If 50 was raising the timber frame; 55 was me climbing the timbers & tacking an evergreen branch to its peak. (That happened. There was no photo.)
“50 is the old age of youth,” it is said, “And the youth of old age.”
And it’s true. The fifties are all that.
Or is it just me?
I lost Lila at 55. She had more than a dozen grandbabies by then. But with time’s passing, it seems impossibly young to have been taken.
My older sister died last summer at 55 too and just a few years before her—my aunt.
My mother had 2 years on the 2 of them, alive until 57.
Which is to say—While the sun is shining, I’m making hay.
Two Owls Calling 