Family cane lore

On my 60th birthday, Llara and I spent the weekend in Chamonix. We were sitting on a terrace with a plethora of pink geraniums along the railing. Below, a Coke-bottle green creek gurgled its way down the mountain.

An old woman struggled by with a cane. Her daughter, who I guessed was my age, helped her. They were chatting broken up by laughter.

"That could be us in thirty years," I said.

Then a thought hit me. "I'd love a cane. Imagine, I'm on a Geneva bus with my cane. A handsome young man comes on board. I can poke-poke-poke him in the butt. They'd never suspect a little old lady."

"MOTHER!!!!!" Llara turned it into a several-syllable word.

Every time I added to my future bad behavior Llara would inform me I was not to have a cane. "I don't know enough French to get you out of jail."

It became one of those family legends, not unlike urban legends, with my daughter always adding "NO CANE!!!!"

Today, in Evian, Rick and I spied beautiful canes in a store window. "Take a photo for Llara, please" I asked. Stupidly, I'd left my camera at home.

"Your reflection is in the way." He motioned for me to move.

Then in a moment of complete complicity he repositioned me so it looked as if my hand were on one of the canes.

I don't think he worries about my attacking young men. I have him and no cane is necessary.