Recently, my husband’s cousin sent me an e-mail that said according to some bureaucrat’s survey; individuals born between 1950 and 1970 shouldn’t even still be alive. You have probably been seen this e-mail a time or two yourself.  Before I could began to roll my neck, highly offended, as it just so happens that I’m one of the ones that this survey was talking about, I continued to read.  The survey said that we rode in cars without seatbelts or airbags. True.  It said our medications did not have childproof caps. Again true. However, I had a mother who warned my sister and me in her sweetest, Joan Crawford, ‘mommy dearest,’ voice that medicine was not candy.  “Go ahead and poison yourself if you want, “she warned, “and I’ll kill you.” 

No, we didn’t have 200 plus channels on our television, Nintendo, PlayStation or any of those things.  While we had dolls, bicycles, skates and other toys, many of us preferred to play with sticks, tin cans and other found objects. We played outside, trying to soak up every ounce of daylight that we could. Right now there are probably some young people reading this who are thinking that I am making this up, and wondering if I lived in a cave or some place.

 Frankly, I didn’t care much for dolls, as the ones I had didn’t do anything. They didn’t drink or wet, or say anything. Having a mother who was a beautician also didn’t help. For too late, I realized that while playing ‘beauty-shop’ and cutting my dolls’ hair that it didn’t grow back, resulting in a harem of baldheaded dolls staring up at me with that frightening ‘Bride of Chucky’ stare.

True, life was much simpler back then. Saturday mornings we watched cartoons and westerns on screens so tiny that we nearly had to sit on top of the television to see stuff. There was Sky King who rounded up cattle rustlers using an airplane. There was the Lone Ranger recognizable by his mask and white hat. Although, I never understood why he was called that as he had a Native American, named Tonto who helped him out of situations. Years later that I learned that certain individuals would always remain ‘invisible’ despite their accomplishments. 

Yes, many of us come from a long line of risk takers. We are the product of mothers who experimented with herbal remedies, using them on pets and children alike. We are the product of those who took fashion risks, job risks, and who sacrificed everything to ensure that inalienable rights trumped privilege.

Today I find that I am taking more risks. No longer does the unknown frighten me. Nor do I care what others think. I realize that in living my life with gusto that I must take certain chances. And I must find my truth.  So I challenge you to take more risks. Start by ripping that tag off of your pillow. You know you want to. Speak out against intolerance or racial injustice. Or simply drink wine before it’s had time to breathe. I always do.