The Buttery

I took my Mom out for lunch today. I watched her marvel at the hub bub and pace at The Buttery and I can’t help but reflect on the world now and the world she grew up in. She once rode 2 miles to town on a cardboard box, like a skim board being pulled by two draft horses on a set of reins. She was a daredevil.

And here she sat, almost terrified at the pace, but fascinated at the women with tats, the amount of people who “still wear jeans”,  the dreadlocks, the lawyers all power suited up, the tourists. She loves seeing the young babies and toddlers, and talks to them all.

But how  do I answer her questions about  the modern world? I don’t even understand society anymore. How does a person baked in the depression understand the entitled, abundant world of now?

Her vision is failing, her hearing is minimal, her hands are gnarled up with arthritis. She has some age related dementia and memory loss. But her eyes lit up at this kaleidoscope of people, and  the beautiful food, and the wonderful energy that is The Buttery.

Let’s be honest, aging can be depressing. You have to come to terms with your mortality, the dreams you had that cannot now be fulfilled, the acceptance that the arc of your life is now declining.  But on some days, a trip to the Buttery can wash that away like dust from a pebble and the colors and textures of life are new and exciting for a little while.  It’s worth the push to get your PIN (person in need) out the door and into life.  They only need a tiny dose and you will both be better for it.

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