It was a beautiful July day. My daughter and I were sitting in a café next to a trickling Coca-Cola bottle green stream. We'd just checked out the glacier in Chamonix, France where we were celebrating my birthday.
At the table next to us were a mother and daughter, but were probably 30 years older than we were. When they got up to leave, the mother needed a cane.
"That could be us in 30 years," I said. "I love the cane. Imagine if I had one and I was on the bus. I could poke a handsome young man in the butt."
"Mother," my daughter said turning the word into many syllables. "No cane. I don't have good enough French to get out of jail for molesting someone.
It became a joke between us. "NO cane."
Although 30 years haven't quite passed, enough years have been added that there are times when a cane could come in handy from time to time even though I've married and my husband serves as a great steadier.
In Evian there used to be a store with beautiful canes. Carved dogs, cats, carvings not just on the head but the stick itself. They are works of art.
Someday. A cane that's a work of art needed or not.
Since I have a wonderful husband, I probably do not need to be a threat to hansom young men on the TPG bus system in Geneva putting my daughter's mind at rest.
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