Mom, Dad, I—along with anyone I can drag along—spend a great deal of time in the Grand Forest. Grand Forest West, to be specific. I have no idea what goes on 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 navigate the well‑groomed trails—hills, rocks, tree roots, all part of the deal. 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—and where we make up stories about why some of them bend, choosing, for reasons of their own, to grow off in a different direction.
And lately, it’s where I’ve been trying to get Dad used to walking poles. I point out that his strapping grandson Collin swears by them. I casually remind him that the last time we talked to his cousin Sherman, Dad’s 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 a pole to model. Dad takes the other—for a while. Not before offering it to Mom, of course. Never missing an opportunity to share his bounty.
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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