Yes, I’m still here and, more importantly, so is our 94-year-old Francine. I know she’ll probably gnash her teeth (all of which are original, by the way) over that comment (“Kelly, they’ll think I’m decrepit”) however, I think it’s worth pointing out.
Happy Mother’s Day To Our 94-Year-Old
This photo was taken a few Saturdays ago when my brother treated our mother, his adult son and me to lunch at a pub near Mom’s apartment. I’d ask Francine if it’s ok to post this pic but she’s hosting a bridge foursome at her place right now and I’m hesitant to bother her. However as my brother shared the photo all over social media I think it’s ok if I do.
Anyway, it was lovely reading the responses friends posted on my brother’s Facebook page. These were among the highlights:
“You’re a lucky man.”
“That’s so awesome.”
“She’s the coolest.”
“Your mom looks fantastic.”
And my particular favorite:
“I hope I can approach a stack of wings like that at age 75 let alone 95; no sharing either.”
Pssst. I’ll let you in on a little secret that Bro didn’t share. Mom doesn’t drink alcohol. Nope, she’s not let it pass her lips for years now, on the strict advice of her Doc. When the three of us broke out our phones to get photographic proof of the enormous platter of wings she was about to attack (“I’ve NEVER had wings before. Have I?”) she picked up the Grandson’s cider and brandished it high. Our gal is a poser!
Bless her little tucked in napkin.
As many of you know, I’m hurling together a memoir about how she and I managed to survive working together for ten years in her successful Vancouver Asian antiques and collectibles shop. This libation brandishing calls to mind the chapter on that time we were on a buying trip in Bangkok and she knocked a full, pitcher-sized beer into the lap of …
Ok as a special Mother’s Day gift to you, Francine, I’ll share that here in a mini version …
After hours of wading through several dusty warehouses, Mom and I staggered into the mercifully air-conditioned lobby of our hotel, The Dusit Thani, and headed straight to the restaurant. It was 1987 and I was training for the Vancouver marathon in May, mere months away. I’d gotten up early to get in a twelve-mile run before it became too hot and at this point all I could think about was glugging down a gigantic glass of water. I was vaguely aware of Francine leading the way to her favorite table, her enormous leather bag banging about as a fifth appendage from her right shoulder, when all of a sudden a man’s voice bellowed out.
My mother stopped dead in her tracks, a look of abject horror spreading across her face. I followed her gaze and was shocked to see a disturbingly wet stain slowing spreading throughout the lap of a dignified, well-dressed Thai gentleman in his mid-60’s. While I was relieved to learn the problem didn’t originate with him, it was alarming to witness his pitcher of beer spinning slowly on its side, dispensing the last of its contents onto his shirt. Obviously, while Mom had safely negotiated the tight space between tables, her bag had not.
Naturally, as with me, she tends to adopt a British accent in times of stress.
“Oh, my good man, I do apologize. Good heavens, let me wipe that up …” To his utter dismay, she whipped a napkin off a nearby empty table and brandished it threateningly in the direction of his sodden lap.
“No thank you, I’ll do it.” He neatly grabbed it out of her hand.
“Well, at least let me get you a new beer, Sir.”
“No, thank you. I still have a bit left.”
Against all odds, the behemoth weapon had managed to miss taking out his glass.
“Well, then let me pay for your lunch.”
“Thank you no. It’s looked after.”
Others were starting to take notice of the kerfuffle occurring in our section and a waitress hurried over clutching several freshly laundered linen napkins. Clearly they were to provide appropriate camouflage cover as he slipped up to his hotel room to change. But Mom refused to give up. Her voice took on a plaintive wheedling tone.
“Please, do let me pay for your dry cleaning, that’s the very least I can do.”
The waitress waved my frustrated mother off with a beautifully executed pronouncement.
“Please do not worry, nothing is needed. This gentleman is the owner of the hotel. We will look after him.”
This post has been inspired by the Finish the Sentence Friday prompt of “Oh Mother.” You can read the other posts over at the prompt thinker-upper Lisa from The Meaning of Me or Kristi of Finding Ninee.
Enough about Happy Mother’s Day To Our 94-year-old. I’m curious about you. Have you ever taken out the owner of a hotel? Or done something equally as delightful? If you’d care to share, I’d love to hear.