Ode to my mother

Cape Town
October 25, 2008

I have a mother I wish everyone could have: kind, talented, compassionate, artistic, protective of her family in every way. She's not, however, someone who could stomach buying the ticket to Africa. Although her Sunday School friends tried to persuade her and my father to come visit me during my sabbatical year, they failed. I'm sure my stories about the black mambas and the lions roaring outside my tent -- oh, and the biggest spiders I've ever seen in my life -- didn't help move Glenda's high heels from their position locked in cement. No way. No how. Africa did not flip her trigger. I think her fondest international travel memories remain those from the Swiss Alps.

So today I have a blog entry in honor of my mother, lover of flowers, interior design and her garden club friends. Kelly and I didn't shop every minute of our time in Cape Town, South Africa. We went to the Kirstenbosch Gardens, a world famous spot tucked into the Table Mountain landscape and a draw for every British matriarch in this hemisphere. "Dah-link, would you go and fetch the car?" said one regal 75-ish-year-old to her very proper British husband. (All of England of a certain age must turn up at the gardens. Kelly and I looked positively schoolgirlish on the paths through the flowers) We also drove to the end of the continent, to Cape Point, and along the way we saw African penguins and landscapes that would entice my mother. So, Mom, this is for you, to assure you that Africa has treasures for everyone and to let you know I was thinking of you in the floral splendor of Cape Town. Miss you.