“You know what’s happening, don’t you? More young people are moving into Birchwood. They’re landscaping. Hmph. Not me.”

“You’re getting old, Dear.”

And I know it.

Thirty years in the same house built before the ‘64 quake. It doesn’t seem possible that we’ve been in one place so long. Planes and helicopters touch-and-go at the Birchwood Airport nearby. Guns blaze at the Birchwood Shooting Park a mile or two away. Bicyclers race past our house. It used to be so quiet…

The Alaska Railroad expanded its tracks where we used to carry passengers with dog teams (man, that makes me sound antique!).

Thirty years ago we unloaded all our belongings from a single pickup bed–now I’m trying to reclaim those uncomplicated days. Too much STUFF!

Birthdays remind me of when three little boys (one was 6 months old) “helped” me remodel our upstairs with scrap lumber. They staked their claim on the room upstairs for years–along with teenage friends.

“Up and at’em!”

They hated that voice drifting through floor vents before daylight. Later, at least one son bivouacked upstairs with a wife!

“I’m going up.”

Carol still doesn’t look up from her computer.

Upstairs is “mine” now. I can write up here. Think. Look over Facebook, and appreciate my friends who send birthday wishes.
There’s something special about the old room with an orange carpet. Blue sky and orange flames decorate the walls (painted by a creative daughter-in-law). Books and stories I have written (along with half-finished projects) fill a long door-for-a-desk. A niece and her children were our last upstairs sojourners, but it’s my space now…

Okay, maybe not ALL mine.

Five grandkids arrive soon, and climbing those unlit stairs to grandpa’s office is a feat as audacious as ascending the steps of Mount Doom in Mordor (the grandchildren have inherited my fertile imagination).

But, until they arrive, I take the time to reminisce (word corrected three times) and thank all of you for sharing my posts with others. You make my birthday truly happy.

How many future birthdays will I have? No clue, but my mission is clearly to write for Christ until my one defining spiritual birthday is the only one left.

And now, please excuse me while I fix Great-grandma breakfast.