Baby Ruth

This is my birthday week. I know, I know, I get a day, not a week, but turning another year older causes a body to reflect. Reflect on where I am, where I'm going, and I must confess, reflect on how old I am. Twenty-five years out of high school this year, the reunion is coming, can it be? Am I that old?

I know, in the big scheme of things, 43 isn't old, but allow me to whine, will ya? Yesterday, I went to have lunch with my Grandma, and got some perspective.

One of my favorite things about owning the store is being able to go to lunch with my Grandma, or with the kids at school, or to a school play. I know I might miss someone, but I love that I can "have my chocolate and eat it too." When I go have lunch at Morningview, I pull up a chair and sit at the table with Grandma, Fleeta, Yvonne, and James. Yesterday, James wasn't at lunch, so I sat in his chair. Fleeta, a cute white-haired little woman, think the inappropriate Grandma in Wedding Crashers, sat on my left. Across from me was Yvonne, a quiet, reserved older lady (mid-90's), who sometimes doesn't hear or comprehend. Tough to keep her on subject. Then there's my Grandma, the baby of the bunch at 90. The other residents call her "Baby Ruth." Cute, huh?

My mom was already there when I got there, so ours was a lively table. The conversation turned to age, and I got a lesson in Noah, and the ark, and just how old was he when he built that boat. "See, you've got nothing on Noah." "Yeah," Ms Fleeta said, patting my hand, "you're a babe."

Thanks, ladies. I needed that.