CAMDEN — Turns out you have to finagle for parking in downtown Montgomery, Ala., on a weeknight. Condos are rising; clubs are hopping.
I arrive early because I don't want to be late. I am here to meet for dinner three women who have become more a part of my life than I'd have believed possible three years ago, when they first took the job to take care of my aging parents. Their names are Monique, aka "Nikki"; Tametris, aka "Moe"; and Alisha.
Mother couldn't remember those exotic names at first; hers was the generation of Sally and Jane and Betty. She sometimes called Nikki Alisha and Alisha Nikki and everyone, at times, Moe. It didn't bother the young women. They kidded her about it and threatened to wear name tags.
It was those confusing names my mother called out, along with my late father's, as she lay dying. And all three women, two not officially on duty, were with her when she died.
But before the death there was much life and laughter in this old house in the Alabama piney woods. The women brought to my mother news of the outside world, crafts to finish late at night, photographs of children and grandchildren, giant chocolate Easter bunnies named "Sweetie" and anything else they thought she might enjoy. They helped Mother entertain her lady friends and set holiday tables -- sometimes months ahead of the actual holiday -- and pushed her around Hobby Lobby.
Mother marveled at the energetic trio who kept cellphones at their ears and wore stylish shoes and had boyfriends with potential. They cooked from her recipe box and listened and remembered as she told endless family stories, some of the same ones I'd glazed over hearing. In turn, Mother heard about their lives and vicariously struggled through school exams, breakups and friends' deaths.
And, for me, suddenly trips home became more than routine visits to check on the folks. They became fun. Life, for all of us, was less lonely.
For the first time in my life, I watched the Auburn-Alabama game with a Tide fan. She was gracious to a fault when they whupped us. On the other hand, I grew to love a little boy named Marquel who turned down $20 an uncle offered him if he would say "Roll Tide." He has scruples.
One Christmas my gift was a blue scarf the three had paid to have monogrammed. I lost track of the presents they brought to my mother.
I worried that the 60-mile round trip would prove too much, and that somebody might quit the often thankless task of dealing with prescriptions, groceries, doctors' appointments, house cleaning and entertaining my mother, who, at times, could be unreasonably demanding.
Nobody quit.
Instead, at the end, they drove five hours to be graveside with the family and see Mother's little hometown of Colquitt, Georgia, of which they had heard so much.
Tonight, when I see the trio walking toward me in the restaurant, I swallow tears. I owe a debt I can never repay, and not just because they took such good care of my mother.
I owe them for what they taught me: to keep a sense of humor under duress, to learn from old people, not to take every utterance personally, not to sweat small stuff because there's more coming.
In a way, in an unforgettable way, they taught me a new brand of love.
(Rheta Grimsley Johnson most recent book is "Hank Hung the Moon ... And Warmed Our Cold, Cold Hearts." Comments are welcomed at [email protected].)