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Alert the courthouse – my mother’s been selected for jury duty! Trust me, it’s in the justice system’s best interest to cross her name off the roster. It’ll be a Saturday Night Live skit if she gets past security using her walker.
Last month, the jury duty summons arrived by mail. For an elderly senior, mail delivery is a daily highlight. There’s anticipation and reward when she sorts the stash. Never mind that half the papers are department store flyers and snazzy realtor postcards offering to list her home. She’ll browse the snow blowers and coffee machine ads before landing on the one item she needs – her Boost nutrient supplement. Mom is completely cognizant, although mobility is impacted. When she finally slices open her bill notifications she’ll put the invoices in a separate pile. Then there’s the “other” pile: the procrastination gutter. That’s where I suspect the solicitor-general letter landed.
Two weeks later I struggled to communicate with her via the telephone.
“I received a letter from my Grade 2 classmate,” she said.
“You still keep in touch after all this time?” I articulated loudly as her hearing has deteriorated significantly.
“I’m fine,” she responded, guessing that I’m asking my usual “how are you?” question. “I tracked him down through my dead cousin’s neighbour who attended the local funeral.”
“What?” Now I was the one confused. “How did he write to you if he’s dead?”
She asked me to hold while she adjusted her hearing aid. I repeated my question, loud enough for my neighbours to hear. It’s our usual rephrase and repeat routine.
“No, he’s definitely dead. His family replied to my letter. They sent me a copy of the newspaper obituary. He lived a good life. I asked the priest to say a mass in his name.”
I remained silent. Mom’s headline news is often a Top 10 list of recent funerals. I get her preoccupation with death. The past holds more weight for her than the future.
The following week I visited her.
For someone who rarely leaves the house she accumulates a lot of stuff. Our visit was pleasant. Upon leaving, I suggested she toss some old recipe books out on garbage day. The yellowed handwritten recipes and newspaper clippings are not family heirlooms. We’ve already documented our favourite dishes. She waved goodbye as I drove away. Not a word was disclosed about her jury summons.
Days later, she finally revealed her civic duty responsibility.
“I don’t know how to fill out the form,” she said over the phone.
“You can be excused,” I replied. “You’re in your 90s and deaf. That’s reason enough to be given a pass.”
“Yes, it’s past due.” Once again she filled in the blanks like a game show contestant.
“Just send it in late,” I shouted.
“I told you, I’m late,” she replied. “They can toss me in jail and you can visit me there.”
“Mom, you won’t go to jail. As soon as they know you have hearing issues you’ll be off the hook.”
I can’t imagine what she would hear listening to legal proceedings. Any defendant would be thrilled to have her. Prosecutors on the other hand might object when she nods off during nap time. The jury foreman would win a Nobel prize for patience if she deliberated with them. Her dedicated years watching Matlock and Murder, She Wrote would be beneficial and yet I beg the court to please excuse my mother from jury duty.
Mother is a different generation. Given the opportunity, she would cross-examine witnesses herself. Her typical interrogations include: Where were you born? Where did you live? And a deep dive to discover if you both have acquaintances in common. Mother isn’t on Facebook, yet she can find long-lost friends like a seasoned private detective. If she sat on a jury she’d find her nine-degrees-of-separation, assuming her hearing aid was working. And confidentiality – forget that! Even sequestered she’d pass along information. Her home care workers, cleaning lady and the plumber that fixed her dishwasher probably know a ton of juicy gossip thanks to her chit-chat. I hate to think what she shares during church confession.
“Be sure to mention your mobility issues,” I said, determined to get her name off the list.
“What about your shoes?” she replied.
“No, issues. I said; tell them you have mobility issues. Send the form in, mom. Do you have stamps?”
“I always have stamps.” Silly question on my part. She’s always prepared. You can count on her to carry a tissue up her sleeve, a safety pin on her clothing and an ancient address book in her purse. She’d never get past courthouse security. That safety pin doubles as a lethal weapon in the wrong hands.
Given all the challenges, your Honour, I respectfully ask you to excuse my mother from jury duty. I rest my case.
Desiree Kendrick lives in Edmonton.