“Get a cane. Get a cane!” they all cried out.
“All right already. I’ll get a cane.”
“Can it be inlaid, with semi precious stones, and have a carved elephant head, and a concealed sword -- à la Hercule Poiret? Now wouldn’t that be cool!”
But no. I am now the proud possessor of an extremely functional and practical, bland, copper-colored cane with a smoogy handle and fat rubber tip.
Today I visited the art store and stocked up on art stickers -- Chagall, Gauguin, Picasso, Impressionist Flowers -- so that I can cover the bloody thing from top to bottom. Not that I’m ungrateful. I am full of gratitude most of the time, but a wee rant now and then is good for the soul. It lets the air out of our angst-filled balloons. It’s healthy.
The best part about the cane purchase was the location of the cane store. In a past incarnation, this building housed a party shop. At that time, it was painted shocking pink. I’m not much of a pink aficionado, but its neon color made the building easy to spot from the highway, even though it was tucked behind another structure, and it screamed party party party.
What I remember about this delightful store was a carefree shopping spree on the day I turned sixty. I was in the company of three woman friends I had known for decades. They were my contemporaries, but on that afternoon, we played together like little girls.
The pink party store, now morphed into flat-grey medical supply depot, evoked sweet memories even though on this visit the young, sharp salesman was touting commodes with raised seats and a variety of walkers instead of party hats, feather masks, noise makers and balloons.
When I turned sixty, four seemingly short years ago, I was swimming every day, practicing and teaching yoga, taking long walks around the fields with my dog, Mumbles, and climbing in and out of conveyances effortlessly. I wasn’t groaning when I stood up or sat down, strategizing every time I entered or exited a car, and the idea of sleeping with a pillow between my legs, instead of my husband, had never occurred to me.
But back to my new cane. We brought her home, and I clunked around the house saying, “Walk this way.” Step! Clunk. Step! Clunk!
My husband, Robert, observed my progress with the interest of a mare watching her new born foal take its first steps.
“I think you’re supposed to hold it in your other hand.Try it in your left hand. Left hip, left hand,” he repeated this several times. I tried it.
“Very awkward,” I reported back. My husband prides himself on being right, so we agreed he should call the store and inquire.
“But first, let’s read the instructions.” He pounced on the paper insert.
“Hmmm...” There was no mention of what paw should hold said cane in relation to the limb of diminished mobility.
“Must have been written in China,” we agreed.
He made the call.
“ I have to ask what may be a stupid question...” I overheard heard him say, in his toffee-nosed English accent.
Turned out I was right after all. But I never gloat. I like to choose my battles and celebrate my little victories. And no victory is too small to applaud in a life full of adversity and contradiction.
I do think it’s helping. The cane, that is. She needs a new name. Candy worked for the visual, but it lacks gravitas. The moniker Candy evokes images of weary Santas and wearier strippers. Any suggestions?
Time to limp off now. Chalk up another little victory. And don’t forget to take pleasure in the moment, be kind, be silly, kiss somebody
(your dog will do) and “walk this way”.
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