Grown Son Declares Aging Mother "Senior Delinquent!"

Are age and wisdom inexplicably entwined? I’m finding, having been born in the first half of the last century, that wisdom, in and of itself, is a matter of attitude on the part of both the Older and the Younger. Advancing age, on the other hand, is inevitable barring accident or serious illness and must be dealt with on a day-to-day basis.

My son, and only child, is convinced I’ve got a death wish and intentionally courting my ultimate demise. I find that rather amazing as he’s obviously known me all my life and should, by now, recognize both my long and short comings. I readily admit to having little patience, am independent to a fault, and have more than my share of attitude. My son, and other members of the Younger, seem to think these attributes, be they good, bad or indifferent are supposed to cease and desist, or at least noticeably change, somewhere around the mid-century mark in one’s life.

I’m not really sure if my son is concerned for my welfare or I’ve just become a constant source of embarrassment to him -- which he chooses to attribute to my age. I understand how he could feel that way as I’ve managed to get myself in some situations that defy explanation if viewed solely on an age-appropriate basis. Last week was a good example. I decided to do some yard work and while in the process realized umpteen pounds of leaves had collected in the eves of my roof.

I got my trusty ladder, climbed right on up there and it wasn’t long before the roof was again devoid of leaves and limbs. When I decided to climb back down I found it was also devoid of my ladder. How the ladder managed to be laying on the ground is beyond me but it was. I had my cell phone in my pocket and called my daughter-in-law to send my son to rescue me. Seems he was helping remodel a house and wasn’t home but she’d call him and relay the message. He and a friend arrived about 20 minutes later and extricated me from the roof.

I thought the whole thing was funny; my son was not amused. After a brief lecture, on the pitfalls of old people climbing up on anything at any time, he and his friend left. I had dinner that evening with him and his wife and discovered why the whole event had put such a burr under his saddle blanket. Rusty didn’t have his cell phone with him so my daughter-in law called his boss to relay my "help me" message. The boss, in a true stroke of genius, announced to everyone within earshot, "Rusty, your mama is up on the roof of her house and can’t get down." Seems Rusty envisioned me hanging by one frail, old arm from the roof guttering.

His attitude is probably due to my history of lack lustre decision making. Before moving into this house I lived right in the middle of a 600-acre ranch in a one room and bath steel building which belonged to a friend. The place was originally constructed as the main office of a turkey-raising business but had morphed into a deer hunters’ camp by the time I arrived on the scene. At that time I had a young stallion, a new gray mare, two dogs, two cats and a pet chicken named Mary Margaret. Even in Texas it’s difficult to find lodgings for one old lady and a menagerie of that magnitude.

The place had been uninhabited for years but had good cement floors with a drain in the middle. The first order of business was to clean it. I worked all morning clearing the weeds and brush around the front porch just to get in the door. That afternoon I got out my trusty garden hose and began spraying down the walls and floors. The cobwebs, spiders and various and sundry other unknowns were rapidly disappearing and the place was beginning to shape up. I was barefooted and standing in probably five inches of water when I washed a rattlesnake out of an unknown hiding place.

I don’t know which of us was more surprised when the snake, floating on top of the water, glided across my bare feet but I was definitely the one that retreated the fastest. Rattlesnakes in Texas are in no way rare and from infancy, those of us that live in rural areas, are more than cognizant of their constant presence. My first thought was a weapon. Letting a rattlesnake get away in Texas is close to a mortal sin so letting the snake live never crossed my mind. A pretty good battle ensued and I was carrying the dead snake out to hang him on the fence when my son drove up.

In Texas we’re not blasé about snakes but as they’re not unusual most Texans just consider them one of Mother Nature’s evils and go on. My son was no exception. "Where’d you get the snake?" I was totally exhausted after my battle and the way he worded his question just hit me all wrong. "I ordered him special from Snakes-R-Us," I replied. I think my snotty answer threw Rusty off base but not for long. "How’d you kill him?" I decided the truth was best, "I killed him with the weed eater." That answer drew total silence as he mulled over the probability of my statement. "How in the hell did you kill a snake that big with a weed eater?" he asked while eyeing the lightweight weed eater now propped up against the porch. "I beat him to death with it," I replied at which point the expected lecture began and went on for at least 10 minutes.

Seems Rusty chose to share the snake-death-by-weed-eater with a friend or two and I soon became famous -–or infamous – in our little town as an old lady not to be reckoned with. Therefore, the next little incident that befell me is, without doubt, Rusty’s fault for being so mouthy. I was riding the gray mare I’d bought at auction a couple of weeks before when she went nuts. We were right in the middle of a huge prickly pear cactus patch and I managed to rodeo pretty good until we got to a clearing and deliberately bailed off.

I caught the mare and walked a half-mile home believing I’d pulled a groin muscle and absolutely sure I’d broken my left pinky finger which had been numb enough to pull back into place. The next morning, after a miserable night, I called Rusty, who called an ambulance, and by the time we left the ER I had a nice pair of crutches. Seems I’d broken my pelvis in two places. It was a most unforgettable 65^th birthday present!

The broken pelvis was obviously painful but the crutches were excruciating. Having been told to "walk" as much as possible as soon as possible, I gritted my teeth and established a daily regimen of walking to the top of the hill and back every morning after I got all the critters fed. Rusty came each evening to check on me but other than that the only humans I saw was a county work crew building a pipeline which would run just inside the front gate of the property. We waved at each other every morning but were a good distance apart so we never conversed.

On my daily walk, which I considered akin to a death march, I never failed to see at least one rattlesnake. Believing prudence to be the better part of valor I began wearing my old gun belt containing a long-nosed .38 named "Ugly." Ugly and I made a definite dent in the rattlesnake population thereafter but although Rusty knew I wore the gun and why; I didn’t share my dead rattlesnake score with him.

I was in the front yard one evening when I noticed the pipeline crew had left a long, high, pile of dirt stacked just inside the main front gate to the property which prohibited entering or exiting except on foot. The next morning, before starting my walk, I headed toward the front gate and the pipeline crew. I was swinging along on my crutches, waving and shouting "Good morning," as I approached. They waved back, but did not verbally return my greeting and to my surprise began gravitating toward the parked D-9 dozer they’d used to pile up the dirt.

By the time I was within 50 yards of them there wasn’t a worker in sight as they were all behind the dozer. I "hello-ed" again and an unseen voice asked what I wanted. I explained about the piled dirt problem to the unseen speaker and eventually the foreman appeared. He assured me he’d take care of the problem and I left. When I looked back everyone was out from behind the dozer and once more, at work.

When Rusty came that evening to bring my groceries I told him about what I considered, the strange reaction of the pipeline crew to my visit that morning. When he finally got past hysterical laughter, his reasoning made great good sense.

"Mama, if I was on that crew and I watched a 65-year-old woman, swinging along on crutches, with a long-nosed 38 strapped down to her leg coming at me I’d have gotten behind that dozer, too!" That had never even crossed my mind. We both laughed and then I had to put up with another lecture on my dastardly habits, lack of forethought, unorthodox life style and not paying proper homage to my old age. Realizing Rusty’s concern was love based and not intentionally unkind I made a rather left-handed apology; knowing full well, in all probability not much was going to change. After he left I went in the house and proceeded to clean out an old trunk containing years of memories.

My throwing knives were the first thing I saw; laying right on top of everything else in the trunk. They were the most beautiful, well balanced knives I’d ever owned (not to mention expensive) and it had been years since I’d even thought about them. I slipped both scabbards on my belt, hobbled out to the side yard on my handy crutches and practiced throwing at a bale of hay. Although I was still pretty good the knives hadn’t had maintenance for years and the points were dull. It was nearly dark when I quit and went back in the house to call Rusty.

"Hi, Son – I need a favor. Do you know a good knife man? I got my throwing knives out this evening and the points are dull and…"

Without uttering a word; he hung up on me!