I got off the phone with my mom the other day and it hit me. “Who else could I possibly have been having a conversation with but MY parents,” I thought.
This particular chat started with my dad remarking about his latest gym episode with his new StepMill regime. It escalated into a full-blown back and forth about the potential merits of high altitude sickness and how to battle its effects. There was a brief mention of his upcoming semi-pro billiards tournament and some friends they met on a recent tour of Italy, but the talk easily could have segued to folk dancing, pathology, The Bachelor contestant colleague of his, or his favorite latest obscure Mazurka by an 18th century Kazakhstani composer.
And then my mom got on the line. After peppering me with an enviable description of their latest excursion to the local nut festival, (“The entertainment was great!”) Mom rolled on animatedly about the bluegrass musician who used to tour with the Grateful Dead who was one of the festival’s performers. Turns out my mom interviewed this guy a few years back for the local arts insert in the newspaper and this trip back she got more than her share of thanks. “He was amazing. He made a banjo out of a tin can and used a deer jaw bone in another homemade instrument!” That was the introduction to the reason this musician named Craven wound up in my parents’ living room. “He just had to see Dad’s caribou jaw!” Yes, well, but of course…
My parents are the types who are eccentric without trying. They have eclectic pastimes like folkdancing, snow goose watching, and studying obscure languages. (My dad spent every Saturday last year driving hours to and fro his Lithuanian class in the Bay Area.) They have shared their endless quirks with my sister and me and they continue, in all of their official seniordom, to always live, learn and expand their horizons. I love my parents.