I was so excited to coax my mother out to enjoy an evening of dining alongside the historic Erie Canal. Thus far, Vee DeLong has not been impressed to be living along this transformative waterway that played such a pivotal role in the economic status of New York. I theorized that her opinion was low because the water was low. But now it was Spring! The canal was filled and, so too, were my hopes for a rise in her review. "Well," she remarked skeptically, rising up on her tip-toes to peer over the concrete barrier, "at least now it's not filled with just garbage." She wrinkled her nose. "It's still pretty green."
I sighed, my hopes once again deflated. I glanced around for my fellow history buff and emotional support buddy to take a shot but Sydney was nowhere to be found. I had dropped her off at the busy restaurant to secure a table and then I walked the short block back with Mom. Sydney then dashed back to the car to retrieve a forgotten item. As usual, I had neglected to take note of street signs but I provided a detailed description of our parking spot near a sketchy barber shop with skull decals decorating the business, alongside a ripped up sidewalk, turning by a store with adorable animal pillows in the display window. One was a fox. Easy-peasy. But, boy, she's been gone a long time and Mom was starting to make a game of counting all the trash floating down the canal. Her point system was impressive and I prayed that any bodies would remain beneath the surface because I wouldn't want to throw her scoring system off.
Sydney, sounding a bit breathless, called to clarify my excellent instructions. I repeated them and then added helpfully that I believed that there might have been a taxidermied armadillo in the barber shop window. Sydney hung up without a word. I think it might have been a bad connection.
Meanwhile, I was busy trying to wrestle my five-foot-tall mother into a chair where she could have the best view of the canal and bridge but she was not to be thwarted from taking the worst possible seat. My attempts to break the lifelong habits of a woman who has always put herself last have been frustratingly maddening. Add to that, the fact that she has rarely left her house in the past decade aside from rare trips to the store and the doctor, and you might get a taste of what I'm dealing with.
Ah! There's Sydney! Tired and exasperated. "What's the matter?" I asked her. "Couldn't you find the car?" Impossible to comprehend given the excellent directions I'd provided. Suddenly, my daughter shot up out of her seat. "We took the car!" she exclaimed, rushing off. "I thought it was the truck! Ignore anything that Dad might say to you if he calls," she shouted as she ran off, "I may have been complaining about you a little."
I attempted to distract Mom from the litter limbo-ing down the water lane. "Look, Mom! There's a nest of baby birds above us!" "I can hear them," my mother answered, "They're awfully loud." The busy waitress arrived, breathless, neglecting to notice my mother sitting ramrod straight in her chair like a soldier on guard, refusing to touch the sticky table. Hot tea was not available so my mother gamely switched to cold. "Unsweetened's okay, right?" our waitress asked, not watching my mother's crestfallen face. I ordered Syd's drink and an Old Fashioned. Whiskey. I needed whiskey.
Sydney finally made it back, reading the table expertly. She gamely tried to extricate Grandma from her chair with the bad view and failed. Took one for the team when Mama Bird decided to unload her troubles on us. Attempted to wrestle my mostly whiskey-infused drink from me to keep me coherent when I had no desire, at the moment, to be even remotely lucid. AND somehow talked my mother into trying duck wontons. A bite. Followed by an unintentional but alarmingly racist remark that had Sydney and I secretly scribbling out apology notes to the surrounding patrons.
"Why?!?!" Brad would lament later. "Why would you do this to your poor mother? You know she likes Denny's!"
My mom's grilled cheese arrived and we gamely tackled our canal-side meals without utensils while trying to not touch the sticky table. Digging into her pocket, Mom pulled thick, lush napkins out, flourishing them like a magician and we cheered.
Having tortured my mother enough, it was time to go. As we stood, we noticed a flutter over the water and several scavenging ducks decided to see if we wanted to add anything else to the bill (See what I did there?!?!).
I am not content with my mother being content. She would have been content with soup from a can in her apartment but I wanted to take her out. I foist all these things onto my mother, imagining that I am making her life more enriched and enjoyable when, in fact, she is just putting up with my antics. But the ducks? That was another matter altogether. My mother smiled. She happily tossed crumbs to our feathered friends. She admired their beautiful, glossy feathers and ignored the trash that floated by.
We started our slow walk back to the car when Syd, knowing my fondness of squirrels, paused to point one out to us. We glanced at the little guy and then froze, astonished. "Is he holding...?" Sydney stammered. I squinted, "It can't be..." My mother shook her head, "No one is going to believe us." But it was true. There. In front of us. Gripped securely in his chubby little paw was a Buffalo chicken wing. He was arguably the fattest squirrel in the world...and also the happiest. We watched him for a long time. "It's not just that he's eating a chicken wing," Sydney said in wonder as we easily used my helpful directions to relocate the car, "It's that he was eating it correctly."
My mother was laughing as our evening concluded. It was not the idyllic time that I'd envisioned. I want my mother to be surrounded by lovely things; ensconced in comfort and color and culinary delights. Instead, I planted her next to a dirty ditch and expected her to be enchanted. But she was laughing. For a few minutes, my mother could step away from the grief, trauma, and uncertainty that has been her life and laugh. That's a win for the Erie Canal. And Amy Mosiman.
"You know, Sydney was really trash-talking your direction-giving abilities," my husband told me when I got home. I sighed. "Don't even get me started talking about trash," I muttered. "Did you guys have fun?" he asked. Sydney shot him a thumbs up. "Just ducky."
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