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 |  My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| PROMPT May 10th The prompt today is very simple: Tell us a story about the person you call Mom. Ah, Mom memories, the best! My Mother has been 'gone' for years now. Sometimes, it seems as if she's stepped outside and will be right back. I still find myself speaking to her expecting a response. I recognize her in a phrase that escapes my lips, or a reaction that surprises me. Mom learned to drive out of necessity. With three of us and later four of us needing transport to various venues and her extended family residing at a distance, Mom decided she could and would drive the family sedan. I remember her practices. She refused to attempt this in the southern Ontario town where we lived. No, she preferred to get behind the wheel in a less-trafficked village in Northern Ontario. I never minded this. We'd enjoy a road trip for most weekends and an excuse to visit my maternal grandparents. With her staring straight ahead, this meant jaunts careening down dirt back roads, squealing at each bump and cheering Mom to go faster. We taught her all there is to know about distracted driving. This occurred in the pre-seat belt era. Our car , an impressive Pontiac, would now be classified as a land yacht and it provided plenty of room for three siblings to create mischief. We could and did refuse to sit preferring to stand. We rolled the back windows up and down over and over. We wrestled. We argued. I'm sure Mom felt a few of our errant kicks land in the back of her seat. We directed a gazillion questions at the back of her head. We suggested routes. We insisted she settle squabbles then and there. We whined about dying of hunger and thirst. Over the summer, Mom gained confidence. I still recall her indignant anger when she failed her first road test in our home town. I sided with her because clearly the tester needed eyeglasses. Mom had stopped at a stop sign before preceding onto a busy thoroughfare and her tester insisted that this stop sign did not exist. Eagle Street itself stretched along one end of Preston and it did not boast any stop signs. Mom had been instructed to turn onto Eagle from a side street where there were and always had been the familiar red octagonal signs. That tester proved lucky that I hadn't been present because I liked to argue. As luck would have it, Mom drew the same tester and the same route for her second road test. This time Mom chose to linger at the supposed phantom stop sign and provoke the tester into questioning the obvious delay. Mom simply pointed at the stop sign and raised her eyebrows. Anyone with a mom knows that look. She'd have crossed her arms too, but in order to pass her test she needed to keep both hands on the steering wheel. This time, Mom passed and received the coveted licence. That shiny ,baby blue Pontiac had been the first and only vehicle my father purchased as brand new. He returned home one evening to find two immense dents in the aluminum siding he'd spent weeks installing himself. Mom had pulled into the driveway and failed to brake in time. She'd collided with the house. The dents were actually perfect impressions of the Pontiac's headlights and housings. He chose not to replace those panels or hammer out the 'kinks.' Mom chose to never speak of this again, well she did utter one curse word. Every time she settled into the driver's seat she had to see her 'handiwork.' Her last words muttered through clenched lips were, "I'm so angry I could spit nails." |
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