The quarterback

The Oak Leaf Trail

To church today with Mom. She looked good. She almost always dresses nicely, and is as thin now as she always hoped to be. It's only her baby-step gait and her scattershot memory that give her away as a person in need.

She gently called me out after the service for sleeping during the sermon -- it's the Nels Olson in me -- and made a beeline for Bob the Quarterback after the service. He was a record-setting quarterback who led Michigan to the 1964 Rose Bowl, and played a couple years for the New York Giants. He still looks like a quarterback, with a kind of calm charisma, and mom has a thing for him.

She said, today, she had to meet him.

"But you've met him several times," I said.

"I have not. I've never met him."

"Yes, you have."

"Well I want to shake his hand. I've never shaken his hand."

Bob was sitting with a man who looked vaguely like him, and she accosted him first. He was happy to hand her off to Bob. Meanwhile, I had fled to the hall, unwilling to watch yet another excruciating encounter. I never know whether I should monitor her or just let her go -- and this time I should have stood by.

Julie, coming down from the choir, said that after a brief "Hi, how are ya," there was really nothing they had to say to each other, and Mom doesn't get the social cues. They both stood awkwardly for a few seconds -- Bob no doubt wondering "How does this end?" -- until he finally made his way past her while Mom kind of fluttered in place.

I met up with her in the hall. She wanted to stop into the lounge for a snack and more conversation, which we normally do. But it would have been a half-hour, and I had reached my quota. And, of course, I wanted to get home and spend a little time on her $%#@! taxes before the day was completely exhausted. I ate a quick brunch of quiche at mom's place and departed, and Julie, thank goodness, took on the aftercare.