It's March, and March means the Slice of Life Story Challenge. All are welcome to join the challenge of noticing and writing about the moments of daily life that are stories.
My mother arrived at my house at exactly 4:45, the time I'd said we'd leave. We were heading to West Point to spend the weekend with my brother John and his family, here on the east coast to watch one of his sons play college tennis. When the schedule came out months ago, I promised my mom I'd bring her to matches that were in driving distance. The end of March has seemed like light years away, but here we are.
It didn't take long for the ride to become nostalgic.
"This was Jack's stomping grounds," my mother said, as we wound our way along Route 44.
Dad had loved fly fishing. He'd started when my brother fell in love with the sport in fourth grade, long before the rest of the world knew much about it. The two of them attended classes and went on trips together, and my father became one of the early members of Limestone, a fishing club in the northwest corner of Connecticut.
As we drove through town, my mother pointed out the Berkshire Country Store.
"That's where he used to get his pies," Mom said.
Dad loved to bring home pies. The berry pies were tightly wrapped in saran wrap, and he'd happily cut into one on the night after a fishing day. Then, the pies mostly sat on the counter with a sliver or a bite taken for a week or so before their retirement. My youngest brother goes to the fishing club every now and then and sometimes brings home a commemorative pie, but they don't taste the same.
Later in the drive, we passed through Sharon, CT.
"Do you remember meeting Tippy here for theater?" Mom asked. Tippy was my dad's mom. "Did you ever come with us?"
If I did, I didn't remember, but Mom did, and she talked more about meeting her in-laws in Sharon, a relatively half-way spot between our house and Poughkeepsie, where they lived.
As we continued our foray along 44, Mom talked about their decision to move to Connecticut, despite his love of Dutchess County. I never knew that Dad had been offered a job in Poughkeepsie, but they'd turned it down and chosen Connecticut instead.
"He loved Dutchess County," my mother said.
I wondered if he still would. As we sat at dinner, my sister-in-law, who also grew up in upstate New York, talked about how different it was and how much struggle she'd noticed as she had driven around earlier in the day.
The five of us-- my brother, his wife, his youngest son, my mother, and I had a beautiful dinner overlooking the Hudson.
"I'm getting this," my mother said quietly, but emphatically to my brother.
Later, back at the airbnb house, my mother and I were sharing a bed. I was reading a few last slices before sleep, and when I shut down the computer, I thanked her for dinner.
"My pleasure," she said. "That's what Dad used to say."
My pleasure.
