“Your mother was a tough-as-nails cowgirl,” a longtime neighbor said.
“She was a tough old bird,” her physician said.
“Your mother could have run General Motors,” my aunt said.
Before she passed away at the age of 91 in a nursing home, she had a sort-of-boyfriend, Rex. When I’d come to her room and Rex would be visiting, he’d look at me and say with a devilish grin, “He needs help with his hearing.” Rex was talking about my mother.
This nettled me. “Why do you call my mother a “he?” I asked.
“He wears men’s clothes.” Ray pointed at Mom’s denim jacket and Levi jeans. I looked at her. She was still beautiful, with good bone structure, lovely green eyes, and white hair. And she looked good in jeans. That’s why she wore them.
I said to Rex. “Men don’t usually wear makeup, earrings and necklaces and get their hair done at the beauty shop.”
“But he’s a he.”
If my mother was a “he,” then what am I? She was the competitive horsewoman, political cause fighter. (She helped save the mesa behind her home from becoming a gravel pit.) In later years, she invested masterfully in stocks and understood them many times better than the pros. With stacks of Value Line next to her, she said, “Energy is limited — invest in it, Mary. And make sure the owners own some of their own stock.”
When she was 85, and still living in her own home, my mother called me one day and said in a soft voice, “Mary, how would you like to go to Antarctica?”
I paused. She seemed vulnerable, not the same strong woman she used to be. She frequently had mini-strokes and was hard-of-hearing. But I had to admire her courage.
“Antarctica? Are you serious, Mom?” I asked, knowing traveling with her would be incredibly challenging.
“Yes, I’m serious.”
When we were packing our rubber boots and snow pants, I had “Why the heck did I agree to this?” thoughts. But I’m glad I didn’t chicken out.
After 17 hours of flying on two planes, we landed in Ushaia, the small city on the southernmost tip of Argentina. From there we boarded a Russian icebreaker ship.
When we crossed the Drake Passage where the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans clash together, our ship rocked hard for 24 hours. Many passengers wore seasickness patches on their necks and Mom stayed in bed all day. She said, “Mary, if I die on this ship throw my body overboard. But first take out my gold teeth!”
“Oh shucks,” I said. “I forgot my pliers!” But inside I was considering how tough my mother was. Maybe that’s the way to be in old age because you have more adventures. But she was reluctant to get in an inflatable Zodiac to see the penguins.
“We got all the way down here to Antarctica, Mom. The penguins are the reward,” I said. Wrapped in a red parka, Mom and I rode in a Zodiac out to see the penguins, a once in a lifetime experience for both of us.
Luckily Mom survived the cruise, and I didn’t have to pull out her gold teeth, but adventures continued. On the way home we dined at an elegant hotel in Buenos Aires, and she ordered filet of sole. She ate half of it and took the rest to the room in a doggy bag. The next night we were back in the same restaurant and after the waiter took my order, Mom pulled the doggy bag out of her purse, and said to the waiter, “Heat this up please.”
Embarrassed, I slid halfway under the table.
The waiter didn’t bat an eye as he graciously took her doggy bag to the kitchen. Mom tipped him extra well.
When we got home to Colorado Mom said, “That was the greatest trip I ever took. I loved every minute of it.” My mother was one of a kind — and a heck of a lot of fun.
And if she was a “he,” then maybe a “he” is the thing to be.