These days it takes a shoehorn to get my
mother out of her apartment. At eighty-nine, she’s becoming a recluse. Mrs.
Chatterbox and I constantly invite her to spend time with us. Mrs. C. tries to
coax her by offering to prepare her favorite dishes, and I offer to pick her up
at her front door, drive her to our place, hold her arm firmly while escorting
her up the six steps to our front door and set her favorite mixed drink in her
hand before feeding and returning her home. But nothing ever goes as planned. Read about it (here).
