Thursday, September 6, 2001
If at First You Don't Succeed - To LTF
My mother just awoke from her "morning" nap. She spent an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom (I believe that is her 'wake-up chamber'), so much that I stopped by the door and asked her, "Is everything all right?" She was fine.
She emerged to tell me that she had just been thinking of "...this old friend of mine, Doris, well, it's Lassegaard, now. I just got a letter from her. In it she talked about her mother's boyfriend. Now, Doris is my age; can you imagine how old her mother is? And, she has a boyfriend?"
Sometimes I go with it. Today is one of those days when I'm too focused to go with it. Just for fun I say, "Well, you're right, that would have to be one of the oldest women in the world. I think you're probably talking about a letter you received many years ago [in fact I vaguely remember when she got the letter because she told me about it; I was living at 48th and Roosevelt, so it had to be in the late 70s].
"No, I just got this letter a few days ago. I'll go get it."
She disappeared into the dinette. I heard her shuffle through papers. In a few minutes she returned to the living room and sat in her rocking chair. She started leafing through her tabloids. I know she'd forgotten about Doris, the letter, the curiosity. I am relieved because I know I would have argued with her about whether Doris is still alive, let alone her mother or her mother's boyfriend.
A few minutes later she turns back to me (I'm on the computer) and says, "I was just thinking about this old friend of mine, Doris, Lassegaard, I believe, and her mother. Her mother has to be at least 20 years older than me, and she's got a boyfriend."
I have another chance to decide how I really want to play this out. Old age doesn't just forgive the old. It forgives everyone.
She emerged to tell me that she had just been thinking of "...this old friend of mine, Doris, well, it's Lassegaard, now. I just got a letter from her. In it she talked about her mother's boyfriend. Now, Doris is my age; can you imagine how old her mother is? And, she has a boyfriend?"
Sometimes I go with it. Today is one of those days when I'm too focused to go with it. Just for fun I say, "Well, you're right, that would have to be one of the oldest women in the world. I think you're probably talking about a letter you received many years ago [in fact I vaguely remember when she got the letter because she told me about it; I was living at 48th and Roosevelt, so it had to be in the late 70s].
"No, I just got this letter a few days ago. I'll go get it."
She disappeared into the dinette. I heard her shuffle through papers. In a few minutes she returned to the living room and sat in her rocking chair. She started leafing through her tabloids. I know she'd forgotten about Doris, the letter, the curiosity. I am relieved because I know I would have argued with her about whether Doris is still alive, let alone her mother or her mother's boyfriend.
A few minutes later she turns back to me (I'm on the computer) and says, "I was just thinking about this old friend of mine, Doris, Lassegaard, I believe, and her mother. Her mother has to be at least 20 years older than me, and she's got a boyfriend."
I have another chance to decide how I really want to play this out. Old age doesn't just forgive the old. It forgives everyone.
