What an Ambitious Three-Dollar Daughter Does On a Day Off

In case any of you have been wondering about how my mom and her holey gray sweatpants are getting along in this slaw-forsaken frozen landscape...I'm here to fill you in. Just one more service Val offers her future proposed-handbasket-factory customers.

Mom has not left her house since last Wednesday, when the forecast called for 4-6 inches of sleet and snow. After the 10+ inches covered her homestead, she has remained indoors, except for venturing to her roadside mailbox yesterday, with the aid of crampons and an ice axe. Okay. So it was a set of strap-on YakTrax shoe cleat springy things, and a yellow-handled angled kitchen broom. She makes do. She's a regular MacGyver, my mom.

Today I had to go to Walmart without my trusty helper, in order to pick up a few Christmas items, and I called Mom to see if she wanted to ride along, or if I could bring her anything. We've been dropping off chili and pulled pork and shower cake and slaw and honey-roasted nuts and Diet Coke, and yesterday Mom received a package of fruity goodness from Harry and David, or Larry and David, or somebody else and David, the mail-order folks. All the major food groups have been accounted for, unless you want to count vegetables and grains. But here's what Mom said she needed, in case tomorrow's storm traps her for another week: Little Debbie Swiss Rolls, and ripe bananas. I added them to my list. On the way to town, I had a horrible thought. What if Mom was running low on slaw? I called her from the parking lot, just in case.

"Oh! I never even thought about the slaw! Yes. Get me some more slaw while you're there." See? For those of you who believe in using foreshadowing while crafting your stories...perhaps Val is about to rise above Three-Dollar Daughterdom. I told Mom I would call her when I came out, and run by her house. Perhaps she might like to join me for a ride to the bank to put money in Genius's account so he can make it home from college.

In the checkout line, my phone rang. "Are you all right? I was getting worried. I thought you'd be done by now. I was afraid you might have fallen on the ice and hit your head."

"No, Mom. I'm fine. I'm checking out. Then I'll be there."

"Oh. I didn't mean to bother you. I was just worried."

That little call threw a monkey wrench into my plan to secretly drive through Burger King and get Mom those one-dollar pork sandwiches she forgot last week. At least I had the surprise of mini-cupcakes with buttercream icing. Mom loves buttercream icing. Just like my best old ex-teaching buddy, Mabel.

When I pulled into her driveway (only allowed because the ex-mayor went down it without permission, and made a couple of icy compacted ruts a few days ago) Mom came out with her arctic gear. Coat, scarf, sunglasses, crampons, and that ice-axe broom. I had suggested the broom several days ago, in case she wanted to walk to her mailbox through the yard. I thought it could act as a walking stick. You know, upside down, with the handle stabbing down into the snow. Of course Mom was holding the handle, pushing the angled synthetic straws into the snow. I called her on it. "Well, I just feel like I get better traction with that end."

Mom was worried that her snowy crampons would wreck T-Hoe's floor. Um. No. T-Hoe does not go about naked. He is outfitted with proper floor mats. Then Mom worried that she has not had a bath lately, because she wasn't going anywhere (who is she now, Beaver Cleaver?), and that her odor might be offensive. "Mom! I teach freshmen. I think I can handle it." We took off for the bank. Mom shielded her sunglassed eyes. She was like a mole just emerged from the tunnels in her yard.

After the bank, I drove her by to see the middle finger. "Oh, no! Somebody put that in the yard? That is terrible." She laughed a little too much. She must have thought I was pulling her non-gray-holey-sweatpantsed leg. When we arrived at the intersection, that big bird had flown. Or else it was blocked by a car on the street, and a truck in the driveway. I looked right at where it had been, but it was not in evidence. Mom was disappointed.

"Well, we're already halfway to Burger King. I'm going to take you to get what was supposed to be your surprise: three pork sandwiches."

"Oh! You don't have to do that. I finally figured out how to open those little containers of BBQ sauce your sister brought with the pulled pork. I can have that."

"We could get you a Diet Coke..."

"Oh. A Diet Coke? Where were you going to get that?"

"Burger King, I thought. But I know how you like McDonald's Diet Coke, so we can go across the street and get your soda there."

"That's too much trouble. You are SO good to me. I don't want to take up all your time. We could just go to McDonald's, and I can get three of those grilled onion cheddar burgers along with my Diet Coke. If it's not too much trouble."

"Nope. That's where we'll go." I figured she can freeze two burgers as easily as two pork sandwiches. Though I don't see the attraction in reheated fast food myself. She held that bag on her lap the rest of the way home. I hope she's one of those weathered, apple-headed, pipe-smoking, yogurt-eating 115-year-olds one of these days, attributing her longevity to grilled onion cheddar burgers and Little Debbie cakes. AND SLAW!

It takes so little to make Mom happy. I obviously take after my dad. And for the record, Mom gave me $15 for her purchases, and said to keep what was left over. My status is climbing.