Written By:   Rosie Lemmons

I am 52 years old but the years are not me. I deposited them in the lost-and-found bin, along with my first grade orthopedic shoes.

My hair changes colors as I alternately battle blemishes and wrinkles. Hair is such a coward. Waving white flags, it surrenders and falls out. But, spots and wrinkles are valiant soldiers.

I love crunchy popcorn, creamy tomato soup and some things burnt: marshmallows, bacon and toast.

I love children of all types: clever ones, curious ones, bubbly ones, stubborn ones. Especially the shy ones.

I prefer denim and bare feet to tweed and heels. (Eventually, I'll grow up, it's expected.)

I am a lousy gardener who loves landscaping. I cannot read a map. Unfolding one makes my palms go sweaty. Re-folding it requires genes I don't possess. I read poetry instead. (But, poetry offers little direction for junctions when I'm lost.)

I am narrow-minded - loving those I love and hating those I hate, bewildered when my heroes and the villains ultimately assimilate.

I love stimulating conversation, lullabies and the Good Book. I am judgmental of things I don't understand. Often, I am wrong.
I find it hard to trust and marvel how others do. I find faith, but not in man's ability - leaning more on God's mercy. I see things as I hope them to be and not as they appear. (I've seen rainbows in oil spills and glimpsed eternity in a pet guinea pig's eyes.)

I prefer living with my head in the clouds; gravel is abrasive and I bruise easily.

I laugh at inappropriate times - and often. (I've never sneezed in Utah)

I strain to contain joy because my laughter makes others uneasy.

I am 52 years old but the years are not me. They drop unexpectedly from hidden recesses like bracelet charms.

Once, I was a newlywed who ate roasted turkey from a paper cup, watched, "I Love Lucy" re-runs and slept late on a waterbed. I was spontaneous. (but there's nothing a little maturity won't cure) I craved oatmeal and cling peaches, then. I was 19 and pregnant, wondering what peaches clung to.

In that budding life, with budding life within, I ate steamed corn with dollops of creamy butter and generous sprinklings of salt. My pregnant body was called wise, knowing what it lacked. I just smile knowing what it didn't need: absolution for salted pulse!

I love thunderstorms and words like aurora borealis. I sometimes challenge myself (and others!) by going without make-up in public.

I love hospitals and airports. They portray life with simplicity: folks arriving and departing

I embarrass my husband and daughters with spontaneous outbursts of song and dance in all the wrong places: wherever they are

I love churches because they inspire good behavior at least one day a week.

I am 52 years old but the years are not me. My eyes have lost some sparkle, except to those who understand. (I wear reindeer socks throughout the year.) I own several watches but wear none: Time seems to stand still on my wrist.

I'm warned I'm an adolescent, dreamer, schemer and sponge. (but, I love these characters - especially the shy ones) Baffled, I gather the mavericks and entreat good behavior. I sing them lullabies; read them poetry or the Good Book (nothing a little discipline won't cure). I offer them space in the lost-and-found bin beside other ugly shoes I've owned. And, I clutch for them, so they don't, like lost bracelet charms, fall away to buried recesses.

With maps unfolded, my palms go sweaty. I offer to whisk them away - to the hospital, the airport... perhaps the church?

I love crunchy jokes, creamy complexions and only a few things burnt: marshmallows, bacon and toast

My spirit, pregnant with revelation, is wise, recognizing that the taste for ashes is an acquired one. I smile knowing what I don't need: absolution for salted pulse!

I've never ridden on a camel's back. (yet)