The Far End of Life - One

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Recently, my life has taken a turn in the domestic direction. It has been fun and instructive. For example, I now understand why there are so few parents over the age of 60. The answer? If they bore a child, they would be dead within the week.

Grandchildren are not the only adventure in my life. No, no, that would be far too simple. I have a mother, too. Last Friday, exactly one week after I survived the grandchildren, my mother celebrated her 87th birthday. She lives alone in a comfortable bungalow near Granbury, Texas. I call regularly and visit at least monthly. On occasions like Mother’s Day, Birthdays, et c., I travel to see her and help celebrate the occasion. It is not easy.  The trip usually begins with a phone call.

“Hi, Mom! How ya doin’?” I ask cheerfully.

“Speak up! This [bleeping] phone is getting quiet again.”

“OKAY. HOW’S THIS?” I reply.

“I dunno. This damn phone keeps getting quieter and quieter. I want to get one that doesn’t fade away every time I talk on it!”

“Mom, we’ve bought four different phones in the last six months, including one for the hearing impaired. There’s no use getting another one.” I recite patiently.

“I know you think I’m going deaf, but you’re wrong. There’s nothing wrong with my hearing, Paul – or Hank – or whoever you are.”

“Of course not, Mom, but your birthday is Friday. How would you like it if I came over and took you to lunch?”

“That would be just swell! You are such a good son. Maybe we could go to the grocery store while you are here. I’ll need some things by then.”

“I’ll be happy to take you. We can shop for groceries after lunch on the way home. I’ll be there around noon. You have four days to get ready.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be ready.”

“Okay. I will see you on Friday. Love you. Bye now!”

The phone conversation ended twenty minutes later after she asked about the health of the children and grandchildren three or four times. It was almost curt.

When Friday rolled around, I awoke with a mild hangover. Anticipation of the big day had been wearing on me for four days. Slowly, I hit my stride. Breakfast. Shower. Dress. Sign birthday card and insert gift card for the grocery store. Check, check, check and check. I was ready to roll.

An hour before noon, the Bat Cave door slid open and I rolled onto the street. I was a man on a mission. My plan included taking her to lunch at a local Italian restaurant and then to her favorite grocery store. In five minutes, I pulled onto the Interstate and set the cruise control a few miles per hour below the speed limit. Yeah, I could go faster, but I am an old fart now and people have expectations. I avoided the fast lane, much to the relief of those rude gesturing, high-speed idiots passing me on the left and the right.

An hour later, I arrived at her door. I had the card and enclosed present. I was as ready as I could be. I pressed the bell and opened the door without waiting, stepping inside to the din of a television straining its guts to be heard.

Mom struggled to her feet, stabbing at the remote control buttons while I closed the door behind me. I walked in as she tottered to greet me.

“Happy birthday, Mom!” I said cheerily as we embraced.

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