Quick Fingers Nancy

 

My mother had a bit of a problem.

Now, I hesitate to say that because, while I have stories, I don't want you to think that I'm here to dump on her memory.

That's not what this is meant to be. In fact, it is how I opened her eulogy, in an attempt to make people laugh and relax.

As I recall, I opened with the following: "I can't help but think that there's a hotel on the road to wherever my mother is heading, so that she can steal the shampoo, condition, and coffee before continuing her journey."

Those weren't the exact words, but that was the idea, and I suppose you had to be there to get it. Nevertheless, she could be exhausting with her love of making hotel goodies disappear.

Oh and it was more than wherever we stayed. Our trips to Florida inevitably took us to a variety of Howard Johnson's restaurants and lodging in the early 80s. Trust me, I knew where every location was.

While sitting with our meal, Nancy would open her seemingly bottomless bag and shove jelly packets or whatever else she could find in there.

But, back to the hotel. I traveled to many a lodging establishment with her, especially in her final years. Without fail, the questions would happen:

- Did you take the shampoo and conditioner?

- Are you going to take the coffee?

And so on. The hotel pen was never safe and, in the days of postcards and stationary, well, they stood no chance.

Now, if the shampoo, conditioner, body lotion or anything else was somehow not in small bottles? If they were, say, permanently hanging on the wall? Well, consider that a loss in the eyes of Mrs. Adams. She was less than pleased.

Let's go her last trip -- my nieces wedding back in August. We stayed in a lovely Hampton Inn (a Hilton property) in Albany, NY. 

In this case, she wound up rooming with my sister, while Sean and I had our guys pad.

Indeed, the perusal was as always. Conditioner? Check. Shampoo? Check. Soap? Check. Coffee? Absolutely. 

Sure, I've taken my fair share of items upon departure but this time, it was different.

She was given flowers and needed a way to get them home. I dropped her off at dialysis and went back home to unpack the car.

I found the flowers and, attached to it was what had been a wet washcloth.

It was white and still damp, wrapped around the flowers with a rubber band securing it.

It had a tag.

It said, "Hilton."

All I could do was roll my eyes and laugh.

I still have it.

Sorry, Hilton. I'm hoping you'll forgive that one.