Maybe I really am 28. At least my mind thinks so even if my body doesn’t. In truth, when I move around, my body sounds like an old East German Trabant in need of a lube job and tune up. And believe me, Trabis are a lot older, those few that have survived, than 28.
That aside, my bride, Barbara, and I are embracing the dyslexic digit placements and carrying on with life as if we were both 28 instead of that other number. Among other things—and since a few of my followers may expect something related to my writing in this blog—I am, audaciously and perhaps optimistically, preparing to sign a contract for my fifth WWII historical novel.
There’s also the more mundane challenge of hustling to get my expired passport renewed. You see, two years ago, in the wake of my late wife’s passing, I knew with great despondent certainty I’d never need a passport again. At 80, I realized I was done with life and vice versa. No, I wasn’t suicidal or clinically depressed, but I was DOWN—a Trabi with four flat tires. Existing, but going nowhere.
Then Barbara materialized out of my distant, hazy past and, in so many words, told me to get over it. I laughed, sardonically. She stood her ground, kept after me, and changed my life. People sometimes wonder if there really are guardian angels. The answer is yes. I married one. People sometimes wonder if fairy tales really do come true. The answer is yes. I was part of one.
Why me? Well, more to the point, why us? In truth, I have no answer. Was it fate, God’s will, a lucky coincidence? I have no answer. All Barbara and I know is that we are both very lucky or very blessed. Likely both.
Yes, I have no answers for what happens in life and why. I know only that if you are offered a second chance you grab it and surge forward. Damn the four flat tires, and hail dyslexia.
[EDITOR’S NOTE: If you haven’t read the back story of Buzz and Barbara’s adult fairy tale, you can start here and continue with subsequent blogs.]