Chapter 9 Dinnertime or 'Political Potluck', Take Your Pick.

*** continued from previous post ***


Chapter 9

Dinnertime or 'Political Potluck', take your pick.



Dinnertime.

I was hoping that the moose would have softened your mom's stance regarding another 'family style' meal, but no such luck. That woman can carry a grudge. Not unlike China and that whole Great Wall thingee to keep out the Mongol hordes. Talk about taking something too far. I mean really, after a couple hundred years it just becomes silly. Well, until your village is sacked and pillaged. Then suddenly a well fortified border makes perfect sense. Which is to say that as dinnertime rolled around your mom became increasingly agitated as the minutes ticked by. This probably wasn't evident to the outside world, but after living and loving this woman for so many years I can pick up on the subtle clues such as a slight narrowing of the eye, a sigh, a softly spoken "Great. Another damn group dinner."

Someday, when the time is right, possibly while she's under a heavy dose of drugs, I shall query your mom as to the origins of the particular phobia. I suspect some childhood trauma. I'm thinking a tragic first day at Kindergarten. A buried memory of a disastrous preschool snack time. Or, and this is more likely, a murky recollection of our first date.

"Suz," I say, because that's her name and calling her 'Carol', or 'Cindy', or 'Dude' doesn't go over well - not well at all - "Suz this is going to be great. Remember sweetie, it's all a matter of perspective. Instead of looking at this as a potential negative experience, let's turn the tables on these Canadians. Let's have fun no matter what. Let's MAKE them love us!"

Mom paused brushing her hair and looked at me through the reflection in the mirror. "You think that's possible?"

"I think it's entirely possible. Not only possible, but probable! I shall dazzle them with witty repartee! I will spin yarns and tales so engaging that you can steal their desserts right from under their noses without them noticing. If necessary, I will jump on the table, grab my cane, and do my awesomely wicked Fred Astaire impersonation."

"Hmmm . . . I seem to remember you doing that at the Collin's wedding. It wasn't exactly a show stopper. They asked us to leave remember."

See? There it is again. Does this woman let go of nothing?

"That's because I forgot the words to 'Singing In The Rain'. Remember? It came out ‘I’m singin’ in the rain, just singin’ in the rain! What a glorious feeling mmmph mmmph da da dee dee something . . . "

I don't think that was it," she said, and returned to brushing her hair. "I think it had something to do with all the broken China, and when you fell you landed on top of the bride's Grandfather."

"Pfffftttt. . . he was fine." I reached down to zip my boots. "Besides, little incidents like that that build character."

”How much more 'character' does an eighty year old need?"

"Honey," I said, and pulled my pant legs over the top of my boot, "I don't know. I just have to trust in the Universe that it was the proper thing at the proper time."

Mom breathed deeply. "I don't want to get into this again. Let's just finish getting dressed and get this over with."

"That's the spirit!", I cried, and swept her into my arms. "See? It's that type of 'can-do' attitude that makes me love you more each day."

Mom pushed me away to arm’s length. "But no dancing on the table. Okay?"

"Alright, but I think you're limiting my social tool-box here."

"I know."

"So, let me get this straight. It's just dancing on the table right? Not dancing in general."
She reached up, surprisingly fast for such a small woman, and tweaked my nose. "Very funny."
"But I do a mad Mamba. I think that the hikers would appreciate the rhythm, the grace, and the spectacle of a bald man on a cane dancing by himself to music only he can hear. Really, would you deny them that?"

"It's a loss they'll just have to suffer. Now come on and let's go find a table."

*** the journey continues ***