Oh, Mother

Mom did not want to come. Her reasoning is entirely understandable—she lives on several acres of land that, together with Marsh, she has turned into a thriving Babylon of vegetables, berries and blooms. Leaving this garden for any amount of time in the summer is risky; housesitters cannot possibly understand the work that went into it—an understanding entirely necessary for spending enough time watering the masterpiece. But Marsh, who is coming to know her better and better, expected that a couple days away, a couple days to spend with me, would be the perfect break.

I realized yesterday that Mom and I had never before spent exactly this kind of time together. Yes, we’ve traveled together (the Azores, Greece, Spain, London), and we spend weekends together every two years, down in Portland shopping tax-free, but all these previous trips have been chock-full of distraction. There’s a museum to see or a place to eat or a boutique to investigate, or the next day’s museum/restaurant/boutique to plan for, and so conversations are disjointed or foreshortened by our desires for consumption.

Here, though, is a bit like being at home, where we know the sights and flavors and they don’t intrude. We are both supremely comfortable here. Unlike home, however, our responsibilities are slight. So we were given the opportunity to let conversation flow as it might—about relatives and friends, hopes, fears, disappointments, successes, philosophies of life. These conversations took place on the sun porch, on horseback, on long walks (Marsh plugging along dutifully ten paces behind so as not to disturb the ladies).

As for the riding, it was definitely nice to continue our conversations, and I get intense pleasure from sharing the beauty of this experience with people who care about me and whom I care about . . . and so I was willing to not go faster than a quick walk for three days, although one of my joys is galloping up grassy inclines and along verdant lanes. Toby, who seems to be the perfect middle-aged lady’s horse, carried Mom faithfully and calmly, never running away from cows, never dragging her through bushes too fast. And evidence of Mom’s and my different perspectives of speed is the following comment she made to Marsh last night as we drove up to see the sunset:
“ . . . And she kept running with me!” said Mom. “And I stayed on!”
“The slow Western jog,” I asked. “Is that what you mean by running?”

Off they went this noon, supremely glad they came.

PS--I would like to add that Mom, before coming, made sure I understood that they expected me to feed them dinner the evening that they arrived. I had everything ready for a lovely tasty repast, of course. They show up with a huge cooler, and Mom pulls out leftovers. That she'd brought here, on vacation. The next morning, she got out her own coffee maker and coffee. I wonder sometimes, does she actually know me?