Shiva Juggles
An Unexpected Gift

I Have Gold-Plated Genes

We're heading down 'ee ocean this evening for the big celebration -- my Mom's birthday.

She's 95.

Yep. Ninety-five.

Momat22 She was born and raised just outside DC, she's lived within a five-mile radius all of her long long life. She remembers when Georgia Avenue -- now a six-lane major commuter route -- was a dirt road. Those were the days when everyone in the house ran to the front window to watch a car (a car! Imagine!) pass by.

When I think of what she's experienced, my mind boggles. Her first movies were all silent and black and white. She had to crank the Victrola to listen to a record. The iceman delivered ice for the icebox; the cellar stored the coal for the furnace. She learned to drive in a Packard. She heard the news when Lucky Lindy flew across the Atlantic, when Peal Harbor was bombed, when JFK and RFK and MLK were shot dead, when the towers fell and Pentagon burned.

She had five children -- two of us after age 40 -- and she smoked and drank alcohol and coffee and ate what she pleased throughout each pregnancy. She stayed married to my dad until he died, a little over 57 years.

Momat93 Now she belongs to a demographic known as the "oldest old". She hates being old -- she can't garden for long, she can no longer sew. But she still walks without a cane, plays duplicate bridge twice a week, and keeps a running list of things we must do.

Last week, she renewed her driver's license. Watch out!

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