Making a Mother's Day appeal

There was a time when I couldn’t wait to get away from my parents.

Not that they were mean and domineering, or that I didn’t love them. It’s just that I was an only child, and I was anxious to experience some freedom.

Eventually, I found that at a North Carolina college 700 miles from my parents’ home in Syracuse, N.Y.

After graduation, I went back to live with them for a while in their new place in Lake George, N.Y. It didn’t work out very well — I saw myself as an adult, they still saw me as a kid.

My first post-college job was washing dishes at a Howard Johnson’s restaurant. The second was running a Ferris wheel at an amusement park. At some point,

I remember one of my parents saying, “Son, we’re confused. We sent you to college, and you’re running a Ferris wheel. Couldn’t you have done that if you didn’t go to college?”

They were right. It was time to get on with my life, so I moved out and went back to Syracuse. And got my first quasi-real job: in a library.

I offer all this as backdrop to the current situation. It’s 39 years later, and I’m trying to convince my mom — now a widow in her 80s — to move to Virginia.

She was all for the idea a couple of months ago, during one of the worst winters in recent Adirondack memory.

“I can’t take another one (winter) like this,” she’d say when she called. “I’m definitely moving to Virginia.”

The constant barrage of snow made her a reluctant recluse and a virtual prisoner to Pete, the guy who shoveled her driveway. Even her cat turned cranky from some feline strain of cabin fever.

Fast-forward a couple of months, to late April. What about Virginia, Mom?

“I don’t know. It’s so nice here, with all the leaves coming out. And my house is paid for.”

I should add here that my mom, while a delightful person in many ways, is the queen of devil’s advocacy.

Once, after I’d been in Lynchburg a few years, I decided to apply for a sportswriter’s job at The Post-Standard back in Syracuse.

“Why would you want to do that?” Mom asked. “You seem to like Lynchburg so much.”

As it turned out, the Syracuse people dragged their feet so long on making a decision that I removed my name from consideration.

“Why did you do that?” Mom asked. “You would have been so close to us if you’d taken that job.”

So it is with moving to Virginia. It depends on the season.

Meanwhile, she lives in a big house with three levels, and she’s fallen a couple of times. She has a security system befitting Donald Trump, and something is always setting it off accidentally. When that happens, the automatic response system will call a list of her contacts, which includes me down here, and intone, “Two fire trucks have just been sent to (Mom’s address).” Or “The police have responded …”

This is information I’d like to know, for sure. Not being in possession of either a private jet or the Batmobile, however, it would be difficult for me to get up there in time to make any difference.

Mom still keeps a tight grip on her faculties, but she’s become a bit … impulsive. Flying from Charlotte to Albany a few years ago, she slipped into a nap as soon as she boarded the plane. When she opened her eyes, she swears, people were getting up and leaving.

“Are we in Albany?” she asked the flight attendant at the door.

She smiled and replied. “Yup, Albany. It was a fast flight.”

My mom smiled in return and walked into the terminal. By the time she realized she was still in Charlotte, the plane had taken off without her.
These are all reasons we’d like to have her closer. That, plus the fact that we enjoy her company.

It’s going to be a job, though, especially this time of year. She’s coming down to visit us later this month, and we plan to take her around to the various retirement villages in the area. Again. We’ve done this before, and she seemed to like them all, but her house is paid for and what would she do with her cat, and on and on.

On Mother’s Day, I’ll probably make another appeal.

C’mon, Mom — make my day. Make your day.