I was sometimes a sassy boy, causing my mother to scold me for being “fresh”, and now, strangely, at the age of 72, I’m still fresh, and feeling lucky to be so. It seems odd that “fresh” sometimes means shameless and brazen, whereas I always took it to mean simply something new, something spotless and unused and pristine. As a boy, I guess I sometimes felt that kind of freshness as I lived the capricious and lucky life of my childhood, and I feel it more and more in these whimsical days of my 70’s. I feel fresh thoughts arriving almost always. True, they sometimes seem like the “same old same old” thoughts, but I somehow feel their freshness as they switch on their lights inside me. Each thought is as unsullied as the sunshine I see before me as I’m writing this outside. Each feeling flows from a fresh source, no matter how old and familiar it may seem. Actually, even with my wrinkles and slumped shoulders and squeaky voice, I’m feeling fresher than ever (in an un-sassy way) and finding some fun in it. (I can see mom smiling at the news.)
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