Aversion to Aging

Keeping up with my mother's schedule wears me out. Though she is eighty and I twenty-two years younger, I am retired from my chosen profession and she is not.

Daily she manages a law office, though often leaving the routine to others as she drives people to the doctor, goes to funerals, or engages in various civic activities. She is an Ambassador for the Chamber of Commerce in her small town of Portland, Tennessee, and never misses an opportunity to attend a ribbon-cutting or grand opening.

Southern Matchmaker

She is the quintessential hostess, graciously feeding groups from class reunions to business meetings to elderly illiterate cousins and lonely parolees. She doesn't just feed them, but incorporates their problems. She's the Southern version of The Matchmaker, but she matches jobs to the jobless, income sources to the penniless, living water to the spiritually dry. Her home is a haven for the downtrodden, some for hours, others for years.

A weekend morning of shadowing her hints at the extent of her involvement in people's lives.

First call made: "Hello, darlin'. Did you sleep well? I just put your sheets in to wash. I'll get them back to you tomorrow." Pause. "Yes, she got in just fine and she's glad we invited her to have breakfast with us. I'll see you around 7:30."

First call received: "Well, where are you? Why haven't I heard from you?" Pause. "Why do you need more money? You asked me to keep $100 for you to buy Christmas presents with and now you want it." Pause. "What about what you got paid this week? Oh, OK, it's your money. Just don't try to get money from me at Christmas. You make enough to be able to save some!" Pause. "I'll leave it in the box for you to pick up at Mina's."

Second call received: "Why on earth are you bothering me this morning? Lanita is here and I have too much to do to talk to you." Pause. "Don't be so foolish! Now go back to your wife and behave yourself."

Second call made: "How did you sleep last night? Are you sure you're OK by yourself? You know I'm glad to come spend the nights with you again. Just don't try to move around without your walker."

Third call made: "Can the vet come out and look at my pony? I think she's sick again and I want her well before the children are here for Thanksgiving." Pause. "No, I won't be here but he knows where to find her. I'll call you Monday to see what he did."

The Ultimate People Person

She charges out the door to pick up her gentleman friend, whom she calls "Mr. Porter," for breakfast, telling me to meet them at Mallard's on Dickerson Road and how long it will take me to get there.

The waitress hugs her as we enter. Both octogenarians are obviously known here in this mom-and-pop roadside restaurant. "This is Lanita, my daughter from Cincinnati, Peggy," she says. "She's just here for the weekend. She has a speech to give in Nashville this morning."

"I know what they want. How about you?" Peggy asks, friendly but juggling way too many tables for one person. Soon I have to leave them as they linger, talking to each other and Peggy.

Mother goes to get her hair done while Mr. Porter waits in the car so she can take him home. Then she drives back to meet me at the outskirts of Nashville. Only in the last couple of years has she become squeamish about driving in crowded city traffic. It occurs to me that this is the only concession I have seen her make to her age.

Even the Shoe Salesman

We drive across Nashville to her chosen shoe store to exchange shoes bought two weeks ago. I let her out at the door and park. When I get to the shoe store, she is sitting reading The Tennessean. Jensen Shoes is not an ordinary shoe store. Small signs say, "Don't ask for a size. Ask to be fitted." You check in at the desk when you arrive.

Soon a large man approaches and greets her. "What can I do for you today?"

"I came to exchange the shoes you sold me a couple of weeks ago. I cannot wear them. They killed my feet. Mike, this is my daughter Lanita from Cincinnati." He and I nod. "Are you surprised that I remembered your name?" "Yes," he says. "Most people just say 'that big fat guy' when they want me." Mother manages to look both horrified and self-satisfied.

Soon he locates another pair of shoes and makes the exchange. "I wish I could wear pretty shoes like you do," she says to me as we leave. "I don't know if these will work or not." I can guess. This is a woman whose feet have aged much faster than the rest of her and it's hard to find shoes that aren't painful to wear.

The Shopping Continues

After shopping for some unwieldy pillows and mattress covers, I leave her at the department store door while I get the car. I'm thinking that she hasn't had a chance to rest all day and will probably want to go home for a quiet restful evening.

When I return, a pregnant woman is helping Mother with her bags. I jump out of the car, appalled. Mother is simply grateful and not at all surprised. She is on her cell phone. As she gets in the car, she says to me, "This is Katie. Do you want to meet them for supper at Carrabba's and go to Beth's game tonight?"

"That's great!" I agree, and we head back into Nashville. We stop by my daughter's apartment to rest a few minutes before dinner. Mother lies on the futon for about ten minutes and then is up primping her makeup and hair and saying it's time to go so we can get our names on the list and won't have a long wait.

Hostess Hugs

I let her out at the restaurant door, telling her to ask for a table for seven. By the time I park and return, she's all cozy with the hostess, who then checks with Mother every few minutes to tell her the progress of our table. "We're clearing it now," she reports. "It won't be long."

Finally, ignoring people who were there long before we were, she comes to Mother and says, "Your table is ready." She and Mother lead the way across the hectic Italian restaurant to a quiet corner.

"This is wonderful! So private," Mother says, and gives her a hug. Surely this is the only hug this hostess has ever received for doing her job.

The restaurant meets Mother's standards of keeping her water glass filled and her coffee hot. She frequently calls Jessica, our server, by name, apologizing that we have to leave rather quickly, explaining that we need to get to her granddaughter's basketball game.

At the game, she gets out of her seat several times to survey the crowd in search of Donna, the hairdresser who worked next to hers that morning. She has discovered that Donna's daughter plays on the same team and will not leave without finding Donna and introducing us.

Of course Donna is as gracious as all the other people to whom my mother has introduced me today. "I just love your mother!" Donna says.

"Everyone does," I answer, smiling.

After the game, I return Mother to her car and we drive to her home. In the quiet darkness of my car, I consider my day. Mother is the same wherever she is. As a teenager I was often embarrassed to be with her. I recall just a few months earlier when my brother and I took her to New York for her eightieth birthday.

Southern Charm in Cold New York

On the last night of our trip, she and I entered a souvenir shop on Times Square. I was a bit intimidated by the stern faces of the Middle Eastern-looking men standing by the doors and the cash register. Then I heard Mother say, "Now is your name pronounced Ass-teef?"

"Yes." The cashier wearing an Astif nametag smiled. He'd looked rather morose until Mother started talking to him. Before I knew what was happening, she had found out that he was from Bangladesh, had been in New York a year and a half, and had three children. By the time we left, they were all talking to us and waving cheerful good-byes.

And I was smiling, too. She'd brought her Southern charm to warm even the cold city of New York. My mother does not think her behavior unusual. Perhaps it's not. Perhaps I've just lived with Yankees too long.