Canes

 

Thirty odd years ago my daughter and I were at a sidewalk café in Chamonix, France to celebrate my birthday. A small stream, the color of an old fashioned green Coke bottle flowed by. Window boxes of red geraniums hung from the bridge separating us from the stream. We sipped our wine and basked in the sun.

An old woman with a cane and a woman maybe 30 years younger helping her walked by. "30 years from now, that could be us," I said.

My daughter nodded.

"If I had a cane, I could ride the bus and poke handsome young men with it," I said.

My daughter set up straight. "No cane. No way, Nein, Nix."

"Why."

"I don't know enough French to get you out of jail."

No canes have become a running family joke for 30 years, but now a cane would help my sore knees and hips and might even reduce my falls.

The thing is I don't want to look like an old lady, so I started my search for a different kinds of cane. I found some beautiful painted one, but when I tried to order on they were out of stock.

Then my good friend said she had a cane. See above. It certainly is not the old boring kind.

I need to reassure my daughter, since I am now happily married I have no need to attack young men, no matter how handsome. And even if I were arrested for attacking handsome young men, my husband could extradite me from a Swiss or French jail.