Mom, Dad, and I—along with anyone I can manage to bring along—spend a great deal of time in the Grand Forest. Grand Forest West, to be specific. I have no idea what happens over in Grand Forest East, but we’re having none of it.
Grand Forest West is our happy place. It’s close to where Mom and Dad live and is, as advertised, grand. Giant evergreens. Eye-level ferns. Wildflowers. The works.
We practice strength and balance as we move along the well-groomed trails—hills, rocks, tree roots. It’s where Mom prunes the forest (lightly, unofficially) or gathers greenery for a makeshift bouquet. It’s where Dad stops to marvel—at the trees, their height, their almost-up-to-the-sky straightness. It’s where we make up stories about the ones that bend, choosing, for reasons of their own, to grow off in another direction.
And lately, it’s where I’ve been trying to get Dad to use walking poles.
I point out that his strapping grandson, Collin, swears by them. I casually mention that the last time we talked to his cousin Sherman—same age, 92—he said, “I’m doing great. Except that when I stand in one place, I fall over, so I use a cane.”
I take one pole to model. Dad takes the other—for a while. Not before offering it to Mom, of course. Never missing an opportunity to share what he has.
So I give mine to Mom instead (Dad is, after all, the intended target), and before long he’s twirling his pole like a baton, or using it to inspect a mushroom on a tree trunk.
Meanwhile, Mom—decidedly not the intended target—is out ahead, calling back over her shoulder:
She likes the walking pole. Matter of fact. It’s helpful. It makes her feel more stable.
…win?
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