3:40 PM (13 minutes ago)

The time has finally arrived for me to join the ranks of senior citizens as I celebrate my 65th birthday. Surprisingly, this milestone came around much sooner than I expected. I double-checked my calculations with fingers, toes, and even an old Fisher-Price abacus, but it's clear that time flies. Much like unexpected pregnancies, reaching this age wasn't something I ever truly planned for.

I remember 65, that was my grandmother, as we would walk into her kitchen, smelling the fresh baking and hearing the wringer washer as it slowly agitated the clothes till they were clean, then squished between two rollers, and then neatly pinned to a huge line to dry in the air.

A solitary black rotary dial telephone was mounted on the kitchen wall, serving as the household’s sole communication device. Nearby, older siblings and cousins would wait for their turn to use it; when patience wore thin, they often opted to visit the friend directly rather than wait longer.

When my mother turned 65, she marked her 45th year as a teacher. Her meticulous handwritten notes covered all four blackboards in her classroom. For me, this meant I finally had a bedroom to myself—a personal retreat where I tucked away hidden Playboy magazines and treasured an old black Underwood typewriter, a gift from Native Saskatchewan author Farley Mowat. Guided by him, WO Mitchell, and my professor Gail Bowen, my passion for literature and writing began to blossom. That bedroom was my first experience of adulthood and living independently. The deck offered a view of Toronto’s skyline, and although an IBM Selectric eventually replaced my Underwood and later a Commodore 64, its keys and ribbons still saw plenty of use, typing late-night manuscripts long into the evening.

My life has encompassed a dynamic period defined by career advancement, marriage, and family. As significant milestones have passed and I reflect at the age of 65, I see a legacy of experiences and memories for my children to carry forward. While revisiting personal artifacts, I replaced the ribbon in my Underwood typewriter, poised my hands on the keys, and with quiet reflection, resolved once more to return to the beginning.