“The fan is running all the time” she complained. “I've set the thermostat to 55° to get the fan to shut off. Your brother brought over a space heater.” Great. My 85-year old mother is hunkered down in her dark freezing condo, huddled next to a space heater. This situation could be described as a disaster waiting to happen. I can picture my mother going out to the garage for a smoke, leaving the heater on full blast next to her lap blanket.
“Did you call the furnace guy?” I asked.
“I'm on the list, I think,” she replied. I wondered if it was finally time for me to step in and take control. Should I be calling repair people on her behalf? Should I be paying her bills? Isn't that one step away from moving in with her? I feel like a rabbit frozen in oncoming headlights. There will be no coming back from that move, I fear.
“You won't believe what else happened,” she went on.
“What?”
“I was driving on Hassalo, you know, where the road is gravel off to both sides? There was a car coming, so I moved over to the right.”
“Oh, no,” I said before I could stop myself, picturing the worst: parked car, cat, kid? Insurance bills, legal problems, jail time? I can't imagine my 85-year-old mother in prison orange. She's more of a winter.
“Some dumb homeowner didn't pull their garbage can back far enough and I hit it with my right side mirror,” she said in disgust. Then she burst into hearty laughter.
It's a good thing we were talking on the phone so she couldn't see my terrified face.
“The mirror popped out of its socket,” she said. “I went back and found it. I can get your brother to glue it back in.”
Luckily sounds like the garbage can survived. (Of course, the whole thing was the homeowner's fault.) Did we dodge a bullet? Not sure. Maybe. I'll take the gift, in honor of the season.
