Aging

When I was eight years old, my great grandmother informed told me that she was 80.  In my child’s eyes, that was old.  Really old.  I couldn’t imagine living to be eighty years old, nor did I think that I would want to.  White hair in a bun, sturdy shoes, dumpy figure – none of that was for me. Her age, however, never prevented me from enjoying her company.  My fondest memories of my great grandmother are the stories she told me about her own childhood.  Her one and only doll was created from a corncob,…