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Happy Birthday to me! To the future . . .

Happy-Birthday-to-me dreams. Time, and how to make it sing . . .     Stanley Bear and I just before we got icing everywhere and realized our tea tasted like soap. But, we didn’t mind because we’d just seen kites, sheep, mummers, and pigs at a country fair in Cumbria. Tomorrow is my birthday. When I have a birthday, I often think to myself “Wow! The time is really flying! Why haven’t you won the Booker Prize (insert any prestigious award) yet?” This is what my Dad used to call me being “hard” on myself. I look at all that I have NOT accomplished rather than making a nice pat-on-my-own-back version of my life. My Dad used to do this to himself, too. He was keenly aware that he was born one year after Bill Gates and he felt he should have had more to “show” for his time on the planet. I, of course, didn’t think about my Dad that way at all. I thought my Dad was so smart and such great company. I used to wake up early in the morning or go to bed late just to be able to talk with him. I cal

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