Dearest Rachel –
While out and about with Mom (getting papers signed, as I told you about yesterday), we passed by an old barbershop in the strip mall where her brokers have set up shop. Which struck the two of us as odd, since the name belonged to a shop that was a little closer to the actual center of town, to the best of my knowledge; it was right across the street from the parking lot for the downtown train station, if I remember correctly.
And I ought to remember it pretty well, as it was the place Dad used to go – and take me – to get his hair cut throughout my entire childhood and young adult years. Of course, since then, the brothers whose family name still appears on the sign hung up their scissors and razors long ago. Indeed, since the last brother retired, Dad had switched allegiances to another shop on the opposite side of the tracks, and to the last few months of his life swore by this new place. I think I’ve seen it, but most of the time when I drive past it, it escapes my notice, so I doubt I’ll ever go there, in any event.
But in the moment, as we drove past the new location of our ‘old’ barbers, Mom mentioned about how Dad would keep going to this new place, even though he would acknowledge as quickly as anyone as to how he didn’t have a lot atop his head to cut. It was just that the hair on the side of his head would get long enough to brush against his ears, tickling them uncomfortably, and provoking him to go out and get what little he had cut.
She continued by talking about how his mother – who I’d like to think you met, but who passed away several months before we were married, so it wasn’t all that long – in her last days before being confined to hospice, would practically stockpile coffeecake, because she enjoyed it so. “I guess,” Mom mused, “when you get to a certain age, you should be allowed to do what you want,” even if it seems superfluous, like Dad and his haircuts. As long as you enjoy it – and especially when you’re running out of time – it shouldn’t be withheld, as long as it’s feasible.
And as long as it’s within reason; she quickly added that eating sugar as a diabetic, for instance, would shorten one’s lifespan that much further, and wouldn’t be recommended as an indulgence of this sort. Although, as euthanasia is concerned, there are certainly worse ways to go, that’s for certain, doing (or eating) something you enjoy, even if it is dangerous to the point of lethal.
Which brings us to the topic of food, particularly since yesterday was Thursday, and while Mom was more than willing to have Daniel and me over, her schedule was just about as full as it had been the day before. More so, in fact; after visiting her broker to sign these forms, she needed to see her doctor about her hearing aid, as well as the fact that she’d been dealing with some pain in the opposite ear that needed to be alleviated, if at all possible. Long story short, she wouldn’t have time to make any preparations for us.
Which is perfectly fine with us; we’re as happy to pick something up on our way over for her to enjoy. We’d had a history of doing carry-out from time to time as a family back in the day, although in later years, it was more of a habit of going out, especially on Sundays after church. In a way, this is something of a reversion to my days growing up, except with me performing Dad’s role (although let’s face it; I’ve been filling this role in our little family since at least the pandemic – and before that with Saturday breakfasts – as you well know, so it’s not a foreign one to me by any measure).
The difficulty came in trying to get her to choose an option – what would she like? Even as we were pulling out of the parking lot, into the street, there were three places in our line of sight, two of which she’d never tried before. The third was a barbeque place that Daniel and I had just brought over in the past couple of weeks, and while she had no particular issue with it, she made it clear that it didn’t exactly care for it all that much. But apart from that, she claimed to be open to anything. Italian, chicken, Chinese, gyros; you name it, she would be okay with it.
As open-ended as that sounds, I also know it’s not quite true. Some of the things we bring over tend to be from places Daniel and I have been to that I want to say we think she’d enjoy, but I think that deep down, we know better, even as we’d like to share our tastes with her. Her response to the barbeque place was an example of that; true, it’s not our favorite such place, even in town, but we get the message that this isn’t something she would want again (and the fact that she even said so is a strong indicator). Which means that we’d assuredly be hard-pressed to get her to appreciate, say, a bowl of ramen or udon, or a plate of Japanese curry (regardless of the protein included with it). So we know better than to try.
At the same time, she did leave things open-ended within reason; but, not having a preference myself, I turned it over to Daniel to choose between the two mid-town places. He selected the chicken place, as I’d brought some home to him and Logan of a recent Saturday evening.
Even Mom was a bit surprised at the spread; I think when she heard I was getting chicken, it would be something like we used to get from Brown’s or some such like that, with actual pieces rather than heavily battered tenders and wings. I’ll have to consider making a trip for that at another time, but we’ll probably introduce her to the Italian place next time around – or maybe Daniel will do that with her while I’m gone. Either way, we’ll have to be a little more mindful of her own tastes, even as we gently try to nudge her palate a little bit in this direction or that. But at this point, it’s a fait accompli; we can only note her reaction after the fact, and plan accordingly for next time.
And speaking of next time, I should get on with my day until then, honey. Keep an eye on me and wish me well; I expect that I’ll continue to need it.
Letters to Rachel 