“That must have been your husband’s idea,” my mother said, her voice marbled with doubt and wonder, when I told her during my last visit to Maine that Jeff and I had purchased via the internet a small parcel near Winnemucca, Nevada.
“Have you been to the area?” I asked, trying not to furrow my brow cavernously.
“I’ve been to Winnemucca,” my mother replied. “I like New Mexico.”
With faith in my mother’s ways, I held to the eventuality that she would respond to my news with grace.
In June Jeff and I, with our son, drove behind our property into a narrow valley, its verdant lushness supported by a winding creek. I found growing there, smoky-green junipers and the palest of pink roses and picked a tiny piece of each to press into my notebook.
When I got home I called my mother. “Can you believe it?” I asked her answering machine. “We have wild roses and junipers in the canyon behind us, just like we had at camp.” Camp was a beach cottage in Maine where my family spent summers when I was growing up. I emailed her photos of my husband and my son and me, standing on our land.
“You all look so happy,” she said, when she called back. She sent me a note: “And I loved your message about the roses and the junipers.”
My mother is a blessing in my life.