Take a Trip

            On a recent visit with Mom, she was sat with me for a few minutes as she drank the strawberry smoothie I brought her. We were flipping through a magazine when without a word she got up from the table and went back to her room. While she was gone, Kay, the activities director, walked over to tell me that JR had visited Mom that morning. JR was the driver at the senior apartment complex Mom lived at previously. Mom loved JR. He had a way of keeping the seniors laughing with his tall stories and outrageous lies.

            Kay said that Mom smiled when she saw him. When JR asked her if she remembered what she used to make for him, Mom said, “Cookies.” I was pleased, although somewhat shocked, that she remembered. I also felt a little jealous. She doesn’t remember anything about me. It was heartwarming to know that JR took the time to see her.

            I walked back to Mom’s room and asked her about JR’s visit. She had no recollection of it. I should have known that would be the case. Mom was busy arranging things on her bed. Three lumpy pillowcases lay on the wrinkled comforter. I peeked inside to see boxes of jigsaw puzzles and small photo albums. I asked Mom what they were for. “I’m going to Virginia,” she said.

            “Ah,” I said. “You are packing.” I gave her a hug and said, “Have a good trip.”

Aromas of Fall

            I had the privilege of walking through a William Sonoma store today. Once inside my senses were immediately assaulted by the aroma of a pumpkin spice cake that had just come out of the oven. It was intoxicating. I picked up the package of pumpkin spice cake mix from the overloaded table. For $11.95 I could bring that very smell to my own kitchen. I put the package back. I would use my mother’s recipe and bake my bread from scratch.

            Mom was famous within our family for many of her baked goods. Her pumpkin bread was one of those. It always made an appearance this time of year. She would save coffee cans and other tin cans and bake the bread “in the round.” She made so many loaves and gave all but a few of them away. She loved to share her gifts from her kitchen.

            In her later years I became the recipient of Mom’s baked goods as fewer people were around. She gave me so much bread, and cookies, and cake. I was slightly annoyed that she didn’t understand that my smaller family could not possibly eat so many baked goods, but I took them anyway. I should have known that one day the baked goods would abruptly stop. 

One day she decided she was done with baking. It didn’t matter how many times I asked, she could not give me a good answer why she stopped. I knew why, but I wanted her to confide in me. I wanted her to tell me what was going on (or not going on) in her mind. I had always thought we were close, but we never reached the point where she could tell me her fears about her disease. Or maybe she just didn’t believe it could be happening. I sure didn’t.