The nice lady asked me how old I was. I worked hard to hold up three fingers, and then I was 70.

My mother stood outside looking at me through the window. I was abandoned forever in my seersucker jacket and bow tie on the first day of kindergarten. And then I was 70.

I walked through the front door carrying my square green lunch box on the last day of first grade and yelled, “I’m home!” And then I was 70.

I walked down the aisle slowly, just like they told me to, carrying the little pillow with rings on it so my favorite uncle could get married, and then I was 70.

Mr. Gortner was a nice man who told me middle C should always be right in front of my belly button. He stamped “Count Out Loud” on my music. I hated counting out loud. And then I was 70.

I slept in the back seat on the way to the competition. When it was my turn, I sat down at the piano and started playing. A man stopped me. “Wait until we tell you to start,” he said. I waited. He told me to begin. From memory, I played the eight-page song perfectly. I received a second place trophy and not first because I lifted my hands from the keyboard before releasing the pedal. And then I was 70.

We put fifteen baby toads in the counselor’s bed at church camp, and then I was 70.

I left my upstairs bedroom with the BB gun marks on the floor for the last time, and then I was 70.

The officer said, “At the next light, turn left.” I did. “Now pick a spot in front of this building and parallel park.” I did. “Now turn right into this parking lot and shut off the engine.” I did. “Very nice,” he said, “you passed.” My heart was pounding. And then I was 70.

She literally takes my breath away. I asked her to go out with me and she said yes. I asked her to “go steady,” and she said yes. I asked her to marry me, and she said yes. And then I was 70.

“My princess is a blessing from my Father, the pitter-patter of little feet, the smile that says, ‘I love you, let me hold your hand.’ Thank you, God, for making her so sweet. She gives happiness to both her mom and daddy, it’s wonderful how life can be so good…” I sang the song I wrote for her twice. The first time she was just over a year old. The second time was her wedding day. And then I was 70.

Mary and I sang at my mother’s funeral. She was forty-nine years old. And then I was 70.

“My name is Becky, but the kids are supposed to call me Rebecca,” she said to the kindergarten teacher. “You’re daughter is five going on sixteen,” the teacher told us. And then I was 70.

The obstetrician watched the screen as he carefully moved the scanner. His mouth suddenly fell open and he said, “Young lady, you have three in there.” Six days later and ten weeks early, I held Mary’s hand as the doctor lifted three tiny babies from their hiding place. “Baby number one is a boy, baby number two is a boy, baby number three is a boy,” he said. And then I was 70.

We tried to keep the boys occupied with crayons while we waited for our food. “You want a kick in the butt?” Jon asked the little girl in the next booth. And then I was 70.

After the boys’ first day of kindergarten, we went to McDonald’s to celebrate. We sat in the same spot on their last day of high school. And then I was 70.

I walked Becky down the aisle and gave her away. I performed the ceremony that forever joined her with Brent. And then I was 70.

I held our first grandchild in my arms. The next day, he started college. And then I was 70.

“One day down, one hundred and seventy-eight more to go,” the teacher said after my first day of student teaching. And then I was 70.

I closed the door of my middle school counseling office for the last time. And then I was 70.

A first date, a first kiss, our wedding day, four children, one son-in-law, three daughters-in-law, eight grandchildren. And then I was 70.

I wouldn’t change a thing. I’m happy to be 70.