Fifty years. Where has the time gone?

My parents were still teenagers when I came along. And my arrival, just five months after their hasty wedding, was quite an experience. According to family legend, my mother was making her first Thanksgiving dinner for the in-laws when she slipped on grease, dropped the turkey and fell into labor. I was born the next evening.

Every seven years or so, my natal day lands on Thanksgiving. This year is one of those occasions. While I know some people get annoyed when birthday and holiday celebrations combine, I don’t mind. After all, I am with the people and kitties I love. I get to make a feast for them. And once everyone is filled to the gills, I’ll receive presents. What’s not to like?

The turkey is cooking, the desserts are baked and I’m enjoying a brief intermission before prepping the appetizers and side dishes. I’ve decided to use this time to reflect on the past half-century. The thing that most surprises me is where I ended up. Had you asked my 17-year-old self where I’d be when I turned 50, a home that I own in New England would not have even occurred to her. She had a plan, you see. An ambitious and idealistic one, and she saw no reason why that plan wouldn’t succeed. The world was her oyster and nothing was going to get in her way.

That young woman loved being a reporter and planned to work in the field of journalism for at least 10 years. Once that was accomplished (and with Pulitzer in hand), she aimed to pen columns that would be syndicated in hundreds of newspapers. Working as an editor was never an option.

Next, she would write bestselling novels. She’d become bicoastal, renting an apartment on the Upper West Side during the fall and winter and then jetting over to her rental apartment in San Francisco for the spring and summer. Once the cross-country travel grew tiresome, she’d open a bookstore in Manhattan and stay there for the rest of her busy and exciting life.

A husband was also in the cards — she firmly believed that her soulmate was out there somewhere — but she was willing to wait for him to show up rather than settling for any old bloke. In fact, settling was an anathema to her as she had spent her entire life moving every three years and hoped to continue to do so in the future.

Needless to say, only some of that plan came to fruition. Seventeen-year-old me could not have predicted that she would experience a terrorist attack, several wars, at least three financial crises, the closure of hundreds of news outlets and mass journalism layoffs, the heavy mental toll of covering decades of violence and receiving death threats on a near-daily basis, the physical toll of aging combined with expensive health care, a global pandemic and the accumulating deaths of those close to her. Nor did she expect that so many Americans would lose interest in reading books — and 17 percent would purposely choose not to read at all.

If I could finagle a way to return to 1990 and explain what the future holds, I know that young, starry-eyed woman would be most impressed… by my time-traveling skills. She’d also be pretty skeptical and/or disappointed to hear about what was to come and how that would change her outlook on life. I can understand why.

But I’d also explain that there would be much pleasure to go along with the pain, and that her priorities would change with the times. Most importantly, the afterthought soulmate she planned to meet would turn out to be the man who showed her there was more to life than career advancement. During their time together, he would become her home.

I have no idea what the next half-century will hold. I have plans, of course. Big plans. However, I’m just old enough to know these goals need to remain flexible, able to change with time and tide.

So, here’s to the next 50 years, my friends, and happy Thanksgiving!