I was 41 years old when my youngest son, Everett, was born. At the time, I felt young enough to be a mother to an infant, but it is now 16 years later, and I am not so sure I am young enough to be a mother to a teenager with a driver’s permit.
After watching Kellyanne Conway almost choke on her words before spitting out the phrase “alternative facts,” I suddenly – and to my horror – felt sympathy for this woman with degrees from Trinity College and George Washington Law School who has offered herself up as Trump’s apologist-in-chief.
Over the years, the Rockettes have traveled with the USO to entertain troops overseas, danced during the half-time show at the Super Bowl, and greeted service personnel during New York City’s Fleet week.
I have often been ahead of trends without even trying. First it was karaoke. I had been warbling off-key and butchering the lyrics to sentimental rock ballads decades before bad singing became so popular people decided to do it in public. Then came big butts, which Jennifer Lopez made fashionable in the late 1990s. I was way ahead of her, and I didn’t even need implants. Now it’s the mannequin challenge, an Internet game started by Florida college students who probably should be spending their time in more productive activities, like figuring out how to re-phrase their plagiarized papers to avoid detection by Turnitin.com.
This is the most rancorous presidential election I can remember in my 58 years as an American, though to be fair, I pretty much ignored all political discourse until the Watergate hearings, and the only reason I paid attention then was because in those days, most families only had one television set, and the adults were in charge of it.
At the Annual Coyote Festival at Coulterville Park in downtown Coulterville last month, hundreds of dragonflies floated in the warm air while a lone turkey vulture cruised on thermal winds above the town. A gang of little kids dressed in Wranglers, western shirts and cowboy boots ran past me and then came back around again. A stilt-walker in an Uncle Sam costume roamed through the crowd.
Recently, I attended a meeting for Lake Yosemite Sailing Association, a club I joined 23 years ago. LYSA manages the docks at Lake Yosemite, and members have been keeping track of water every day for the past month.
It is April 24 and I am driving my pickup on Cunningham Road, a few miles east of Planada on a breezy Sunday with clouds drifting over the Sierra Nevada mountains, clear skies overhead and fields and hills still green from spring rains.
It’s a good thing that my eldest son, Casey, came home for spring break. It turns out I didn’t know how to drive, though I thought I’d been safely conveying my children around the state for almost two decades.