Gearing up for the trip
Mom and I leave for the ranch on Sunday. I’m excited and am carrying around a certain amount of anxiety about it all at the same time. Such is living the life of an integrated woman! My clothes are packed. My boss lent me her authentic, beat up snake skin boots, and mesh sided cowgal hat for riding. Mom and I have a date to look for riding boots for her on Saturday. We may try Cabela’s on our way here from the ferry terminal tomorrow. Mom doesn’t want to spend a heap of money on riding boots at 80. I get that. Goodwill is our Saturday target. Mom also wants to bring Almond Roca on the trip.
Daughter #2 and I swapped cars last night. She gets the low slung performance hot rod and I get the swanky SUV that will be easy for mom to get in and out of. While I miss the drop top, I’m loving the steering wheel that controls so many of the car’s creature comforts, and the console that swallows everything. The console even has valet parking for what ever you put in it!
Mom and I had a great talk by phone last night. She sounded so good. It was like the calendar had rolled back 6-7 years. Yes, there was the repetitiveness and forgetfulness, but she sounded more than content, she sounded grounded and happy. I know to enjoy these moments rather than hang my hat on them, and then get bowled over when things suddenly change. She had two memory glitches that were of interest. I was able to listen to her ‘stories,’ and enjoy the conversation:
She said she’d been picking apples. We decided that she’d store them in the fridge rather than bring them with her (heavy for a walk-on ferry passenger). She talked about all three trees being in fruit. Last year, I only saw one tree fruiting. There may well be three trees, and only one was fruiting last year. The doozy was when she said the trees were all doing so well because: “We’ve had a lot of good rain.” This has been the driest year, EVER. Great swaths of our state are on fire. If only we’d had a lot of good rain, fire fighters from other countries wouldn’t be flying in to help us.
She also confused a ranch story with a memory of the last time we rode horses on the beach. It was a memory mash-up. She talked about how the wranglers would let the riders run the horses back to the stables at the beach. Maybe at the Ranch in the 50’s, but never at the beach. A trot is all you get. I’m hoping she can ride any way she wants to at the Ranch.