Fifteen Weeks Volume Two

Editor’s Note:  I wrote the original version of 15 Weeks last October.  I’d forgotten all about it.  As I was reviewing my draft of today’s blog, the original version popped up.  I’m not going to develop a whole new story.  The bulk of this tale is similar, but it has a different ending.  With over seven hundred stories, I’m bound to double up a time or two.

Once all three of our children had established their homes, I suggested that Ruth and I implement a fifteen-week travel plan to stay with them.  She preferred purchasing a small RV to travel around the country.  We even looked at a couple but never got serious about the idea.

I didn’t want to do all the driving, so I offered a second option.  It was a simple concept.   We’d live fifteen weeks with each of our kids.  That would consume forty-five weeks each year.  We’d spend the remaining seven taking cruises and extended trips to exotic locations.

I explained the concept to everyone and outlined what I thought was a perfect plan.  I recognized that fifteen continuous weeks might be overwhelming, so we’d break our stay in each home into three-week chunks.  That meant we’d visit each one five times each year.  Five times three is fifteen.

I suggested that the kids could discuss our visits and lay out a plan for our time that worked best for the three of them.   Ruth and I could be flexible.  The only big proviso was the requirement that we avoid Michigan winters.  Spring, summer and fall are acceptable.  Winter is not.  Michael and Elizabeth both live in California, so I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

We never implemented the plan, though I still think it’s sound.  They each lived with Ruth and me for over eighteen years.  At fifteen weeks a year, it’ll take over three years to get one year back.  I don’t think that’s asking too much.   Fair is fair.  I’ve gone so far as to say, I’ll kick in for food and supplies.  Things like food staples, laundry soap, and toilet paper.  Those expenses can add up, so I’m willing to pitch in.

While looking for something else, I found a piece of a poem I started a few decades ago.  It offers a simple view about getting older.

 

Ignored, forgotten, meaningless.

The aged sit like tarnished trophies and ripped ribbons you once cherished so much.

They wait to be remembered by your smile or touch.

Patiently, they count the passing hours, days, and years.

 

 

 

Ruth and I were lucky because we never felt like we were getting old. We’ve never been ignored.

We didn’t get to do all the things we wanted, but we made the most of our time together and always had a trip or two on the horizon.  That’s one of the reasons I think my fifteen-week plan would have worked so well.  We’d always be looking forward to something new.