By Faith Ellestad

Mom called.

“Hello, Faith?”

“Hi, Mom, it’s me. What’s up?”

“Well, your brother called.  Carina is graduating from law school and I am invited to the party.”

“Gee, that sounds like fun,” I suggested, knowing there was more to come.

“Oh, I suppose they thought they had to invite me because I’m her only remaining grandparent.”

“I bet they actually want you there because who wouldn’t want their Grandma at their graduation party?” I responded, aware that her life-long social anxiety often took the form of dour self-deprecation.

“Maybe,” she said grudgingly.  “But I will need an outfit.  I don’t have anything suitable to wear.  I never go anywhere, you know.”

The unspoken ramifications of this conversation were not subtle. 1. My husband and I would also be attending the festivity because Mom was a frail ninety-year-old and couldn’t get there without help. 2. There was an unmistakable implication of guilt implicit in her tone. 3. I, too, would need a new outfit, and 4. God help me, we would be shopping together.

“How about if we plan to go to the Boston Store and find you something to wear?’ I asked in what I hoped was an encouraging and cheerful tone.

“I guess we could do that,” she said, sounding more upbeat than earlier.

We made a plan to go that Sunday, and I could tell she was looking forward to our mother-daughter trip far more than I. Mom was a super-bright and very independent woman who rarely kept her opinions to herself. With the progression of time, her inhibitor cells, if she ever actually had any, had pretty much disappeared. Her outspokenness could be challenging to deal with for people with actual self-esteem who preferred to avoid public humiliation, but lacking that defense, I just employed more of a duck-and-cover strategy when we were out together.

To make this shopping trip successful for her and less stressful for me, since our ideas of fashion were diametrically opposed, I had formulated a crafty plan. I would pretend we were both looking for outfits, but we would really just find things she liked and I would go alone another day. Mom was in high spirits as we set out. I was cautiously optimistic at best, having been down this aisle many times before.

I knew it was going be a tough slog as soon as we got into the Petites section.  Mom steered her walker over to a rack, reached out for a soft pastel print blouse, felt it with two fingers, and proclaimed to anyone within hearing range, “Don’t you just hate those colors?” 

Of course it was just the type of thing I liked, so I muttered quietly,

“Oh, I don’t think they’re so bad,” realizing I would certainly not show up at the event wearing anything remotely resembling that blouse. 

Mom’s fashion dictates at the time included bright solids, stripes, and plaids, but not pastels, paisleys, or prints, especially, what she described as “washy prints.” Well, that narrowed the scope of clothing choices, and her age lowered her endurance, so our default destination became, of necessity, Moderate Sportswear.  I darted around like a guppy in a fish bowl, grabbing anything that looked remotely promising.   From the comfort of a bench in the fitting room, Mom held forth, loudly rejecting various elastic-waist pants, as “old lady clothes,” ditto several shirts as having “slingey” material. Finally, we settled on a crisp cotton blouse striped in cheerful spring colors and a pair of cream slacks that could be worn by ladies of all ages. While Mom rested in a chair, I pretended to try on a skirt, rejected it, and suggested we check out.

As we approached the check-out station, several customers already in line were treated to Mom’s acerbic dissertation on the evils of credit cards, the annoying machines that took them, modern technology in general, and the irritation of having to use coupons when the stores could JUST CHARGE LESS in the first place.

“Time to start back,” I said, probably a bit too eagerly. “We don’t want to fight rush hour traffic.”

“No, but I want to go past the shoe section first.  I might get a pair of Keds if they’re having a reasonable sale,” she declared.

I assumed “reasonable” meant “nearly free” to Mom who was nothing if not frugal, but I was determined to let her set the agenda. She seemed to have more energy than I, by this time.        

 “OK,” I agreed, steering her in that direction.

 After another brief chair rest in the footwear department, which had become quite busy, she decided she didn’t really need more Keds, and we might as well leave.  But she wasn’t done with me yet.

We were about to exit the department, when she stopped to watch a stylish young woman admiring a very pretty pair of steeply wedged silver sandals with ankle straps. Immediately after the woman set them down, Mom trundled over and grabbed one. Quickly completing her examination, she turned to me, and in her most ringing stage voice, proclaimed for all to hear,

“Oh, look.  Slut shoes!” 

Unfortunately, I had forgotten my cloak of invisibility. With no quick escape possible, I just lowered my head and avoiding all eye contact, hustled her out as quickly as she could shuffle.

Mom had goals. She told me on numerous occasions that she didn’t want to be a “sweet old lady,” she wanted to be a “great old gal.”  It took her 98 years, but she reached them both.  Me, I have no goals.  I’m still recovering from hers.

© 2024 Faith Ellestad

Faith has been writing to amuse her family since she was old enough to print letters to her grandparents. Now retired, she has the opportunity to share some personal stories, and in the process, discover more about herself. Faith and her husband live in Madison, Wisconsin. They are the parents of two great sons and a loving daughter-in-law.