Ben and I went to "supper" at mom's last night. We are trying to go there a few times a month (other than the three times a week I visit with her) to share a meal with her. It delights her and is easy for us to do.
After supper we watched the first 15 minutes of Wheel of Fortune with her. Who doesn't know how Wheel of Fortune works. Contestants spin a roulette wheel and choose letters to fill in a phrase. Whoever guesses right ... well, of course, they win.
Mom got it right before the contestants--and us--all three games we watched. Her mind is quick, seeing patterns quickly in a way I can only covet.
I wish now we had stayed until the end of the game, but life always seems to press upon me. After all, NCIS was on at 8 p.m. and we had to get home. No...that wasn't it, but honestly, it was part of it. The dog was in the car. Ben likes to get home. I like to get home. It all plays together to cause a bout of guilt, sadness, and impatience with my own impatience.
We also talked about writing because her caregiver, Rosie, told her I was going to write a book. Mom was a little surprised that Rosie had this information and I hadn't shared it with her. Truth is, I never told anyone I was writing a book. What I did say on Facebook was that I was finally starting a writing project I had put off for four years. Then I said that I was "reading" a book, not writing a book.
But I played along and mom said I could do it.
Then she told me that she used to think about what she was going to say in letters when she was ironing. She used to write elegant letters.
"I was ironing your clothes," she said. "You wore frilly dresses [which I do not remember at all]."
Some were hand-me-downs from my cousin Cheryl, she said. But since Cheryl was (and is) six years older, that hardly seemed likely.
I wouldn't dare accuse her of making it up.
She went on to share some memories of Cheryl's mother, Emma, who she remembers liking to vacuum.
I thought that perhaps Emma's vacuuming was her thinking time.
I like to drive and think about what I'm going to write. But now, instead of driving to work, I'm home, thinking about what I'm going to write, without the driving to settle me. I get up in the morning and try to chase away my inertia so that I can think through a sentence. It's hard work getting to the point where I am actually working.
Tomorrow I think I will drive to the Lower Valley, where the action upon which I'm basing the actual book I intend to write, took place, and still takes place. Maybe the drive will bring inspiration.