Pull Up a Chair: August 28, 2026

Pull up a chair and stay awhile. Well, here we are. In just a couple of days I’ll turn fifty, and I have to admit that’s a sentence I never imagined saying out loud. I remember being a kid and thinking fifty was old. Not just a little older. I mean old enough that you probably spent your afternoons talking about the weather and your evenings in a recliner watching the news before falling asleep halfway through it.

Funny how life works. Now I’m the one getting ready to turn fifty, and while my body occasionally reminds me I’m not twenty-five anymore, I certainly don’t feel old. In fact, most days I still feel like I’m making life up as I go, just with a little more experience than I had thirty years ago.

People have been asking me how I feel about this birthday ever since August started. It seems to be the first question everyone asks once they find out it’s the big five-oh.

“So…are you okay with turning fifty?”

I always smile because I know what they’re expecting. They think I’m going to tell them I’ve been having a crisis, shopping for sports cars, or spending way too much money on wrinkle cream. Instead, I usually tell them the truth.

I think fifty feels like a pretty good place to be. Now before you think I’ve completely lost my mind, let me explain.

There are definitely things about getting older that nobody bothered to mention when I was younger. My knees have opinions now. Getting out of bed in the morning sometimes requires a little planning. Somewhere along the way I started making noises every time I stood up, and I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I hear myself and think, “Well, that sounded exactly like my grandmother.”

Then there’s the eyesight. Who decided restaurants needed to become so dark? I don’t know if they’re trying to create an atmosphere or hide the fact that the carpet hasn’t been replaced since 1998, but I can promise you I have held more than one menu at arm’s length while pretending I was simply taking my time deciding.

If you’ve done the same thing, don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. The truth is, those little changes don’t bother me nearly as much as I once thought they would. Maybe that’s because I’ve realized every birthday is a privilege. Every wrinkle, every gray hair, every laugh line tells a story. Some of those stories were wonderful. Some were heartbreaking. All of them helped shape the person I am today.

When I was younger, I had this picture in my mind of what fifty looked like. I honestly believed people my age had everything figured out. I thought they’d mastered budgeting, never forgot appointments, kept spotless houses, and always knew exactly what they were doing.

I laugh every time I think about that now. Just the other day I walked into the laundry room because I needed to grab something out of the dryer. On the way there I noticed a plant that needed watering. While I was filling the watering can, I remembered I had left something in the kitchen. A few minutes later I found myself standing in the garage holding a screwdriver and couldn’t remember why I’d walked in there in the first place.

The clothes? Still sitting in the dryer. I finally had to retrace my own steps like I was solving some kind of mystery. If someone had told twenty-five-year-old me that this would become a fairly regular occurrence, I would have laughed.

Now I just laugh because it’s Tuesday.

One thing I have learned over the years is that life doesn’t suddenly become easier because you reach a certain birthday. The house still gets messy. Laundry still has the remarkable ability to reproduce overnight. The refrigerator still manages to become almost empty without anyone remembering eating everything that was in it. You still have days when absolutely nothing goes according to plan.

The difference isn’t that life changes. The difference is that you do. When I was younger, I wanted everything to be perfect before I enjoyed it. I wanted the house cleaned before people came over. I wanted every project finished before I took an afternoon off. I wanted my work caught up before I sat down to read a book or spend an hour on the porch.

The problem with living that way is that life is never caught up. There’s always another load of towels waiting to be folded. Another email to answer. Another grocery trip to make. Another weed growing exactly where you pulled one yesterday. If you keep waiting until everything is finished before you enjoy your life, you’re going to spend an awful lot of years waiting.

I don’t know exactly when that lesson finally sank in for me, but I’m glad it did.

These days, if someone drops by unexpectedly, I don’t panic because there’s a basket of laundry sitting on the couch. If you’ve known me for more than five minutes, you already know I actually like having a clean house. That hasn’t changed. What has changed is that I no longer believe my house has to look like it belongs in a magazine before someone can feel welcome here.

Honestly, if we’re friends, you’re probably going to end up helping me fold those towels while we catch up on life anyway.

Some of the best conversations I’ve ever had happened while somebody was drying dishes after supper or shelling peas on the porch. Nobody was entertaining. Nobody was trying to impress anyone. We were just spending time together, and somehow those ordinary afternoons became the ones I remember years later.

That’s another thing getting older has taught me. The moments that change your life rarely announce themselves while they’re happening. I can remember birthdays from years ago, but not because of the presents. I remember who was sitting around the table. I remember what everybody was laughing about. I remember someone telling a story that got funnier every time another family member added their version of it. I remember thinking the evening would never end, and then somehow it did.

At the time it just felt like another family dinner. Looking back, it became a memory I still carry with me. I think we spend too much of our lives waiting for the big moments. We wait for vacations, promotions, anniversaries, retirement, holidays, and birthdays. We convince ourselves that those are the days that matter most.

I’m not so sure anymore. The older I get, the more convinced I am that our lives are built on ordinary Tuesdays. They’re built on coffee before everyone else wakes up, quick trips to the grocery store that somehow turn into an hour because you ran into three people you know, dinners where everyone goes back for seconds, and evenings when you sit outside just because the weather finally cooled off enough to enjoy it.

Those are the days that quietly become a life. I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately, probably because birthdays have a way of making you look backward and forward at the same time. You start remembering where you’ve been while wondering what the next chapter is going to look like. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. In fact, I think it’s healthy every now and then to stop long enough to appreciate the road you’ve already traveled.

When I was younger, I always imagined life would eventually settle into this neat little routine where everything made sense. I’d finally have all the answers. I’d know exactly what I was doing. I’d stop making mistakes, and everything would feel…finished.

I don’t know who came up with that idea, but they certainly weren’t speaking from experience.

Life has never been finished.

Every season has brought something different. There have been years that were exciting and years that were exhausting. There have been seasons filled with laughter and seasons that tested every ounce of strength I had. If I’ve learned anything over the last fifty years, it’s that life doesn’t move in a straight line. It twists and turns, surprises you when you least expect it, and occasionally knocks you flat on your back just to remind you that you’re not nearly as in control as you thought you were.

Oddly enough, that’s one of the reasons I’m looking forward to fifty.

I don’t feel like I’m reaching the end of something. I feel like I’ve finally stopped worrying so much about trying to control everything.

I used to spend a lot of energy wondering what other people thought. Did they like what I wrote? Was I making the right decision? Should I be doing more? Should I be doing something completely different?

Now, I still care about doing a good job. I always will. But I’ve stopped trying to make everyone happy because I’ve finally accepted something that probably should have been obvious years ago.

You can’t.

No matter what you do, somebody will think you should have done it differently. If you paint the walls white, someone will tell you green would have been prettier. If you plant flowers, somebody else will ask why you didn’t plant vegetables instead. If you write about recipes, someone wishes you’d write about gardening. If you write about gardening, someone wants more reviews.

That’s life.

Somewhere along the way, I decided I’d rather spend my energy creating something I’m proud of than chasing everyone’s approval. It has made life a whole lot more peaceful.

I’ve also noticed that the older I get, the more I appreciate people who are simply genuine.

I don’t need someone to impress me.

I don’t care how perfect their house looks on social media or how many places they’ve traveled this year. What I appreciate is someone who can sit at my kitchen table with a cup of coffee and talk about real life. Tell me about the project that didn’t go as planned. Tell me about the recipe that completely flopped. Tell me about the grandchild who said something so funny you laughed all afternoon.

Those are the conversations I remember.

Maybe that’s why I’ve enjoyed writing this Friday series so much. Every week I imagine we’re sitting together on the porch instead of staring at a computer screen. I don’t picture thousands of readers. I picture one friend who stopped by for a visit.

That’s always been easier for me.

The funny thing is, writing has changed my life in ways I never expected. When I first started Rita Reviews, I had no idea where it would lead. I certainly didn’t think I’d still be here years later, sharing recipes, talking about life, telling stories about Ma and Uncle R, and meeting people from all over the country who somehow feel like neighbors even though we’ve never met.

That’s one of the greatest surprises of this journey.

A website can become a community.

People can become friends simply because they keep showing up every week to have a conversation.

I never take that for granted.

There have been seasons when life was busy enough that it would have been easy to stop writing. There have been days when caregiving took every bit of energy I had. Anyone who has cared for aging parents or relatives understands exactly what I mean. Some days are funny. Some days are frustrating. Some days are heartbreaking.

Most days are all three before lunch.

Living with Ma and Uncle R has taught me more about patience than any book ever could. It’s also taught me that life doesn’t stop being meaningful just because it becomes ordinary. In fact, I think ordinary life is where most of the meaningful moments happen.

It’s hearing Ma tell the same story again because it still makes her smile.

It’s listening to Uncle R explain something with complete confidence, even if he’s wandered halfway around the subject before getting to the point.

It’s realizing that one day I’ll probably miss hearing those stories, even the ones I’ve heard a hundred times.

That changes the way you listen.

Losing my dad changed that, too.

It’s hard to believe it’s been twenty-six years. There are still moments when something happens and my first thought is, “I’ve got to tell Dad about this.” Then reality catches up with me, and I’m reminded that I can’t.

Grief is a strange thing. It gets quieter over the years, but it never completely leaves. Instead, it becomes part of who you are. It teaches you to appreciate the people who are still sitting around your table because you understand better than you once did that none of us knows how many ordinary Tuesdays we’ll get together.

That’s one of the reasons I’ve stopped waiting for special occasions.

If I want to use the good dishes, I use them.

If I want to bake a cobbler because the peaches looked too good to pass up, I bake it.

If I want to sit on the porch for an extra half hour before starting supper, I do it.

I’ve learned that joy isn’t something you schedule on a calendar. It shows up in little moments that are easy to miss if you’re always rushing toward the next thing.

That’s probably the biggest difference between the woman I was at twenty-five and the woman I’m about to be at fifty.

At twenty-five, I was always looking ahead.

At fifty, I’m finally paying attention to where I already am.