mothersThere is this urban legend going around the middle generation that mothers live forever. Fathers come and go, but mothers, well, they are always there.
Then one of them dies and a little flurry erupts. "No, it cannot be!"
"Yes it is. She died. Did you hear? Call mom. See if she's OK."
So they call her and she's more than OK. She has a luncheon date at noon, is meeting some friends for an early movie and some bozo is coming over at eight for chocolate cake.
"But what if ... ?" The daughters gather. Alpha flies in from the East Coast. Beta and Gamma live in the distant suburbs. Delta comes down from the North Woods. "What if ... ?" they ask.
They make a plan. "Mom, we gotta know all the time that you're OK. So here's what we want you to do. Every day you call one of us. Well chart out who gets the call on what day and if the call doesn't come through we'll send out the alert. You'll never be lying around looking for help." Lying around decaying is what is on their minds.
"Sounds good, kids," she says. But I'm not much of a phone person in the morning. There's not a lot to say at six in the morning." That's when she normally shakes herself loose of the bed sheets. "How about if I call as soon as I get up; give you a ring; you don't pick up; I leave a message on your answering machine that all is well, and we go on with our day. Everybody secure."
"Great," they say in unison. "We'll start tomorrow. "Call Alpha on Monday, Beta on Tuesday, Gamma on Wednesday, Delta on Thursday, then Alpha will get the Friday call and we start all over again. OK?"
"You want weekends too?" she asks.
"Yeh, weekends too."
"OK Alpha, it's you tomorrow."
"Good enough." Alpha marks her calendar for every fourth day. The others do the same with their respective days. And they all go home. Alpha back to the East Coast, Delta back to the North Woods and the rest to the far-flung suburbs.
Tomorrow comesw. She's up at six and dials her daughter's number. The phone rings a couple of times and Mr. Alpha picks it up.
"Hello?" he asks with wonderment in his voice. After all, it is onlly seven in the morning on the East Coast.
"Hey Alpha-boy, it's me. I am supposed to call in healthy and you are supposed to not answer."
It's too early in the morning for all this in Mr. Alpha's sleep-muddled mind. "Oh, I didn't know. Nobody told me. How are you?"
"How I am is not the point." And she explains the process to him in spite of the fact that she prefers not to speak until at least ten in the morning.
Tuesday and a call to Beta follows Monday. "Hello?" the sleepy voice of a six-year-0ld answers.
"Hi baby, this is grammy. Tell your mommy that I am OK."
"Huh?"
"Just tell your mommy that grammy called."
"Huh?"
Wednesday with suburban Gamma fares less better. The phone rings and rings and rings and a mechanical voice reports that the recorder is filled and unable to take a message. "I am OK," she tells herself.
Delta's phone on Thursday rings until AT&T automatically shuts off the call. She hangs up when she hears the dial tone. On Friday she keeps her luncheon date without checking in on anyone. Nobody sends out an alert.
