Zumba in sandals
’cause seniors move slowly, right?
toes now know better
I started to brush off the sand and then stopped. Those granules belong in Florida, not Colorado. They have a job to do. Sand castles, for example.
Good news, grains of sand. You’ll be home again soon.
My mom turned 88 today. During our phone conversation just now, she wondered about the significance of “88.” When I wasn’t sure what she meant, she went on to say, “It means something automotive.” After we hung up, I asked Zippy. And being the son of a gear-head, he knew exactly what she was trying to remember.
“She’s talking about the Oldsmobile Rocket 88.”
I’d never heard of this car, but there are LOTS of them out there. Images galore!
This one was an official Indy Pace Car:
This one is just pretty:
And here’s the Oldsmobile Rocket 88 race car I dedicate to my mother on her 88th:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM!
Today Zippy and I went to Berry Patch Farms in Brighton, Colorado.
Note: the rooster windchime on the tree was there before Michelle’s bench. Can you say SERENDIPITY?
Today, Michelle’s mother, sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces, nephews, and friends gathered in her memory. For the past two weeks or so, the weather has been uncharacteristically cold and rainy, but today the sun was shining in a blue, blue sky. The morning was lovely, and I suspect Michelle pulled some strings to make it so.
It was bittersweet being at the farm without Michelle, but here I am warming her cheery red bench along with three of the Writing Roosters, the critique group she lobbied to include me in its membership. Michelle’s generosity lives on.
When I was in Florida visiting my mother last October, we took many walks around her community. On one of those walks, I spotted the familiar orange-and-black-and-white markings of a Monarch Butterfly. It was completely intact but no longer of this world. I gently cupped it in one hand for the rest of the walk and, when back at my mom’s, carefully wrapped the body in a tissue and tucked it inside an empty medication bottle.
I forgot about my little treasure until today.
While we have lovely butterflies in Colorado (lots and lots of Swallowtails), I have never seen a Monarch here. I know they’re struggling as a species, and that hurts my heart. It’s strange to have lived a childhood filled with these beauties feeding on milkweed plants, and then exist without them.
I was very happy to find this one on our walk, even if was no longer in flight. Nothing else looks like a Monarch.
Just got home from week in Florida.
Not yet feeling jiggity-jig.
But give me a couple nights’ sleep in my own bed and I’ll be back in dancing form.
Organize your many years of family photos so that your sons won’t be left with that overwhelming task.
My sister left Florida to go back home after helping Mom and me make huge progress in our massive photographic undertaking. I arrived a day before her and as I sorted boxes of pictures, discovered a tiny Tracy-head photo from long ago. I taped it to the wall next to the work space, wondering how long it would take my sister to notice.
Less than an hour.
But now it’s just me, Mom, and that June Cleaver-esque pinhead.
At least no one expects me to wear pearls and heels while I slog through the photos . . .
is feeling kinda stabby.
Where are all the fish?
Thankful that sister Katie arrived to help archive our mother’s eighty zillion photos.
Heading off to see my mom.
I don’t anticipate an Albert Brooks-Debbie Reynolds kind of visit (if for no other reason than Mom and I aren’t quite as funny as Albert and Debbie), but this movie tag line from MOTHER feels appropriate:
No one misunderstands you better.
I’m eminently qualified to joke about such things. One: I’m a daughter. Two: I’m a mother. Pretty sure my sons gird their emotional loins for visits with me, too.