I took a chance. Pillowed her up in the front seat and took her for an hour’s ride to the old family farm, where cousins and such were gathering for their first introduction to the toddler on her first visit from Poland (accompanied by her family, of course; oh boy, do we have cousins).

It was the perfect scenario for my mother, who, as the last remaining relative of her generation, got all the attention she craves. I was there to serve her, in all senses of the word. “You’re a saint,” they would whisper, as they walked by, patting my arm, nodding their heads solemnly. I want to scream “I hate my life!!” but instead I go about the business of filling my mother’s plate, and mine, with all of the golabki, kielbasa, kapusta, and various apple and blueberry cakes — all homemade and all to drool for. I made sure I got some doggie bags to bring home.
Over the course of the afternoon (the best weather of the summer, so far) each relative stopped to pay hommage to the nonagenarian, even though she really didn’t remember who anyone really was. She can’t hear well, can’t remember worth a damn, and the conversations with her all had a tinge of the old “who’s on first.” But they all humored her, winked at me, and then went back to enjoying interactions with those with whom they could actually have an intelligent conversation.
At least the rides back and forth went smoothly (which isn’t always the case because she starts panicking when she realizes that the seat belt is constraining her; she started in on the way home, so I just unbuckled her seat belt, figuring that if we had an accident, with her fragile bones, she’d be better off not surviving it). Frank Sinatra crooned from a CD compilation sent to my by a college buddy, John S., and that set just the right tone for the long (for her) drive.
You would think that she’d be tired from the long day with no nap, but nooooo. Bugging, bugging, bugging me.!! In my frustration, as I brush her teeth I mutter that taking care of her is like taking care of a baby. “I don’t want another baby,” she misreplies. (Surprise, surprise.) “Neither do I,” I sigh. She doesn’t get it. I’ve had it.
And so I go up to my space and check my email — which includes a long catch-up from someone with whom I went to grade school who found my weblog when she Googled “Yonkers,” and another long catch-up from one of my former colleagues, recently retired, who just got back from a week of doing Chinese brush painting at the Omega Institute.
My “real” life pretty much sucks. And I thank the oddities of fate and the miracles of tecnology for a virtual life that keeps me interested enough to get up in the morning.
Oh, and, of course, there’s always him: