I reached the half-century mark. Oprah said it’s the “new 30”; I say it’s the New ME! I celebrate all birthdays by calling my mother then ask, “Still feeling phantom labor pains?” It is the new me with any birthday I make. I’m proud of aging in this youth-fixated world; I can be enjoyed like a fine single-barreled Bourbon. Growing up in the Pacific Northwest, my father warned me that I have webbed feet and to be careful of straying too far from wet climates or those webs might crack. He was also the one that when you asked him for help, he always said: “Swim for it, it’ll put hair on your chest!” Uh Dad, I’m a girl, don’t want hair on my chest! Well I don’t have a hairy chest, but I’ve got some encrusted barnacles and this web-footed Berry is still afloat.

Idealistic, impish and believe in the power of positive thinking, despite anything I’ve said in the past or future. A descendent of a strong Southern family and used to believe I wanted to wrench free of their entanglements. Siblings and I realized it made us spiritually spoiled brats by instilling wisdom, strength, and our ability to love (even that cousin that pinched our cheeks and admonished using the word “can’t”). I live with two adopted shelter-clowniacs; Australian Shepherd mixes (Chow & Border Collie). I could say I was officially single because no one measured up to my standards, but that would be a lie; I just do me better with uninterrupted space. This is not to say love hasn’t flowed, but licenses or ceremonies don’t determine my loyalty, my character does. In the end, day or night love’s all that matters. So says the weird, curmudgeon, extro/intro-vert Hey I’ve got to live up to that Berry legacy—now that’s a bumpy ride!

I graduated summa cum laude with a BA & Master’s of Science in psychology. Currently I am completing a Doctorate in Educational Psychology. In the meantime I fight to reclaim real estate in my home and relinquish attachments no longer serving my peace of mind. Although writing for years, I have been reluctant to share my talents, until I remembered why I initially put pen to paper. I was nine years old made up a poem and told it to my brother who was older than me. “You liar, you got that out of book!” He declared then promptly punched me in the arm for apparently trying to trick him, or maybe just being the baby sister. I remember smiling through the pain and thinking: “Hey he likes it! I’m a writer!”