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Looking out my Backdoor: Birthdays and other afflictions

I’ve never made a big deal of my birthdays. In childhood, my birthday presents were always books, which was exactly what I wanted. Coming from family raised during the Great Depression, a gift was a Big Deal. I’m pretty sure my dad never had a birthday present.

For decades, beginning in my forties, I began skipping the “9” years. Instead of forty-nine, I became “almost fifty.” I did not see 49 as a positive gain. Almost sixty. Almost seventy.

This year, a “9” year, I turned almost 80 as the moon crossed over the sun.

I doubt that has any great significance. There are such things as coinky-dink...

 

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