A few evenings ago, my mother called me to ask for the Strawberry Shortcake recipe. She wanted to make it for a dinner with my sister's family. I can recite the recipe from memory:
A quart or more of ripe strawberries. Take about a third of them and mash them with some sugar.(How much sugar depends on how sweet the strawberries already are.) Cut the rest of the strawberries in half and stir into the mashed ones. Put them in the refrigerator till ready to serve.
Make--or buy!--two pie crusts. Roll them out onto a baking sheet. Sprinkle with a little sugar and bake according to the directions. Cool. Then break into large pieces.
To serve: layer the strawberries with the pie crust. Top with whipped cream.
Easy, huh? Here's the thing: This is not my recipe. It's my mother's--the authentic Southern Illinois way to make strawberry shortcake. My mother is pure Southern Illinois. And yet she had to ask for it. After I told her, she thanked me and said, "I knew it was something like that. But I couldn't remember."
It's not the first time my mom has had to be reminded of something. Family members' names, important dates, details about my father. The memories may be there...or not. And then they may return. You never know.
My mother is relatively healthy at 86. She lives alone and is completely independent. Last year she moved from Henderson, NV, to be near my sister in Upper Michigan. Never missed a beat, didn't mind the change of location or climate. In fact, she claims she enjoys the coolness of the North. She bakes a few holiday cookies, watches professional basketball (Go, Lakers!) and is working on a full-length romance novel; she is certain that it will be a huge success.
Still. She has frequent falls. And some serious cardiac issues. Spends too much of her time by herself. Often reports that she "doesn't feel right." And repeats herself constantly. Constantly.
Suddenly, it occurs to me: My mother is getting old. The woman who worked tirelessly in several careers; who owned Lombard Beauty Shop; who went to DuPage College in her 50's; who relocated to the Las Vegas area after my father died; who taught me how to hang wallpaper and color my own hair; who will still get on a plane to join our family holidays--well, she's fading away.
Wow.
I know I am fortunate to still have my mother. We talk on the phone a few times a week, and see each other a couple of times a year. That's more than others have. And I am grateful.
Witnessing a parent age is confusing. Part of me still sees her as the youthful woman who sewed my prom dresses and crocheted an entire bedspread for me, just because I liked the pattern. Another part of me knows that she is getting older, and understands the natural and inevitable decline. And yet another part of me acknowledges that because she is 86--well, then: I, too, am no longer young.
Just last week, I asked my daughter about her flight plans to come pick up Saedy and Payton after their visit with me. She informed me that she had already told me several times. I swear, she did not. Did. Not. I'm busy, I told her. My brain is full--I can't remember everything.
To myself: Yikes! Is this how it starts??
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