I’ve never been one to fret over birthday numbers, even those decade declarations. NO, NOT ME! (that is, once I got past 21 which made me feel I was officially a grownup). But 85! Why does this one feel like a benchmark? Maybe it’s because as a child I learned I had a relative still alive who was 84. At that time in my tender youth this seemed INCREDIBLE!! 84!!! SOOO OLD! (Forgive me, I was just a kid then.)

The first scene in our book deals with the subject of birthdays, specifically with the possibility of being invited to yet another party. You would think two children would welcome an invitation. That was not the case.

The first birthday celebration I actually remember was when I was turning 5. My mother had a very fine party planned — fancy cake and ice cream and party snacks for both kids and grownups. Mothers had been invited too.

And of course there were lots of presents, duly opened and exclaimed over. All going well and as expected — kids throwing food, being noisy and rowdy — until Mom noticed I was missing. !!! She went looking and discovered me in my room with the door shut. I was playing with my new favorite gift — paper dolls. Hmmm And these had an unusual feature: they had paper levers on the back of their heads that could make their eyes open and close! (Clever, wasn’t it?) I no longer was the least bit interested in my party.

That birthday seemed to set the tone for all subsequent ones. Leave me alone, people, just let me enjoy my toys or read my new books and I will be happy.

85 now, but just that same child, curmudgeonly content in her own company and not really all that interested in a party.