This morning the oldest man in our home tried to ban his wife from taking her first walk out here in Saratoga. “I warn you. Dogs are going to bite you. Don’t regret it!” Mo’s dad said.
“No, no, you must walk,” I told Mo’s mom, opening our front door. “You are so lucky to have such lovely weather here. Besides, it’s good for your legs.”
The octagenarian came up with new excuses for his wife.
“How will you know your way back?” he said.
“She doesn’t need to know no way back,” I said. “She’s going to go down this road. And back again. That’s all.” Meanwhile, my mother-in-law checked the door number and repeated it a few times under her breath.
Mo’s dad warned of other dubious things. “And then there might be that plant. You know, that plant that we have back in Vellore. You know, the plant that’ll cause you to forget your way back.”
Now that was a fascinating one. I turned to him. “Really? There’s such a plant?”
“Of course, there’s such a plant.”
“A plant that makes you lose your way? Wow.”
The truth is my mother-in-law’s brain is more leading edge than Garmin Edge. She’ll zip back to Saratoga even if her trail led her into Santa Cruz.
“Yes, a plant that makes you forget your way back,” my father-in-law said. “It intoxicates you so much you’ll never ever return from your walk.”