|A slave master stands off camera, cracking a large whip.|
By the grace of my sister and her husband, my favorite senior citizen hitchhiker is here: my Mom.
I may be too old for this. My mom is a whirlwind of activity under normal circumstances. At seventy-five, she has a social schedule that blurs the mind. It's hard to catch her at home at times. She line dances, goes out to lunch and dinner with friends, works at the local election board and delivers meals to family members "just for something to do."
This week, she is visiting with me and I feel like I'm abusing her; she keeps doing things for me. She reminds me that she needs something to do, but I may run out of things and I'm usually pretty creative.
I have a kitchen buddy now. When I cook, she cleans behind me. Now I can't find my silverware; I know I have teaspoons. I don't know what to do with my own personal kitchen assistant; it's usually my private domain.
Mom doesn't cook, however. I know it's true because my sons have often told me that their favorite Grandma meal is Jello with Mandarin oranges. Though she was raised by her grandmother on a farm she had no interest in the art of home cooking. The same grandma taught me how to fix many things that Mom loves - why she never paid attention to those recipes, I'll never know. Mom always asks me how I know how to cook her favorites, but she doesn't.
Later she told me, "Who wants to spend all that time cooking when you'll just flush it down the toilet an hour later?"
Who can argue with that logic? I think I'll stop cooking today.
Everywhere we go, she grabs her wallet and tries to pay - I'm faster, by the way, but she still tries. This is not one of my usual daily challenges. I remind her she is my guest.
She's told me some stories ten times since she's been here. Mom asks whether or not she has told me a story, and I tell her that she has; she tells me the story again anyhow. She'll ask me if I remember when something happened in our family, and I'll tell her I do remember when it happened. She'll give me a play by play every time.
Other comments are in the "obvious" category, like when she said, "Hey! Look, it's a Tennessee license plate!"
I live in Tennessee. I'm not nearly as excited. I do, in fact, own a Tennessee license plate; all my friends do. When we got out of the car after a recent errand run, I commented, "Look, it's a Tennessee license plate!" She got a kick out of that.
The week before she arrived, I had my living room painted and was moving furniture and updating some decor. I purchased and hung new curtains. With my crazy ceiling height, it is no surprise that every pair of curtains needs hemming, but I just had time to pin up the hem before my company came. Mom is sitting on the floor, yakking away, hemming eight panels of the new curtains.
As I said before, I feel like I'm abusing my own aged and widowed mother, but please do not call local authorities just yet. She's not done with those pesky curtains yet.
At fifty-five years old, it is still nice to have a Mommy. I may have to put new curtains upstairs, too. There are worst things in life. I'll roll with it.