Fathers Lost and Found

My dad was a pilot. Actually, he was part pilot and part the airplane itself. When we were little he’d lie flat on his back and heist us up on his feet in the air. It was quite the process. You put your belly against his feet and the plane slowly takes off. Then you spread your arms out wide and fly while balancing on his feet. Sometimes he’d let go of your hands and you’d fly solo while he made airplane sounds and swerved and pitched dangerously until you tumbled to the floor giggling.

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On Becoming an Elder

The other day I was listening to a talk radio show on becoming an Elder. The host was asking her guest, an Elder woman, “How do we know when we have become and elder—and what does it mean?”

I have been wondering that myself. I’m 57 years old and a grandmother to eight grandchildren plus five grandchildren through my husband. Last week I went to Lincoln, Nebraska to be present when my daughter Lisa had a baby. My place there felt uncertain.

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What Do I Know?

During my breaks from grandkids I have been sitting around my favorite Lincoln, NE coffeeshop. The Meadowlark is friendly, has lots of space and great coffee. They also have five shelves full of books. If you are in the mood, you can just go and take one. Yesterday I picked up an old book by Jess Stearn called Edgar Cayce—The Sleeping Prophet. The copy right is 1967.

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