By Velma M. Rose Smith, Oct 17, 1950

I’ve just become 50 years old. I know you kids think that is ancient, Dianne you are only seven years old and Berwyn, you are eight. The half-century mark does seem rather scary to me. No one who is half a hundred years old can pretend to be young. But I do! I don’t feel at all like 50 years old. I feel no different than I did 10 years ago. Yet in another 10 years, which passes so quickly it seems, I shall be 60. One becomes a “golden ager” at 60 years. A fleeting thought, will I one day be sitting in a corner, like old Grandmas are depicted, knitting, mending or shelling peas?

I read in a columnist column, “One can try buying a big ball of string, tangling it up, and straightening it out again to pass the time away.” I won’t do that, I’m sure. Maybe I’ll find time to read some of my books. I could twiddle my thumbs, but I doubt if I have time for that either, grand children are coming along and I’m very adept at changing diapers.