Some days are filled with surprises.
Even if there is only one surprise. But a big surprise.
I drove down to Manzanillo today in hopes of finding my debit card in the mail. It was not there. Perhaps in another ten days or so.
But I did get thirteen magazines to add to my reading list. That should about bring me current with past editions.
I know that I am beginning to feel more comfortable with what Melaque offers as life support. When I first discovered Manzanillo's big box stores, I would go to Wal-Mart, Comercial, and Soriano's on each trip.
This trip? Nada. I am finding what I need in my local village.
That was not my surprise.
I did not get it until I got home.
In my Outlook inbox was a MagicJack message -- with no return telephone number.
Odd, that, I thought.
I hit the play button, and on came a chirpy young voice:
Disoriented would be the word.
Now, my name is Steve. The message was to my telephone number. And I have a Mom.
But my Mom should be at her desk in her real estate office, not returning to her room in a nursing home.
I called my brother to see if he was divvying up the loot before he notified me.
He was as shocked as I was. He had heard nothing.
Only one course left: call Mom's mobile number.
S: Hi, Mom.
M: Well, hi. It's good to hear from you. [At least, nothing like, "Glad you got my message."]
S: Um. Where are you right now? ["Who is president" would not have been very subtle.]
M: At my desk in the Clackamas office.
Relief. I felt relief.
I told her the story, and we had a good laugh. I called my brother, and we both had the same good laugh.
And, then, it occurred to me, would Mom have necessarily known where she was? Maybe I should have asked to speak to one of her colleagues.
These are the questions we start dealing with when we become a certain age.
My brother and I are probably blessed that our Mom has the Scottish genes of the Queen Mother. She will probably outlive us all.
And that would not be a surprise.
Even if there is only one surprise. But a big surprise.
I drove down to Manzanillo today in hopes of finding my debit card in the mail. It was not there. Perhaps in another ten days or so.
But I did get thirteen magazines to add to my reading list. That should about bring me current with past editions.
I know that I am beginning to feel more comfortable with what Melaque offers as life support. When I first discovered Manzanillo's big box stores, I would go to Wal-Mart, Comercial, and Soriano's on each trip.
This trip? Nada. I am finding what I need in my local village.
That was not my surprise.
I did not get it until I got home.
In my Outlook inbox was a MagicJack message -- with no return telephone number.
Odd, that, I thought.
I hit the play button, and on came a chirpy young voice:
Hello, Steve. This is Allison. I'm calling from [garbled] Nursing Home. Your Mom wanted me to call and just let you know she is back in her room, and she's available for the call. All right. Thank you.
Disoriented would be the word.
Now, my name is Steve. The message was to my telephone number. And I have a Mom.
But my Mom should be at her desk in her real estate office, not returning to her room in a nursing home.
I called my brother to see if he was divvying up the loot before he notified me.
He was as shocked as I was. He had heard nothing.
Only one course left: call Mom's mobile number.
S: Hi, Mom.
M: Well, hi. It's good to hear from you. [At least, nothing like, "Glad you got my message."]
S: Um. Where are you right now? ["Who is president" would not have been very subtle.]
M: At my desk in the Clackamas office.
Relief. I felt relief.
I told her the story, and we had a good laugh. I called my brother, and we both had the same good laugh.
And, then, it occurred to me, would Mom have necessarily known where she was? Maybe I should have asked to speak to one of her colleagues.
These are the questions we start dealing with when we become a certain age.
My brother and I are probably blessed that our Mom has the Scottish genes of the Queen Mother. She will probably outlive us all.
And that would not be a surprise.
