One ornery mother. (notes).(Brief Article)

When I last worked in Colorado, Sunday mornings I'd drive up from Boulder to the old folks home where my mother lives to take her out for breakfast. I'd come flying into the parking lot, only to hit the brakes with a guilty foot when I'd see four or five grandmotherly faces peeping out the lobby door, looking as sweet as angels at the Pearly Gates. Then my 78-year-old mom would come strolling out in a big, red, floppy hat, tap-tapping her mahogany cane with the imitation-gold lion's head knob. "Damn wind," she'd mutter. No matter that her feet were swollen or a rib was broken from a fall--she'd never let me help her into the car. It was essential that "those old babes" inside witness her independence.

The restaurant staff knew we'd arrived when Ben, the head waiter, popped a champagne cork. A soft-spoken man in his 40s, Ben was beyond solicitous when it came to serving my mother. He'd deliver to "Mom"--that's what he called her--the first of two mimosas so fast she'd barely have time to wipe the water spots off the silverware with her napkin. Ben ...