Storytime: Traveling with my mother
My parents were travelers, particularly later in life.
They spent summers at the lake, and winters on cruise ships or bus trips. Now, my father is gone and my mother, Bette, lives in her own home 15 minutes from me. Mom is a sharp, classy 90-year-old lady whose ongoing challenge is getting from here to there with a flowered cane or, lately, a walker, complete with hand brakes.
“I don’t need this! I am perfectly capable of doing things on my own.” Says my mother who is ever the optimist.
I have two younger brothers and three older sisters, and getting us all together at the same time is almost miraculous.
“Everyone is so busy living their lives that before you know it, there is no life left for anything else,” said my wise mother.
That was it.
Immediately, my siblings and I made plans for the next year — and every year since; plans to travel with our mother. We pick a restful rental house that will hold us all, and hit the road; Mom with her cane and collapsible walker tucked in the back.
Together, we’ve traveled to Austin and New York City. We’ve been to the beach, the lake and to an island in the cold water of Lake Superior. We’ve been to parks, picnics and past cemeteries. We’ve had mimosas and margaritas and merlot in bottles I’ve never seen before.
My mother likes to get around.
Between us, my sisters, brothers and I divvy up the tasks of traveling. We don’t over plan; we don’t overdo. We eat good food, play crazy games, listen to old music and remember much different times.
My mother is the center of it all.
Together, we remember old neighbors and old boyfriends and old teachers that made a difference. We make fun of bad choices, prom dates and Mom’s bread pudding. We tease our mother about her frugality and our homemade, hand-me-down dresses. We complain about her making us go to church and making us make our beds. We whine about the outrageous curfews we had growing up and our frequent unfair groundings.
My mother has her own versions of that.
But my favorite time — my favorite — is when a question is asked of my mother and the room stills to hear her answer. Mom is the last of her big family, the last of her brothers and sisters, and I hear the catch in her voice when she recounts the days before she had six children. Around a bonfire, on a lake dock, seated at a dinner table, I hear the stories of my mother’s life.
Ninety years and counting.
We are already planning for next year, and the next as long as Mom is able. And when she is not, she made us promise to continue to travel the miles it takes to be together. I am blessed, I know, to still have my mother with me when there are so many missing or longing for their own.
Even as adults, Mom continues to mother her children and show us the beauty in the world. I am thankful for this, as well as the close bond she built between us — a bond that will forever bind us together. My mother’s stories are our stories, and it is a privilege to hear them in her own words, in her own way.
My mother tells a very good story.
So I bet right now you’re thinking of your own mother, reaching out to call and hear her voice. Or you are wishing you could do that one more time. If you are fortunate enough to be graced with a mother who still has stories to tell, remember: living a busy life can take up all your time. Minutes turn into hours, hours into days, and days into years.
Time you could be traveling with your mother.
You can reach Lorry at Lorrysstorys@gmail.com.
This article originally appeared on Columbia Daily Tribune: Storytime: Traveling with my mother
