Tomorrow is my 67th birthday.  The number alarms me, but I am happy to remain MYSELF in spirit, even if the body continues to disappoint.  It is tempting to say I’m the same person I was at seventeen, but that would be ignoring the bazooka explosion of experience I have survived and will continue to survive.  I’ve never liked fuddy duddies and hope never to become one.  Still, I recognize that I am part of a generation, who for the most part could care less about cell phones, texting and twittering.  I am on Facebook, but only check it once or twice a week.  I love email, because I don’t have to talk on the phone.  It’s made making visiting teaching appointments so much easier

But I am the only person my age, I know, who blogs.  Fifty-year-olds blog, but those closer to seventy do not blog or read blogs.  I have tried to get my friends to come on board but to no avail.  Only Sherry has read the Apron Stage that I know of, and she told me that in an email.  If war babies are reading, they are not commenting.

This year for the first time, two of my friends received Kindles as gifts and like them.  I imagine I will buy one myself one of these days, but I wasn’t ready for the tony Cushing Academy’s announcement that it was eliminating the stacks in its library and converting to a “virtual library.”  James Tracy, the headmaster, sees this “as a model for the 21st century.”  They’re giving 20,000 books away.

I am too old to go virtually virtual.  Too old.  Ancient. Decrepit.

What happens when the electricity goes out?  I guess it’s like a snow day.

Given a little time, I’ll probably adjust, after I grieve over the loss of books as we know them and disappearing libraries.  In twenty years, my grandchildren will quack behind my back, “Her house smells like a tomb—all those books.  Aaugh.”  Or maybe by then, I’ll have gotten rid of the books as well.

This year, though, I hope I get a book for my birthday.