My mother is 71 today. She can do the yoga thing where you stand all the way up, without support, from what used to be called Indian Style–I can say that because I’m Old Order of Chanco. She may also be able to bend a spoon with her mind, but most of the time she uses her powers for good, at least if you agree with her politics. 

I can’t help it, she has made me feel sorry for leftover food and used plastic bags, but I still throw a lot of things away because I’m young and that’s part of our culture. 

In turn, I’ve tried to teach her how to use, say, an iPhone, but she doesn’t want to believe she can understand even its most intuitive features, and she seems to think she has something on it called “minutes.” She signed a contract and she keeps her paperwork on file. 

Everything in her drawers is neatly folded and smells faintly of the bottles of Jean Naté she has saved since 1982, in case one of the grandchildren ever happens to ask what was for sale at the Woolworth store. I admire her intact clothing and I wonder if I will one day want my Ann Taylor sweater back from my first year of college. I always thought it made me look like Ali McGraw. She still looks a lot like Julie Andrews from the Sound of Music era, and, appropriately, she was up in a tree today–wearing curtains or salvaging something. 

Happy Birthday, Mother!

P.S. Please edit as you wish.