It's a new week.  February 29 has come and gone, and a bunch of babies will have to wait four more years for their first birthday.

March.  The month I get to plant things.  Things that usually freeze before April arrives--and I have to plant it all again.  Hope springs eternal in the human breast.

This year, I will have to have help.  I tried to pull up the old dead okra stalks, and almost got it done--but a few were stubborn.  I made no headway on pulling up dead tomato vines at all.  I send instructions to my arms and hands, and in their defense, they try.  But nothing happens.  They have quit doing the things I expect them to do. 

There is a girl inside this body that can do anything she sets her mind to do.  I just can't get her out anymore.  She's trapped by an exterior that defies her.

Aging has been an interesting process.  New stages overtake you before you even know they are coming.  Some of them I can live with.  Others just make me mad.  I don't mind the number on the year--just the slow destruction process.  I walked around the block twice last week and celebrated the accomplishment.  Squig was delighted.  He said to me, "Where have you been for the last six months."  I'm up to ten minutes on my stationary bike as well.

One of the hardest stages is when the world stops noticing you.  Their eyes glaze over as if you aren't even there.  They stop listening to what you have to say--In their defense, we repeat ourselves.

Every new generation comes from the womb thinking they know everything already.  It takes ten to twenty years of adulthood before you start to realize you aren't really brilliant.  I have two grandsons who think I'm brilliant.  It's enough.