The Edge of Seventy

Aaahhh the life of a tween-ager. I'm not referring to any of my grandchildren mind you, or any of the sometimes awkward ten to twelve year-old types. More like the fifty to seventy year-old type. And I think I'm making all of of this up on the fly....but it makes perfect sense to my middle tween-aged sixty-year-old self.

Sitting in my car with the engine running and putting on a little dab of lip-stick so I'll look some version of put together for the day before driving into town my phone rings. Seeing that it's my eldest, I answer and chat while looking in my visor mirror and making my lips look a little more pink. She just had a couple of items of mother/daughter business and then we visited a little longer; a call from any of my children I always welcome and am energized by.

I often get the feeling that she is somewhat baffled by my okay'ness with being alone so much of the time in our cabin. I reminder her that part of why we downsized our home was because I didn't like the feeling of empty bedrooms and spaces once occupied by all of my people. It was like a constant reminder of a life I once was so completely immersed in and then seemingly overnight....poof....so much space. So much quiet.

As a little girl we lived in the mountains, with no neighbors and no TV. Just me, my cat and my little brother to fill my after school hours with. He and I were "the littles" and my three older siblings were "the biggies". We were the ones that played outside with bikes and the red wagon and when I felt like being nice on the dirt track we built for his matchbox cars; when he felt like being nice he'd pull me and my cat who I'd dress in doll clothes around in the wagon, like a proper pioneer family from one of my "Little House" books. We were the ones that stayed home on weekend nights while Mama would read endlessly to us; the biggies typically in town hanging out with friends, going on dates, and even driving into Santa Fe to see a movie or go to a church dance.

My mother made my childhood quite magical and I loved being a little. Until I didn't. The Disney records I played on the Hi-fi after school were starting to lose their appeal, and I wanted to start listening to albums of songs I heard on the radio of our Volkswagen Bug when I'd drive around with my older brother. He'd sing along to James Taylor or Billy Joel and I could hardly tell where the singers voice stopped and my brother's began; I was completely mesmerized. Bambi's "drip drip drop little April showers", was being drowned out by Taylor's "Fire and Rain". Coming home from school, I'd quickly change my baby dolls clothes, set them all to sleep in the cradles and then go across the hall to my brother's room and choose an album, set the needle down carefully on the vinyl being so careful to not scratch it and then sit with my back against his bed and listen until I was called to come sit to the dinner table. I was officially turning into a tween.

"RHIP"! my grandmother would love to say when I'd whine about not being able to go and do everything the biggies were doing. "What?! What does that even mean?!" I'd ask her with a lump in my throat, my hormones starting to rage; any and everything seeming deserving of a good cry. "It means rank has it's privileges, and right now that means that you're not old enough yet." She was the youngest child of seven; a very late in life baby and likely had been told that or something akin to it so many times it was no her turn to impart the same words of wisdom to me. I didn't care what she said. I just thought it was horribly rude and unfeeling to tell me such a thing and ran to my bed to have a good little cry about how mean my grandmother was.

Now living in small city Mesa, Arizona, I walked to my Jr. High school in the morning, and every afternoon watched the Rita Davenport Show on the black and white TV we now owned. My older brother was now a senior in high school, and very busy with being very popular and doing all the busy popular things because of the whole rank has it's privileges thing; I was busy learning from Rita how to core apples and fill them with a mixture of peanut butter and raisins and put the top of the cored apple back on so that "voilà!" you have a magical healthy snack to give your hormonally deranged tweenager that has no social life after school.

1980 Fleetwood Mac came to town; I guess I should say they came to the Tucson, Compton Terrace outdoor amphitheater. The biggies begged to go. And because of RHIP, my grandparents took them, dropped them off at the stadium and went out to a restaurant until the concert ended; the littles stayed back. My dad didn't go either, but always spoke of the event so fondly, a big grin crossing his face; I didn't dare complain out loud about not being allowed to go.

Natalie and I wind up our call. I slide the mirror closed on my visor and snap it back up. Plugging my phone into the patch cord I scroll through my playlist and find my best of the 70's. Fleetwood Mac "Sentimental Lady". Well now if that doesn't sound like my own personal anthem I don't know what does. These days I could cry over a dead snake in the road, or a pink sunset. It doesn't take much. I had explained to my daughter that I'm at an in-between phase in my life again. Both an orphan and an empty-nester. My life is full and rich with people I love and who love me; so much personal freedom and time to both think and do so many things unencumbered by either caring for aged parents or adolescent children. There is nothing to fix; it is only to be accepted. Even embraced.

As I drive past the horses I notice a new foal I hadn't seen until today; Stevie Nicks throaty "Edge of Seventeen" blares through my speakers. Seventeen. That was a good age. That's how old I was when Dave and I met. A month after my birthday. The edge of seventeen. Love at first sight and now here we are, the first week of October; the anniversary of our date forty-three years ago. He now is married to me nearly on the edge of seventy; a hormone-deprived menopausal tweenager. He is the best and I thank God for him every day.

When I get home, I'm going to ask him if he'd like go see the Eagles in concert with me in January. RHIP baby!