A. Blinken I don’t care to talk to my mother much, though I’ve long ago forgiven her. At my wife’s urging I called Mother this morning to talk about how the larger family would celebrate the holidays. It went well enough until I said, "I’ll bring Granny Wise down." She said, "You know, son, it’s time to talk about putting your great grandmother somewhere. She’s too frail to live clear up there. If something happens she’ll die of starvation or freezing to death. Let’s see if she has the money to go live where people can take care of her." I was suddenly so angry I couldn’t even tell her to go to hell, and as usual my mother mistook my silence for assent and continued, "it’s possible the county would charge us if something happened to her, since we allowed her to live in that decrepit cabin when we knew something could happen. We should put her somewhere." I just hung up the phone and walked stiffly out into the freezing air to split some oak, with a splitting maul and wedges though the splitter works. It’s fine for Mother to talk, she knows about being put somewhere. There were tears in my eyes, and I told myself it was because I was so angry, but when I gave a mighty, angry swing with the maul and the steel wedge flew out of the round and cracked my shinbone tears flowed, and I realized I wasn’t so angry at my mother for what she said, I was angry because it’s true. In my mind Granny is as vital as she was in 1985, when she first took me in. That was a long time ago, and to be honest, she still lives in the cabin because I do almost everything for her, from putting in the garden to patching pipes to splitting and bringing in fire wood and firing up the generator, and bringing her groceries, everything. I don’t mind, it’s the least I can do; I could never repay the kindness she’s shown me. I don’t want to imagine the day I can’t talk with Granny Wise. My shin throbbed; I sat on a round and rubbed the growing bone lump. It is true, one of these days, maybe even the next big storm, I’ll call Granny and no one will answer and I’ll go up and find her dead or near death. I play it over and over in my mind: if I find her and she’s conscious, I’ll ask her what she wants; if she’s unconscious I’ll try to decide if she can be brought back OK; if she’s unconscious but clearly not going to come completely back again, I’ll get her warm and comfortable and sit with her until she goes, holding her arthritic fingers in my hand for as long as it takes. I scoop a big gob of crusty snow on my shin, which hurt like hell. The scenarios I most feared were the ones where Granny was going, or had gone, and there was some simple thing I could have done to prevent it. I long ago, at great personal peril since, thanks to the county, I couldn’t shut the power off to do it, replaced her old power box with a new box and GFRI breakers, so she couldn’t get shocked. I replaced her old, warped cast iron wood stove with a new model and safety chimney. Still, some simple thing I overlooked might kill her. My shin throbbed, but the pain was slowly replaced with cold and numbness. The point is, in all this, that Granny would much rather die of starvation and cold, would far rather be snuffed out by carbon monoxide or ancient wiring, than live one day, especially her last day, in a hospital or old folk’s home somewhere. Finally, I stood. I’d come out in my shirtsleeves, and had briefly worked a sweat, so I was freezing. My wife, bless her soul, is very patient with the time and money I spend on Granny Wise (we both assume we’ll eventually have to care for her batty mother). My mom doesn’t know much about Granny Wise, or me. Granny will live up canyon as long as she and I can manage it, and she’ll die there, as she’s requested. Shivering, but my resolve strengthened, I limped toward the house. I’ll see Granny Wise through her death, and when she’s gone, I’ll try to be a big boy about it, as she’s also requested.