The first inkling that time was passing me by came when I realized that Miss America 1962 was younger than I was. Until then, there was hope that someday Bert Parks would sing, "There she goes" to me.

In 1976, I was older than my boss. Not just my boss, but almost everyone at Sound Food that I worked with. I had a mortgage, teenage children, health insurance and knew Elvis before he got fat and sparkly. In 1978, when I broke my ankle, the doctor at the emergency room looked impossibly young—could he even know what to do?

In 1993, it seemed so cool that the President (of the United States) was a contemporary until—oh no, he's four years younger!

This year the age marker has been significant teenagers who drive. Bob's nephew Nick, doesn't have a Washington driver's license yet but he does have a 1965 Mustang, even if it is on blocks in the garage. My first grandchild, Caleb, is now the proud possessor of a Tennessee driver's license. There must still be remanents of that darling but stubborn four year old, determined to be a cowboy in that tall, handsome, funny sixteen year old who has college plans, travel dreams and career aspirations. Caleb is a mature, self-confident young man but still—a driver? The very thought can give a grandmother, not to mention a mother, the heebie jeebies.

Where does the time go indeed.


Four year old Caleb's drawing for me.




Sixteen year old Caleb, the driver.



Lauren and Bridget at the DMV



Nick and his 1965 Mustang