As I’ve shared before around Mother’s Day, my mother was sickly most of my early life. She was in and out of hospitals so much that I felt short-changed. I didn’t have the kind of mom that was a confidante or friend; most often I was trying to do her work in the home and having to be grown up before my time.
However, I do have one shining happy memory of doing something with Mom. I had my first paid vacation coming to me from SaskTel, after my first full year working as a telephone operator.
I said, “Mom, I’m going to B.C. You want to come with?”
Didn’t take her but a moment to make up her mind. She and Dad had moved there on their honeymoon, but had come because the fog gave her asthma. Her doctor had told them that if she wanted to have this first baby (me) they had better get back to the drier prairies where they came from.
Mom had been back there on a couple of short visits by train, but I had never been there - except in utero.
We had a great time. I felt so cosmopolitan as I found us an overnight cabin in Canmore for five dollars. It was just a few miles shy of the famous Banff Park where naturally everything would be expensive.
I’d been afraid that she’d be a back-seat driver and make me tense or nervous because she always scolded and guided Dad whenever he drove. However, she only gasped once when one tire hit some gravel unexpectedly. Otherwise, Mom seemed to trust my driving totally.
It was September and the trees were a brilliant gold as we wound up and down and around the mountain ranges. I kept remarking that the roads were not nearly as dangerous as I’d always heard. “Where is that scary Roger’s Pass anyway? Was it at that low sign a few miles back?” Huh? That wasn’t scary.
Dad’s folks had retired to Clearbrook, and we arrived there in the afternoon. From there we visited around and seemed to stay in a different relative’s home every night. We were taken to see all kinds of rose gardens and parks.
Some younger girl cousins and I went to Vancouver Island by ferry one day and explored Victoria, the ocean beaches, and Butchart Gardens. What a day!
I’d never seen Mom so happy and healthy. She was sure enjoying everything too.
On the way back Mom wanted to load up on some fruit from the Okanagan Valley, known for the quantities of fruit it exports. So we made a few stops. Mom bought a couple of boxes of peaches and some grapes, apricots, and a basket of yellow plums. I shrugged. Not a fruit I recognized, but Mom assured me they would taste very good. I just knew that once we got home, we’d be in preserving mode for a few days.
Since I was doing all the driving, I had to know when I needed a break. There was a large viewing-parking area looking over the Shuswap Lakes when I found it hard to keep my eyes open. I pulled over and napped, a pillow tucked between my head and the window.
A little more than an hour later I woke and discovered that Mom had not napped at all. Instead she held up an empty basket and confessed sheepishly, “I ate all the plums.”
Wow! That wasn’t like Mom. Usually she wanted to preserve every precious fruit for the family.
“Did they taste good?” I asked, studying her face.
She licked her lips. “Umm, yes. very!” and she put the empty basket behind us.
“Okay,” I said, “then nothing else matters. We’re here to enjoy our vacation, right to the last plum.”
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