Thelma and Louise, when she said, "Something's crossed over in me and I can't go back."
I don't want to go back. Like Thelma said on the edge of the precipace: "Let's keep goin'."
I want to go ahead. And I will.
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